Another pious frandship

Found this in my other folder on Facebook today, from a guy I don't know:

"Hi how are you? Poorni a nice name, sorry not a nice awesome name. Poorni you look awesome with a nice smile. Praising somebody does not mean you need something of them, but praise can be natural and it is not bad to praise anybody and if it gives happiness to somebody. One must make people happy around and spread a lot of happiness around and praise is a part of that.
Do you think knowing each other is harmless if it leads to good friendship....I define friendship as the most pious thing in the world...just a request can we be good friends if you trust..just a request..choice is urs...keep smiling and a lot of happ"

The lecture, I find enlightening. The praise, totally flattering. The writing, just wow. But what I can't get over is- what the heck happened right at the end? Was he shot? Did he get eaten by a bear? Did his brain freeze and then give up? In spite of being a voracious reader, I don't think I've ever encountered this level of mystery. You know what's not mysterious however? When he says he wants to 'spread a lot of happiness around', I, unfortunately, know exactly what he means. (Shudder.)

Another Woman

Written on May 8, 2013

She sat across from me in the doctor's waiting room and fished out her phone. Bright yellow sari, pink blouse, a big red dot on a dark forehead, and the open face and manner that is typical of those who've never been burdened with too much money.

At first, I thought she was talking to a friend. Then I understood things were much juicier than that.

"Sollu da, enakku panam vennum. Nee ippo anju mannikkulla anupiriya, na train eri varattuma? Enakku passikudhu, kaasu vennum."
(Talk to me... I want money. Are you gonna send it to me by 5 o clock or shall I get on the train that comes there?)

"Inga ellarum ketkaraanga, nee edhukku inga irukke, onnoda veetukaarar anga irukaar. Ennakku ore shame-a irukku. Unakku tin kattina dhaan seriya irukkum.")
(People ask me- why are you here and your husband there? I feel ashamed. You need to be kept in check.)

She finished off with endearments that made me laugh out loud.
"Seri da pattu, pannam anipchiru. Seriya, kanna? Oru umma kuduthuttu phone-a cut pannu."
(Ok, my love, send the money. Ok, dear? Give me a kiss and hang up.)

It sensed an unusual story and asked her outright what was happening. She told me.

"I was born amongst four girls. I was 19 when I came to this area to visit my grandma; there had just been a fire that spread through the buildings here. My husband's mother had married a Nepali guy. She was a huge woman- tall and well filled out while her husband was a tiny chap. Their kids were all fair. Anyway, the lady saw me during my visit and asked for my hand in marriage to her son. I had just failed 9th standard and was working, so they married me off. He sat in the bathroom and cried, it seems, because he didn't want 'a black girl'. (She laughs loudly.)

We got married, had a son, then a daughter. She was six months old when he said he was going out for a job. There were 40 Rupees on the TV. He never came back. I thought that he'd finish the job and come back in a week, then 15 days, then a month, then 6 months. He didn't.

I went to a holy woman and asked her is he was even alive. She smeared me with turmeric powder and kum kum, indicating that he was. Then he started sending money- his mom learnt that he was in Tiripur, so she would go there, get 2000 or 3000 and give it to me when she got back.

One and a half years of this. I never saw him, didn't know exactly where he was or what he was doing. No cell phone during those times. I managed. I tied flowers into garlands for a living. I could do one whole sack a day. I'd get a 100 rupees. 50 rupees I'd set aside for buying the next day's flowers. The other 50 would be spent on food- I'd get one Rs.12 milk packet everyday . I'd make a tumbler of coffee or tea and leave it on the floor of the hall. Whoever wanted to would drink their share. The priest in the temple would always save a half a coconut for me. I'd get some moringa leaves, shave the coconut into pieces, add some rock salt, mix it all into a bit of batter- that's what my kids and I would eat often. I'd also buy fish- the fish sellers would save the last ones for me and give me a few extra too.

