Last-minute dashes and their consequences
Ours is a family of last-minute task doers. Believe me, I am a victim. No matter what, they refuse to jolt out of the neutral gear till there is no choice but to race out in the fifth. Most of them, like overzealous editors, want tomorrow’s work done yesterday.
Three decades ago, when I stepped into my matrimonial home, I learnt to multi-think, multi-task and be prepared for a complete turnaround at the nth hour. If we had to go out of town, I would start preparing weeks in advance. I would be ready for the journey and just as I’d begin locking up the house, hubby dear would pop up a spanner: “Just wash these turbans, we will start as soon as they dry.”
Yes, I enrolled in a crash course that taught patience at the earliest. Then the children came along. Genetically programmed along the same lines, they still make me climb walls. The elder one would always remember the book she needed for the next day, just as the shutters were coming down in the market. The younger one was way ahead. Just as she entered the school gates to take a final exam, she would suddenly ask me to rush back and collect her roll number card that lay forgotten on the breakfast table because I insisted she finish her milk.
Everything is my fault, you see. I knew even then that there were no awards for superwomen. Yet I mastered the art of speeding about like a scud missile. The pieces had to be gathered into a semblance.
Once there was an important debate on a national channel. Just as I was getting the microphone fastened and was about to switch off the phone, my husband’s affectionate tone screeched through the speaker, “Why the hell haven’t you washed my brown shirt that I need to wear in an hour?”
There have been more embarrassing occasions. As I stood with a friend at her mother’s funeral, he called me to inform me that guests were dropping in for lunch in half an hour. Running out of time, I slid away into a corner to call up the cook, only to dial up a member of Parliament, who is a namesake of our cook and proceed to instruct him what to cook. Needless to say, I kept apologising to the MP months after the fiasco whenever I bumped into him.
My mother decided to have mercy on my frayed nerves. She plans for things years in advance. Just yesterday, she informed me, she had transferred her cash from her account into the locker so that I am spared the formalities of withdrawing once she was gone! I could have banged my head against a wall but then I had to rush to stand in the serpentine queue to redeem the damage. The head could be banged another day. The currency was just going out of circulation.
THEY REFUSE TO JOLT OUT OF THE NEUTRAL GEAR TILL THERE IS NO CHOICE BUT TO RACE OUT IN THE FIFTH. MOST OF THEM, LIKE OVERZEALOUS EDITORS, WANT TOMORROW’S WORK DONE YESTERDAY