Ahem, so picture an evening when your neighbour Tea Auntie-ji (a gibber term I had to coin for neighbour homies wanting tea every time they visit) comes over to your place and you, like a decent host, welcome her to a cup of tea and marie(now digestive) biscuits. After slurping on the first few sips, she pretty much gobbles much of marie and tea and tea and marie in between her gossips and wide-eyed reactions to Mrs. Mehta’s niece’s successful marital bliss and honeymoon destinations. Her evening rendezvous ends with your mother saying “Aate hain hum jaldi hi”(we shall be seeing you soon) and the pleasantries, last minute steals of updates follow where the lesser significant neighbours are discussed quickly because how could they be left out of the rendezvous syllabus. Amongst these moments are 7 particularly specific seconds when Auntie-ji offers to wash the china she drank her tea/marie concoction in. Under obvious social obligations, you refuse her “genuine” interest to get wet with Vim drips while battling Mum’s red, spectrum eyes which command you to sink with shame. But what do you do when she asks for the twentieth time in the six point fifth second ? You snatch away the not-so precious china(‘cos who are we kidding) and shield it from Auntie-ji, asking her to go home and do her own dishes, all a frenzy of exaggerated reaction only to communicate to her that she, being a guest, holds the place of God and cannot possibly be allowed to wash dirty china, figuratively.
To your relief and the crumbling china’s, she gives in, blesses you and returns to her evening of neighbourhood hopping.
Whoever accused us of exaggeration and drama must not have lived in Geeta Auntie’s colony.
I rest my case.