One day, I remember, I made fish kolambu (curry). I fried some fish too. I'd just put some rice on a plate, mixed it up with curry and raised one handful to my mouth-  when the news came that he'd been in an accident. Something always happens to that man during Pongal (festival). The other 365 days he'll strut about. (She laughed heartily).

Anyway, I couldn't let all that fish go to waste... it's fish! so I packed everything, got my kids, caught a bus and went to Central railway station. My son had somehow managed to get a phone number through my husband's friend and we knew he lived somewhere near the railway station in Tiripur. That's all I knew but I thought I'd ask and find my way when I got there, so I got the tickets for about 200 Rupees and got on the train.

We landed up in Tiripur at midnight. I asked around and somehow, found my way to his relatives' house, but no one was there. I didn't know which hospital he was in, so I waited. I saw a ghost, a white form that opened the door and walked through the house. (She slipped this in matter of fact and just as easily kept going grin emoticon )

Then they all came back from the hospital. He had a few bruises that were dressed up. I looked at him and said, "Ippovaavuthu adanganiya? Aatam potathellam adangudhu illa?"
(Have you stopped playing games atleast now?)

So, I stayed there for three days, with his sister cooking for us. She even gave me a sari. That's when the neighbors told me he had some woman set up. A female with three kids from another guy. So I took my kids, found the house they were living in and walked in to find a woman's clothing and some such stuff. He tried to deny it, but then she turned up. I told her that I'm the wife and these are his kids, then I left. (I doubt that the showdown was quite that quiet, but I didn't interrupt)

I went straight to the the commissioner's office and wrote a letter of complaint, against his sister and her husband- because they hid him from me. (I think the logic behind that is that an Indian woman would balk at putting her own hubby in jail, but his near and dear ones are ripe for the picking) So, the police put my brother-in-law's ass in jail and his wife went around saying that I did this horrid thing, even after she gave me a sari. I told her to take her sari back. I was going on one and a half years of anger.

Anyway, after all that, my husband was made to apologize to me and he had to agree to send me money every month. I told him if he didn't, I would be after him. I gathered my kids and left him there because he refused to leave. That's how I've been living all these years- it's been more than 11 years.

Me: But how do you talk to him so nicely? Aren't you mad at him?

(A short laugh.) What else can be done? If I didn't call him, he'd think I don't need him, that I'm sleeping around. I don't. I call him at least twice a day, sometimes just a missed call, as I go about my work as a caretaker in a creche.....Bitterness won't really help anyone. When life throws this stuff at you, you should be able to manipulate it, to change things so that they work for you.

(She continues laughing and joking with the people who come in. I thank her and she responds with a smiling 'welcome' in English as she leaves.)

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _  

Though she left me smiling and feeling vaguely honored, I was also a bit unsettled. This woman did not have the air of a martyr. She was not a victim. There was a slightly dangerous tone to her voice- one that let you know there are limits. She was no saint. You could sense she'd cut a few corners if it meant money. She was a survivor. She did what she felt she had to do.

If you talked to women who work as maids in India, you'd hear similar stories from almost all of them. So many such women, so many stories- some worse, some better, each unique in their ability to inspire horror at the amount of suffering and hope at the almost staggering determination to survive. In stately homes, in apartments, in hovels, in brothels. If one could zoom out and watch these numerous experiences unfold, I guess one would be amazed at the choices we women make, and keep making.  

As a Matter of Act...

I can act. If my parents has passed on genes that had given me any fighting chance, I bet that those of you who know me now would have bragged about the connection. "Yes, that famous actress of the 80's and 90's. Yes, she is my friend. Yes, she is fat now. Look, she gave my kid a Rolex," you could have said. But alas, the industry never got its star, and your child, the Rolex. The genes simply were not there. My ancestors were a prudish sort, it seems. More than a hundred years of multiple foreign rule, and apparently no one in my family humped anyone outside the flock. Not one Aryan managed to score with us. They probably got beaten with ladles for even daring to steal a glance. For some, all that chastity may be a matter of pride, but let's face it- what did it really achieve? No fair skin, no delicately molded features, no green eyes, no call sheet.

