The May-June issue is still not on stands, and trust me when I tell you that the blame lies squarely on the shoulders of that twit Anandhotep. I sent him the air-tickets; I emptied my cupboard so that he could store his stinky old bandages in it; I ordered figs and grapes online; I cleared the bed-box for him to curl in after work – but that pinhead didn’t arrive in time; instead he couriered me a scarab with his message engraved upon its underbelly.
“I’m not in the right mood,” the hieroglyphics read. (Here’s the actual reproduction of the hieroglyphics thanks to the online English to Egyptian Hieroglyphics translator at: http://quizland.com/hiero.mv)
That was the message the bonehead sent me, leaving me high and dry, wondering how I’d face my audience.
Not in the right mood?!
What kind of excuse was that? What was the bugger up to?!
I had a bad feeling about the whole thing. For about three weeks, I received no communication from him and I sat twiddling my thumbs, wondering how the magazine would survive without that moody and irresponsible bucket of bones at the helm of affairs.
And then, suddenly, with no prior intimation, he materialized right there on top of the dining table, in the bowl of rajma (kidney beans for the Indophile foreigner,) splashing and thrashing about, splattering us all red and maroon.
“Here I am!” he said, pulling his rajma-dripping self out of the bowl. Mom looked at him with disdain – a lot of things repulse her but nothing – repeat – nothing shocks her, so even this didn’t; Dad grunted indifferently; wifey first shrieked then recognized him and shot her sweetest smile his way. (I don’t like the way she smiles at that frizzy frumpy fool; if I didn’t know that she was in love with the neat and natty me, I’d have thought there was something brewing between those two.)
I did what I did. At first I sulked. Then I complained. Next I tried to extract a promise from him – that he won’t leave me in a lurch ever again. I’m still not sure if he made that promise – those bandages hide his expressions, but I am sure that he’s going to be around for a while. After all, he wouldn’t have lugged that humungous suitcase half-way across the globe, if he didn’t mean to stay.
You know that he knows the way around the house, and wifey follows him around like a love-sick puppy – so even before it could all sink in, I found his suitcase emptied and stowed away and three sets of stinky old and ragged bandages hanging in my wardrobe. The mummy itself was seated in my seat, typing away furiously.
This of course, means that QSM shall soon be hitting the stands. Now that Anandhotep is here, I can rest easy.