Tag Archive | butter fingers

It just happened

We were taught to help around the house from a  young age. While my sister was amma’s second in command, my brother used to bring the milk from the dairy farm which was a bit far away.  He would take his cycle and pedal away. Sometimes he would even get vegetables. For this contribution of theirs they would get pocket-money, yes we had to work for our pocket-money.

But when they can earn, why not me, I asked. The age difference between them and me was quite a bit but I wanted my pocket money too. And for that the parents decided that my job was to prepare the dinner table, the only meal which we all had together except the days when Papa had second shift and would return home by 10.30p.m.

My mom was particular that the plates would be washed again and wiped before keeping them on the table. Owing allegiance to my butter fingers everyday one or the other plate would fall. Papa would call out, ‘What fell now?’. I would cry out, ‘The plate. But it is not my fault, it just happened‘. It was good that we ate on  stainless steel plates. If not the regular intervals at which i dropped plates would make us bankrupt. It happened with such regularity that everyone else would come and sit on the chairs knowing that dinner was ready. The aunty living next door would send around some special dish which she had prepared just on hearing the sound of the plate crashing.

My specialty did not remain with crashing plates. I destroyed whatever I touched. Like my brother had a collection of pens which he would keep in a safe place. Once I had severe viral fever and did not go to school for some days, none of the pens survived. When he came to know he advanced toward me with flaming eyes and flaring nostrils. My excuse, ‘But it is not my fault, it just happened‘.

My husband loves glassware. Before my arrival he had beautiful vases, fruit bowl etc. None of them survived. When his favorite vase broke, he asked me almost teary eyed, ‘How did you manage to break this’. My reply, ‘But it is not my fault, it just happened‘. He never bought anything brittle from then on.

My niece is almost my copy both in looks as well as habits. The only difference being she is an extrovert, I was not. Nothing escapes her hand. Whether it is a glass or a CD. Her excuse, ‘But it is not my fault, it just happened‘.

My son is no better. While his things survive, ours do not. Pens, CDs, mobiles every thing is at risk when he is around. You guessed it right, his excuse. ‘But it is not my fault, it just happened’.

Traditions you see, in our family, are carried on. 😀

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This post is part of Write over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian bloggers by Blogadda. The theme this week being fun with repetition, My sentence, ‘But it is not my fault, it just happened‘.

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To the rescue-II

Presenting the conclusion of To the rescue. Though I had presented it as a contest, there were no entries and so my dear readers you will have to bear with my narration only 😦 SO here goes.
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When I couldn’t hear Mrs’ Mishra’s footsteps, I was elated. Happy to have made the escape this time, I continued with my work, but I could still hear the knocking sound. Now you may ask why I was so bothered with a sound. But you see, I grew up reading Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys and ever since anything different from the routine makes me curious.I tried to concentrate on the noises outside.There was Azaan from the nearby mosque and the knocking sound. At this time of the day, there were no vehicles.

The knocking continued, I opened the window and peeped out. You may think that how I could lean out of the window but I can. You see windows in Bahrain are without bars. The sliding double doors of the windows are secured only with a tiny button something like the electrical switches. And so I leaned out and listened. The A/cs were off, November is a cool month and also in the day time very few were at home.

The sound came from Mishrajis flat. AT first I thought there must be some carpentry work going on but then my curiosity took the better of me and I ran.

I rang the bell but no one opened the door. Instead the knocks began frantic. I put my ear to the door and listened…..I could hear the faint sound of a ….HELP ME …..help… And I ran again. the Mishras flat being on the ground floor, all the windows could be peeped in from the outside. I ran towards the bedroom but the window was screened, then I ran towards the kitchen. And peeped in. Mrs. Mishra was lying on the floor her right leg in a bad angle.. obviously a fracture and with her hand was a spoon with which she was making as much a noise as she could. I banged on the window signalling that I would help her. I tried to open the window but it was closed. I tried to break the window but could not.

All this banging and yelling woke up the Filipina living next door and she leaned out with a ‘WHath Happenned?’ I told her that Mrs. Mishra had had a fall. Meanwhile her African boyfriend too came near the window, he signaled me to wait, came out and with expertise (or was it practice… don’t ask me, I don’t know) lifted out the window and we climbed in. Mrs. Mishra on seeing me burst into tears and held me tight and both of us sobbed together. Angelina (the Filipina) gave us water and made her comfortable. We didn’t move her.I had already called for the ambulance and the team arrived and lifted her. I locked both the houses, took my mobile and purse and ran along with her.

Some oil it seems had spilled on the kitchen tiles. Mrs.Mishra had not seen the spill and had stepped on it and had fallen down. She had tried yelling for help but because of the closed windows no one had heard her and when she had heard the sound of the ladle falling in my kitchen had started knocking with the spoon in her hand on the floor, hoping that I would listen.

I became the heroine that day and for once my husband was proud of my butter fingers.