I can act. That's for sure. I do it all the time in the classroom. A withering look, then whoop, it becomes a coaxing smile, but look out, whoosh, here's a steel tipped glare, and presto, out comes a loving word. And after all that, I can still be polite to my boss. All in a day's work. But it's not just teaching. I've always been a bit interested in acting. I don't know why, really. When I was growing up, Tamil heroines were a sadly used lot. They did have talent, but they had more horrid roles than not to help them forget it. Perhaps that's why I wanted to try being one. They made it look so easy. By easy, I also mean a bit senseless. I can do senseless! (Stop nodding, please.) Let me explain.

There are many things yesteryear heroines had in common. One of them is a complete lack of peripheral vision. They'd be singing and dancing their hearts out, flinging head, hands and legs everywhere, but they'd completely miss the hero wearing a bright (and, in some cases, shiny) shirt three feet away, doing a really bad job of peeping. The fellows really missed the point of the exercise, with most of their bodies in plain sight and the tip of one ear hidden behind a tree. It reminds me of my cat. Her idea of being hidden was burying her head under the pillow, with her rear up in the air, tail wagging in glee at the thought of her super stealthiness. I found it hilarious when the hero finally revealed himself by stepping out at the end of the song sequence. Man, you didn't have to take an actual step. You could have just shifted an inch to the left or right. But I get it. She needed help spotting you. True love, right there. So, yeah, I can do that. Peripheral vision- goodbye!

                                           She has no clue. What did I tell you?!

Next, the art of being shy. I can drag all five toes of a foot on the ground, I can even make intricate patterns. I don't have to. One toe. That's all it took back then. Semi-circular movement. Bite the lower lip. Half-smile. Look down, up, then to the side. This last bit is tricky. If you muck it up and roll your eyes in a deranged fashion, you'll look like you're having a seizure. Or, you can pass it off as a symptom of your multiple personality disorder, where this other personality, who in spite of being inspired by a charming dancer, manifests as a complete psycho lunatic with poor body control. I'm sorry about the length of that sentence, but I've been dying to get it off my chest ever since I saw Chandramukhi. So yes, you can roll your eyes if you know that Rajnikanth is coming to save you. Otherwise, don't. Anyway, to completely nail this emotion, do make sure a part of your dress is readily accessible to be twisted and wrung. Done.

            If this was my other, my real personality would have shriveled and died.

Moving on to, well, moving. You had to be all kinds of flexible when it came to dancing back then. When I say flexible, I mean mentally. From swimming on dry ground to synchronized jerky robot movements, heroines shamelessly did it all. I'm not saying they should have been ashamed; I'm saying that one had to be absolutely devoid of the inclination to feel shame. That's admirable. And guess what- I don't have it either! Tick.

                                                               Bodies in motion

Getting kissed on the eyelids, nose, cheeks, chin and neck. Yes, it was a thing. Since the lip lock was not a part of Indian culture *cough kamasutra cough*, we made sure that it was always implied on screen. Kinda like how clothes on the floor tell steamy stories...wait, actually clothes on the floor in our movies meant rape, with shots of a crumpled flower in between or something. No, we used shots of toes intertwining on the bed for the real action. I always imagined that the hero and heroine were laid out on the bed in a V shape, with their feet fighting with each other while the rest of them chastely rested. So anyway, our kisses started with the hero grabbing the actress, giving her head a vigorous tilt, while simultaneously positioning himself with his back to the camera. His bushy hairstyle immensely helped in hiding the nothing that was happening. When he let her go, she would look dazed. I suspect it was easy to look that way because of the almost violent head tilting. No noses getting in the way there! So, you see, I don't mind a bit of action. (I use the word 'action' very loosely here.) Bring it on!

