Love Is A Verb - Ch. 1

LOVE IS A VERB.

CHAPTER 1.

SOPHIA.

It’s Sunday again. Another holiday – and another 24 hours of life-sapping ennui.

Fine, so we need a day of rest, relaxation and (as Pa never ceases to remind me) reflection, but how long do you think a girl can stay at home feigning interest in her father’s latest finds on the bathtubs in Mohenjodaro, or to her mother’s constant talk of stem stitches, and French knots, and using malmal in babies’ clothes for luck? Besides, just imagine me, extrovert extraordinaire, sitting on an armchair for hours, watching my mother knit sweater after family sweater in glee, trying to catch up with her knit-one-purl-two routine.

If you think our family is the type that goes out and has fun, you’ll be in great danger of breaking one of the most fundamental rules in our house – socializing is a crime. Why in the world would you need people around you when you can use the damn library (or the rocking chair, in Mamma’s opinion).

“Sophiaaaaaa!”

The intensity of my mother’s famous (and at times surprising, because she’s usually so quiet) yell is our green signal for breakfast. Which means I’ll have to go and break Pa away from his early-morning reverie.

Looks like I’ll have to place Marvin’s picture back inside my textbook. I’ll have time enough to gaze at it for hours anyway.

Pa, as usual, is lost in his Boris Ford edition of The History of English Literature. When I force him into the dining room, of course, he mumbles something on the lines of must return this to the library…

When I find that we have strawberries with cream and flambéed pancakes, I squeal: “Mamma! You’re a sweetheart! That is so perfect for a Sunday!”

“What’s so perfect about it?” says Pa from behind, tiredly rubbing his handkerchief over his spectacles, “She makes it every other day.”

“I do not,” Mamma replies resentfully, “We had baguettes and cheese just yesterday.”

By then, Pa’s already started wolfing down a pancake.

She leaves it at that. They always do.

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Breakfast has never been a noisy affair at home. Nothing is. If there is anyone here who takes liberties with the acoustics here, it’s me. It’s my duty to prevent this death-like silence from falling on this place so I talk, talk, talk. Even when Pa tells me – a trifle discreetly – to calm down sometimes.

I can’t help being noisy. Maybe it’s in my genes. Maybe I inherited it from the people who actually gave birth to me.

Surprised? It’s the truth – I’m an adopted kid who doesn’t feel adopted. I don’t even need to know who my biological parents are (I refuse to call them real) because for all I know, they might be dead.

It hurt at first, when Mamma told me, a month after my fourteenth birthday (or had I seen the adoption papers in Pa’s bureau before that? I don’t quite remember). I wanted to hate her, wanted to scream dramatically of how they had betrayed me…but when she – with a tear trickling from each cheek – told me about how they felt so empty without children, and how desperately they needed me, it suddenly seemed so right to call them my mother and father. So natural. I’ll never forget how they cried and kissed and caressed me after that, how Mamma told me it changed nothing between all of us, how Pa told me that I was a special example of how great God was, even when life became harsh.

The incessant ringing of our phone breaks me away from my reverie (I’m still at the table, even though I’ve finished off my breakfast ten minutes ago) and I know, instinctively, that I’ll have to transform into the Official Family Telephone Operator and pick it up immediately, because my parents hate attending calls. Hmph. If I was in Bangalore, like Marvin was for his B.Comm, I would have been making more than 10,000 bucks at a call center!

I answer the phone and it turns of out be Shamika, my best friend, but the joy of talking to her is lessened, when I catch the questioning face of Pa staring at me

“Pa, its Micky", I whisper, putting her on hold.

Pa looks away without giving a reaction, although, I know my telephone calls always seem to displease him, but he has grown used to my telephone chit-chat

"Shamika knows, of course, how touchy my family is about phone calls - AND the kind of friend circle I have, which is usually a blend of boys and girls. They probably think she's not a good influence, not since the summer she had gone to Goa, and had double piercing on her ears. And besides, Shamika, my parents haven’t' really come in personal contact with my friends- and the day they do- I am sure Pa would send me to heavens soon after

And IF they ever find out about Marvin - God, even the heavens will be too good for me!

Finally, Boring Sunday has bid goodbye and Lazy Monday is asking for welcome
And like every week, I embrace it with all joy and smiles- because I get to go to college.

It's not home, but it is a haven in some ways. My parents are like a pair of birds who live in the same nest and live the same life, but they speak a language I don’t really understand – the language of silence. That’s why I love college, love meeting Shamika and Marvin and Zelda and the rest of them. They give me a sense of balance, a feeling that it's not all that bad to be so loud. Where else can I meet people who won't shut up - people like me? Okay, so Marvin usually DOES shut up, but that's besides the point (though I used to hate him for it earlier)

And while I get ready to have another rocking day in college, the gloomy face of Mamma dampens my spirits. “Why do Sundays run away every time?" she grumbles half heartedly.

I really don't know what's in it for her. Alright, so she does get a day off from the little typing job that she does to keep the income flowing (and MAYBE get more chances to finish off her knitting) but it's not as if Mamma and Pa really use any of their holidays to their advantage.

And yes, talking about Pa, Mondays are really special for him. He gets to go back to work and most importantly catch the breath taking sight of his tea estate which has been growing very well- Amen to that!

My Pa's definitely one to drown himself in tea (less caffeine and much healthier than coffee, he'd say to Mamma - except she knows that already and still drinks it!) He'd probably bamboozle with the different types of tea, and how it was found in China, and how it got transported to India, and the difference between the Chinese and Indian and Ceylon varieties... and by the time he reaches there, the listener will probably fall asleep anyway.

The mundane breakfast routine gets over in a jiffy and I kiss a goodbye to Mamma and Pa respectively. And as I am about to step out, Mamma reminds me to take along my tiffin. Oh no, I grumble silently. I hate the tiffin box thingy just as much as I hate Hrithik Roshan and the Black Eyed Peas!

But I leave that aside in a minute. They all knew how my folks are anyway, and they hardly care. They'll still wait for me, I know. Micky's claw-shaped earrings will dangle around her neck as she turns, a warm beckoning silver glint, just like Marvin's eyes on a sunny day.

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