Anyone familiar with the idyllic world of P G Wodehouse, would empathise with me if I say that my Burma aunt was a replica of Aunt Agatha, who made life miserable for Bertie Wooster. She is no more (my Burma aunt, that is), but when she was alive (and kicking), she considered a day ill-spent if she didn’t tongue-lash me or my cousin Bala whom she called the ‘goon from Rangoon.’
That day she stormed into my room, armed with parasol, the ferrule pointing at me menacingly. “Hey, you namby-pamby nincompoop”, she screamed like a banshee, “where is your celebrated cousin?” Her object of ridicule was my celibate cousin Bala. He had been relentlessly dodging the tentacles of matrimony.
“I’m astounded,” she boomed, “that wishy-washy wastrel rejected the teeny-weeny angel I had selected. What impudence! Who does he think he is? A Marlon Brando or Kirk Douglas with a cleft in his chin?” Her words screeched over my head like gun fire. To douse her anger, I asked, “Auntie, you look tired. Like to have some tea?”
“Tea?” she squealed. “I didn’t drop in for tea or tittle-tattle. I wanted to button hole that harum-scarum and drill some sense into his itsy-bitsy brain.” My heart bled for my bachelor cousin. I wondered if he would be safe under the sofa. He had dived there with the consummate skill of a limbo dancer.
“Ask him what his aim in life is. He would shilly-shally or dilly-dally, but wont say anything sensible. His mother is right. She wants him to get married. And make her hear the pitter-patter of little feet.” A muffled groan was heard from under the sofa. Bala is a rank misogynist.
“His wanton ways give me the heebie-jeebies. What he needs is a strong-willed girl who will sort out his higgledy-piggledy life.” She paused as if to load more ammunition. “Look, you’re no better. A classic case of tweedledum and tweedledee. But I warn you not to aid and abet his hanky-panky ways. Your own lifestyle is no doubt topsy-turvy. But I’ll deal with you later. Listen. Tell that humpty-dumpty to come to his senses and marry that girl. That’s it.”
Having made her point, she took off, possibly for a game of cards with her cronies. After I blew the ‘all clear’, Bala sidled out from under the sofa “Could you make out anything of her mumbo-jumbo?” I asked.
“Nothing much, he said, wincing, ‘it was all , you know, what is that expression?” “Hocus-pocus?” I prompted him.
J S Raghavan
Email: writerjsr@gmail.com