                           Only on the cheek. But she still thinks it's amazing!
                  (Please note that getting it with that subtitle was pure luck.)

Close-ups. This is the one area that gives me cause for self-doubt. Can I do it? In both emotional scenes and songs, the actor and actress had to perform for numerous close-up shots so that the director could successfully frighten his audience. Even in songs. La-la-la-la, BOOM, la-la-la-la-la, BOOM, la-la-la-la, BOOM... If you didn't get it, each 'Boom' is a shot of a face doing some ridiculously exaggerated expression. I'm shying away from this because of the horror that not only future generations, but my own family and friends would express. But in all great endeavors, sacrifices are necessary. If it happens to be your eyeballs, well, *shrug.

                                                               BOOM!

Hmm, I notice that I started out with a hypothetical acting career and ended up with a very real disregard for incinerating the eyesight of loved ones with my acting prowess. Forgive my getting carried away. For a few moments there, I felt younger and whiter. As I said, everything I've written refers to the the previous few decades. I'm not sure about today's movies. In half of them, you really have to be super talented because the roles have improved greatly. I don't think I'm super. (Well, actually, I do, but you know what I mean.) In the other half, you have to ooze enough sex appeal to completely disintegrate your self-respect. I'd like to keep the latter, thanks. With my damned ancestors refusing to put out, it's pretty much all I've got...

Asia Alert!

There’s a new child in school. He’s a 9 year old Thai and he knows, at most, a few words in English. Of course, he landed in my class. I admit it- I fumed. Heck, I breathed fire. I even had a chat with the admission department. In an ideal world, which is what we see in movies, teachers have infinite time to spend with each child, casually introducing a song here, a book there, a deep conversation in between, and lo presto, difficult children have become docile achievers, dumb kids start radiating intelligence and everyone’s exchanging hi-fives. In real life, there’s very little time to do any of that. So, all I've been able to do so far is shoot despairing glances at him as I run from one child to another.

But this child has a truly indomitable spirit- the size of a continent. Perhaps that’s why he was named Asia.  In the last session with his class, I introduced the children to timelines, and encouraged them to draw a timeline for their own lives. Since I didn't want Asia to just copy stuff he didn't understand, I asked his classmate to tell him to write it in Thai, hoping we could translate it later. Mid-way he started jabbering like a chimpanzee and suddenly, the entire class was in chaos, gales of laughter rolling them this way and that. When I finally calmed a child down, wiped away her tears and helped her breathe again, she translated what he’d said.

Turns out that Asia, interpreting it in his own way, created a unique timeline. Under each year, he listed things like ‘The year when I poo-pooed in my pants and didn't tell my teacher’ and ‘The year I didn't take a bath for 2 weeks’. It was hilarious. It was also enlightening. What more important events in life could there be than the ones that make us laugh out loud? His timeline was way better than mine. This nine year old bested me with his humor and easy confidence, tongue in cheek the whole time.

And that’s what defines him. A child he may be, but what is extremely striking about him is an old-fashioned sense of self-confidence that he exudes almost unconsciously. It's quiet. Even when it inspires wackiness, it has dignity. I can’t help but compare it to the confidence-on-steroids that I witness often, unfortunately more in adults than in kids. 'OMG, I'm so crazy, I'm so awesome, I'm so weird'... OMG, Please!

It reminds me of an old Tamil movie in which this character is on a continuous ego trip, insufferably eager to proclaim himself  'different.' The opening scene of the movie features his friend, his patience apparently frayed thin, asking him, "Saapadu- vaai valiya dhaane?" (Your food- enters through your mouth only, right?) That was sheer genius, in my opinion. It reiterates, somewhat crudely, that we all have more in common than we like to admit. With everyone being unique (which we are), it becomes a moot point anyway. 

