not twins

That sounded logical. I was not sure of the family planning rules, which seemed to change every now and again.
The government frequently said things like, “You will get money if you get sterilized after two children, sometimes “only if both are girls”, sometimes, if you got “sterilized after one child.” I had stopped keeping track. Nothing seemed to deter the ones who wanted more children. Not money or threats.
She kept bringing the first child. His health was poor, he was underweight, his nose dripped constantly and he had a vacant adenoidal stare. He was a wheezer. A week or two after treatment his weight always picked up, his mouth remained closed, the dripping was better, but he then he had diarrhea. Then we would be back to square one. Once the diarrhea recovered, he would start wheezing again.
Once she came and said, ”can you see me out of turn? The taxi is waiting. We have to go for a wedding. He has diarrhea.”
I looked out of my window to see if she was telling the truth. I saw four identically dressed boys of marginally different sizes.
“Who are these ?’ I asked.
“They are mine.” She said.
But there are four----.
She looked sheepish. My husband said you would get angry if we had four boys and I have not had a sterilization. We registered the first and second with the same name.”
I thought of my consternation and bewilderment each time he/ they came with their weights going up and down like a yo-yo. In my records they both had the same name and birth date, but were actually 11 months apart!
I don’t know who I was investigation for eosinophilia, anemia, milk intolerance, adenoids, failure to thrive!!!
“Why? Why?” I asked.
“We want a girl---“
I

running a pharmacy

Running a Pharmacy

After many years in a dingy run down building on the first floor above a ration shop, I finally moved to my own premises. It was like heaven. There were no people queuing for rations and kerosene, I had a generator so the power did not go off frequently, I was not answerable to a landlord and his large extended family.

The downside? I had to hire staff. I could no longer make do with a single female jack of all trades. I needed a pharmacist, receptionist, female helper, physiotherapist, sweeper, watchman and a manager to oversee all of this.

The problems all started with hiring the pharmacist.

The first man we had was very religious. He prayed fervently as he climbed the steps to the clinic.

“Halleluliah! Praise God!” Then he said, ’”God bless you sister.” Every morning.

“Good” I told the manager, “he seems like a religious man.”

The manager was more pragmatic. “He is married with children. He was in the gulf but came back because of his family. Perhaps he won’t eye the women patients.”

He was a qualified pharmacist with a license.

After a few months the drug inspector came to the premises.

He could find nothing wrong. The pharmacy was exactly 110 square feet. There were no extraneous items (chocolates, biscuits, stationery

being sold). The man had a license so the business was legal.

(Most pharmacies in the town are run by proxy). The license holder collects a monthly fee  for lending his name and signing the register. The man behind the counter is usually a high school drop out.  Even then the patients have more faith in them than their regular physicians. They enthusiastically substitute medicines and change medications. They tell patients “you will have side effects. ” Some of them even dispense “emergency medication” and give injections. They are cheaper than real doctors. Treatment is quick, with no waiting.  It is surefire also, with a painkiller, a steroid and an antibiotic. 

Anyway the drug inspector asked me for a bribe. “Just a minute, why should I bribe you? Everything is in perfect order.”

He looked non-plussed. “Everyone gives me money. So you should too.”

“But everything is in order,” I protested.

“That does not matter,” he said.

“Just a minute,” I said. I pulled out my phone and started fiddling with it.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“I want to record this. Everyone records things like this and sends it to the TV channels. “ I leant forward. “I think I will get paid. Just wait a minute though. I am not very expert at this. “

He fled from the clinic.

Soon after I lost my pharmacist also. There was a Rs10000 shortfall in the collection.  

The pharmacist was clearly seen on CC camera putting the money in his pocket.

We confronted him, he confessed and quit.

“Why did you do this?” I asked, “You know I have CC cameras.”

“I needed the money. God showed it to me. So I took it.”

velloretimes.blogspot.com

the cook

The Cook

When my children were young, we had a cook, a plump pleasant woman. She not only cooked the food, she carried a hot lunch to the school and made sure the children ate it. Since I work, it was a good arrangement.

One day there was a parent teacher meeting in school. I had to attend so I asked the cook to stay back until I returned from work. When I came home there was no cook, the house was open and the children were seated in front of the television looking like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths.

“Where is the cook?”

They looked at each other.

“I don’t know.” They said together. Their eyes rolled side ways.

I could hear a distant banging from the locked store room.

I went and opened the door. The cook was there. Her face was red and her hair disheveled.

“These are not children. They are devils.” She banged my house key on the table.

“I am quitting.” She flounced off.

“What happened?” She was way down the road.

Apparently she shouted at the children in my absence and pinched my son. Furious, son and daughter together managed to overpower her and lock her in the store room.

It was a lost cause. I went to her house and pleaded. She refused to return to work.

We managed for some years with a “sous chef,” a lady who chopped and cut vegetables while I did the actual cooking. The children learnt to take sandwiches for lunch. This worked till my parents came to live with me.

They  needed three meals and two snacks  a day on time, I needed a reliable cook. I searched high and low until I finally employed an English speaking male chef from Andhra Pradesh. (I swiped him from a hotel). He cooked excellent food. He spoke good English. He solicitously stood behind my father a while he ate and served him the food.

“Is it tasty?” He would ask, “Some more?”

It was  a happy carefree  time. Dinners and guests were a breeze.

Gradually he took over the kitchen and I slowly lost control. It was a surreptitious battle with no open declaration of war.

“Today I cook fish.” He would say as I left for work. When I came back in the evening  I found chicken on the table.

I lost track of provisions and purchases.

It became a nightmare.

“For breakfast, I will make idly vadai.” When I finished my bath I was served puri potato.

My daughter came for a visit.

“What would you like?” asked the cook.

“Dosai and paneer,” said daughter.

“You eat masala dosai” said the cook.

She tried to plead with him, but he just walked back into the kitchen and pretended to be deaf.

The nightmare became worse.

Then I fell down and tore my Achilles tendon. It was nice to have regular hot meals with no effort, even though I never quite knew what would turn up on the table.

Then one day he came for work. I saw him in the kitchen and went for a bath. By the time I came out he was gone. No breakfast, lunch  or any food.
He turned up the next day as though nothing happened.

“Why did you not cook yesterday?”

“I decided that you need to learn to manage the work.”

I was furious.

“I can’t stand! I have crutches! Why am I paying you then?”

“If you ask questions like that I will quit.”

“Okay” I said. It was like a game of Russian roulette. I refused to cow down.

He left in a huff. We ate  from the canteen.

We are now back to square one. The gardener is my temporary sous chef.