I saw Asia again today. He understood pretty much nothing I told him. He just kept saying “What?” in Thai until I clutched my head in despair. (Yes, I used the word despair again.Get used to it). But he also made me laugh. Yes, he did make a paper airplane out of the worksheet I gave him but what the heck, it was more useful to him that way. Who says alliteration is more important than aerodynamics? Not Asia. When he left I was exhausted. I’d learnt enough for another day. Until tomorrow then, Asia. Go easy on me, okay? 

Tamil Ponnu (A Good Girl)

Sometimes, there’s just no winning. Sometimes, it’s just a hopeless cause. When people talk about things like glaciers melting and impending global doom, I get it. I feel the same way about dish-washing.

I've been on my own for a long time. But the ‘Tamil ponnu’ training that my mother instilled in me is as sure and true as generations of brain washing have striven to make it. No bloody mother-in-law is going to question my mother’s valarpu, I tell you. When I walk away, things behind me shine. I’d like to say that with their glow as a backdrop, I have an aura around me that only accentuates the beauty of my sari-clad womanly form. I cannot. I am sweating from my scalp so that my hair is plastered to my skull, my bindi is on my left cheek (please drag your eyes back to my face), and my practical tank top and three-fourth shorts look like somebody dangled me horizontally onto a soapy lake, leaving me half wet. It’s not a pretty picture. I don’t mind. I’m single. But what I do mind is when things undo themselves in record time. It’s like a slap in my sweaty face.

Personally, vessels punch me in the gut a lot. The funny thing is that I never knew I had a problem with them when I was undergoing training, a.k.a, my childhood. Now, I wash them with vigor, admire their sheen, place them upside down, turn around and whoosh, they’re back in the sink, unapologetically dirty. Some go so far as to have crusty bottoms that require muscle. It’s disgusting. To add insult to injury, you can’t even ignore the damn things. It backfires. Sure, you can slink around the house, avoiding the corner where the sink is, getting desperately inventive when the utensils you need just aren't there- from stories my bachelor colleagues have told me, people have eaten off Tupperware lids, used knives as spoons (don't try it at home, kids!) and even fashioned a bowl out of foil. But a couple of days in, you start worrying, shooting furtive glances at the pile. What if something is growing in there? What kind of horror movie are you spawning? For me, the very first night (no, not that kind) is when the guilt begins- an overwhelming presence that hijacks the underside of your eyelids and flashes scenes of your mother’s horrified face, your mother’s pristine kitchen, your mother. “Tamil ponnaa nee?!”, Vijaykanth demands in your dreams, his eyes bloodshot. You toss and turn, and the next morning you just give up. The wheels keep turning. Such is life.

Domestic Goddess mode aside,  a Tamil ponnu has a formidable checklist tucked away in her blouse. Granted, times have changed, and we’re feminists now. But the xerox copy of that checklist is still floating around. I have felt it breathing down my neck at times. It’s a difficult yoke to break free from. The last time I was tested was when I went home to Salem during Christmas break. A flight, a taxi, a train ride and the scariest of all- an auto ride later, I’m home and I’m greeted by my mother who takes me aside and whispers that my dear dad has arranged a visit from a potential ‘groom’ and his family. In a situation like this, the mother is always terrified, caught as she is between her orthodox husband and her not at all dutiful daughter.  One look at her sad, beseeching face and that’s when the Tamil ponnu kicks you in. So you pacify her, glare at your father, and go get ready. A few minor skirmishes later, I sit there in a chudhidar (skirmish no.1), not wearing gold (skirmish no.2), wearing house chappals (skirmish no.3) and stare at this guy and his family, the former looking everywhere but at me, the latter looking only at me. The comedy, as we say in Tamil, is that these guys invariably send word later on that- yes, we can get married. Whoop!

As if the attempted brainwashing sessions at home weren't enough, movies actively encouraged the image of this paragon pathni (wife). In this context I must say his name. The Superstar. The One and only. The Rajini. This is a man, if you’d grown up around, you’d relegated to a god-like status for at least a few years. His punch dialogues, as we call them, were more like prophecies and in the 80’s and 90’s, many were the times that I was tempted to devoutly fold my hands when one of his homilies hit the screen. Unfortunately, a recurring theme he delved into was the ideal of womanhood. Lordy, he had many things to say about that. To make sure he had ample opportunity to educate the masses, most women in his movies were played by fire-breathing dragons constructed out of pure unadulterated ego. They eventually all learnt to keep their voices low, their heads lower and their tempers and ambitions in check. Or they died. No two ways about it.

                                                              This one didn't make it.

  

So finally, after all that, you become aware, you question, you break free and you stand tall. All woman, baby. My choice. Hear me roar. Put a ring on it. Um, maybe not the last one. But the ghost of that checklist? Still there. Lurking. I don't know if it'll ever disappear completely. I'll update my Facebook status if it does. Until then, one thing is clear. Sometimes, there’s just no winning. Sometimes, it’s just a hopeless cause. I have dishes to wash.

Life Unbuckled.

She walks into my classroom almost every day, short hair bobbing, a half-eaten cornetto in her hand. She comes to 'hang out', a child with an adult. She talks of this and that as I listen, bemused. But she goes back to her question ever so often. "Ma'am, what's it like being an adult? Is it fun? Do you like it?" Each time she asks me, I have to consider her question carefully. When I do answer, I'm surprised at the number of 'ifs' my answers have. She must think happiness as an adult is such a conditional prospect.

Maybe I am just ill-prepared to answer her. Sometimes, when she asks me, my first reaction is surprise at being asked. It feels like just yesterday, I was her. I was a little girl too, chock full of carefree thoughts, uncertain about life but strong, armed as I was with nothing but a few fairytales. Will she too grow up and be disillusioned? Will life's experiences huff and puff and blow down the castles that housed all her beliefs? Will she learn that those who love her the most can hurt her the worst? Will she break her heart, and heal it, and still trust, still look up with shining eyes at all the possibilities that are before her? Will she be plagued by self-doubt, quailing at the prospect of having to make decisions that shape her future? Will she move from sadness to happiness to sadness, an endless cycle, and struggle to stop and settle so that peace can walk in and take root? Will she look at her parents and realize with sadness that she has moved beyond their world, and where she goes, they will not follow? Will she be utterly terrified to look back and see the proof of their mortality in the bends of their back and the lines on their faces? Will she learn how many nights money will keep her awake, this paper backbone that seems to hold up the planet? Will she stand alone, in a strange country, surrounded by the new and the unfamiliar, and still feel safe, at home, because she knows she belongs to the whole world, and it to her? Will she discover the depth of her own compassion, the shallowness of her own thoughts, the futility of her pride? ...And if she felt all this, lived through all this, would she be lucky or unlucky?

Maybe what I should tell her is that you never stop growing up. Only the lessons change, the field expands, the people come and go, varying in their intensity, in their capacities to surprise, disappoint, to love and hate. But she won't understand. She cannot yet. And when I realize that, I have this overwhelming urge to protect her, to shield her from all the pain that will come. I see myself in her again, strongly this time, and I want to whisk her away, the little girl that was me, to some magical place, perhaps Blyton's Faraway Tree, so that she/I can move from one land of joy to another, our fairytale castles intact. Because, though people insist that life, with all its highs and lows, is a great blessing, it can also be tiring, demanding, always 'on'.

A TV show told me once that it takes courage to keep moving, and sometimes, it takes courage to stand still. Life itself is an exercise in courage... She has courage, this little one who can think for herself, as she nods at whatever answer I give her, barely understanding but satisfied that when she grows up, like she thinks I have, she'll know too. I'm laughing at that. Little girl, you have no idea. Just buckle up and be unprepared.

Anti-peace

My neighbors are a good sort. They generally are around here. However, one day, I was awoken from my afternoon nap by the noise of a song filtering through the walls. Having a holiday where one can indulge in a nap is not something that happens often enough, so I was understandably mad. Our apartments are connected by the wall that adjoins my kitchenette. So I took my laptop, chose '1234, get on the dance floor' (an Indian number that could actually register on the Richter scale), pointed the speakers at the offending wall and blasted the music at it. After one song, the music died down on both sides. When I related this story to someone later that day, I finished with the moral- "see, violence IS the answer to everything."

Humor aside, there's no denying that sometimes, the low road just feels good. Cheap satisfaction, but quite satisfactory. So I'd say that though searching for heart-warming stories to rekindle your faith in humanity is definitely a good idea most of the time, there are some moments when you just want to slump to the dark side. During my latest slumping, I found an inspiring story. I meant inspired. Whatever.  All I know is that the guy in it is kinda my hero now.

So, this is a story about a guy who had a freeloading roommate desperately needing a lesson in manners. It has a moral too! Enjoy ;)

EngineeringGuy
March 4th, 2012

There are multiple ways of preventing the mooching roommate from devouring your food. The simplest is to obtain your own mini-fridge and put a lock on it, as suggested. I, however, took a different approach with my roommate during my college days. Please note that my roommate did not confine himself to the kitchen, he “borrowed” shampoo, soap, toothpaste, and, well…everything. That is, he did this until I could no longer tolerate it.

One Friday, after he had left campus to return home to his parent’s house for the weekend, I loaded the fridge with gag food. I made a salad topped with shredded soap for cheese, covered it with some Saran wrap, and put it in the fridge. I made a couple of sandwiches with soap slices for cheese and put them in there as well. I bought a half-gallon of some kind of chocolate ice cream that had fudge chunks in it, but I emptied the ice cream out of the carton and gave that to my girlfriend. I filled the carton back up with some store-brand chocolate ice cream that I put bits of roofing tar in and put that in the freezer. I baked some chocolate chip cookies with chocolate ex-lax for the chocolate chips and arranged them on a nice plate that I covered with some Saran wrap and left sitting on the counter. I ordered a Papa John’s pizza, ate half of it, and covered the other half with Bhut Jolokia chili peppers (had to order these).

I filled an emptied 2-liter coke bottle with some kind of awful “dark” beer and put that in the fridge. I also put a pitcher of water in the fridge that was dyed with red food coloring and had a cup of salt added to it (looked like Kool-Aid). I blended a half cup of salt into the jar of peanut butter in the pantry, and I sugared the potato chips. I ruined a few other food items as well, but I can’t remember every food product that I tampered with.

Anyway, when I was finished in the kitchen, I moved on to the bathroom. I squeezed the toothpaste out of the tube, mixed it with salt and some ground Bhut Jolokia chili peppers, and then re-loaded the tube using an over-sized syringe that I obtained from a nursing-student friend. I found a brand of shampoo that was clear and replaced the contents with Wesson oil. I loaded an empty lotion bottle with some creamy vegetable shortening (from the restaurant that I worked at). I filled an empty Visine bottle with soapy water (he was a stoner), and I pushed a needle through the condom packs that I kept in MY room.

Now, this was kind of expensive to do, but I could not take the mooching any longer. This had gone on for almost a year, and it persisted in spite of multiple discussions regarding the fact that he needed to chip in if he wanted to consume my groceries and use my toiletries. Please note that every product that I tampered with was mine AND had MY name on it (except the condoms as they were in my nightstand). Every food item had a small sticky with my name on it, or my name was written on it with a Sharpie. This was always the case, but not really necessary since he never bought anything. The bottom line was that I was tired of supporting this guy, and payback was waiting for him on the following Monday.

Monday came and he returned in time for his afternoon class schedule. While I watched, he Zip-locked up two of the cookies and a slice of the pizza, stuffed the food into his backpack, and ran out the door. I was overflowing with smug. I had no classes that day and could not wait until he returned. While he was gone I decided to hide all of the toilet paper, paper towels, tissues, and coffee filters in my car trunk. At six PM he came busting through the door and ran straight for the bathroom. He yelled from behind the door, “Dude, that pizza was the hottest thing I’ve ever eaten; I thought I was going to die after one bite! It has my stomach tore up!” I yelled back, “Well, how were the cookies?” “Awesome,” he replied.

After a few minutes he yelled, “Dude, where is the toilet paper?” I informed him that “we ran out.” He wanted to know if I could “pass him some paper towels.” “Out of those too,” I replied. “Any Kleenex?” “No, sorry…someone needs to go to the store I guess.”

In true college guy fashion, he jumped into the shower to wash himself off. While in there he decided to take a full shower. When he finally came out he asked, “Dude, what kind of shampoo are you using?” I looked at him and said, “Mine.” That was when he knew something was wrong. He sat on the couch, with his flat and crazy-looking hair, and watched television with me for a while. Then he went into the kitchen and helped himself to another cookie. After a while he decided to eat one of my sandwiches. After the first bite he yelled, “What in the hell are you trying to do here?” I looked at him in a frank and serious way and asked, “What do you mean?” He slammed the sandwich onto the counter and said, “Dude, this sandwich has soap or something on it!” I told him, “Frank, that is a special cheese that my mother makes, I like it, that is why I put it on my sandwich. If you don’t like it, don’t eat my sandwich.”

Now he was mad. Steaming in fact. He said, “look, I’m starving, I’m going to eat this salad in here.” Same thing as with the sandwich, “Dude! This has that crappy soapy cheese on it too???” I told him, “Frank, why are you complaining about my food?”

Frank pulled the freezer door open so hard I thought it would break off. He saw the ice cream but passed on it and went to the pantry. After surveying the contents he made himself a peanut butter sandwich with some potato chips on the side and poured himself a glass of “Kool Aid” to go with it. Let’s put it this way, after tasting everything on his plate and taking a swig of the “Kool-Aid,” Frank got the message.

He looked at me and said, “clearly you don’t want me here!” I told him, “yes, I want you here, but I want you to stop mooching my stuff. Buy your own groceries, buy your own shampoo, I’m not your mom, it is not my place to support you.”

Then, the Ex-Lax kicked in again and Frank ran off to the bathroom again. He yelled, “You have got to get me some toilet paper!” I said, “Uh, no, I don’t….” He was groaning, there was splattering, and he was pleading, “PLEASE, PLEASE!” I said, “Okay Frank, I’ll go to the store and get some, I’ll be right back.” I went next door and played video games for about half an hour, went to my trunk, got one roll of TP, and passed it to Frank, who was surprisingly still topping the toilet. He eventually emerged from the toilet and said, “Let me guess, the cookies were made with Ex-Lax?” I smiled and said, “I like them that way, it keeps me regular.”

Frank stormed off to his room for about an hour and I could hear him talking on the phone (later I found out he was talking to his dad). Eventually he came out of his room and went out the door. Through the glass doors leading out to the balcony I could see him pull away in his car. Two hours later he returned with a car load of groceries, toiletries, and other various consumables. From that day forward he was always willing to split the grocery bill. Too bad he had to eat soap, Ex-lax, Ghost chilies, sugar chips, salty-peanut butter, drink Krap-Aid, wash his hair with vegetable oil, and end up on the pot without toilet paper in order to learn his lesson. Actually, I was a bit disappointed that he never got around to the toothpaste, ice cream, and condoms!

Frank and I lived together all throughout college, and the expense I put forth to teach Frank his lesson was worth every penny since it started him down the road to contributing his fair share.

Don’t put up with mooching roommates, put them in their place. Some people just never seem themselves for who they really are until force them to do so. However, I will concede that there was the slight possibility that Frank could have gone crazy and killed me in the middle of the night, so whatever you do, you assume the risk associate with doing it. In fact, I recommend that you never do anything that I have mentioned here. Ever.