Saturday, 12 April 2014

Bag it Every Time!



Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humour - or at least a great appreciation of the ironies of life? And have I ever mentioned that an intrepid traveler I am NOT? Well, put the two statements together and you get someone who is the world’s worst traveler, busily travelling around the world!

`So it came to pass that a girl who cannot sit on a swing for more than twenty seconds before succumbing to a bout of dizziness that would make an expectant lady’s legendary morning sickness look like an advertisement  for good health, came to be married to a Merchant naval officer. Now you may well raise your eyebrow superciliously and ask,”So?” The answer is tragically simple – Haven’t you noticed that a ship rolling on the seas is nothing but a great big swing?! I still recall how I covered myself with glory the first time we left port in excellent sailing weather (how was I supposed to know that?) by racing onto the bridge and dramatically declaring, “It’s a storm!” The look of acute embarrassment on my newly acquired husband’s face, bracketed by the disbelieving looks of the Captain and the Bosun who were standing on either side of him, is a recollection that I do my utmost not to recall!

Anyway, be that as it may – there is nothing like constant torture to make agony bearable – and three ships later, I was a seasoned sailor who could ‘roll’ with the best them in the most surrealistic of storms. Back-and-forth and forth-and-back I would sway, like a tender flower at the mercy of a strong breeze, whilst busily carrying on a conversation or making coffee on the bridge, as if I were completely stationary and my feet were on solid ground. As I said – puke often enough and very soon there is nothing left to throw up! At that point you either give up the ghost and become the star protagonist of a burial-at-sea, or else your body decides that enough is enough and magically ceases to become sea-sick any more. By God’s grace, I belong to the latter category and so am alive to tell this tale.

Which brings us to the fantastically named port of Coatzacoalcos. Never heard of it, have you?! Well, neither had I till our perambulations on the high seas led us to the said named place and we found ourselves anchored off the coast of New Mexico, readying ourselves to take on board a cargo of blackened coal (yes, smarty, I made the connection too - coal from Coatzacoalcos!). Now the fact that we were anchored off-shore, meant that we needed to take the launch to get to dry land, and so that was precisely what yours truly set about doing. So, after carefully getting my trusty handbag ready, and arming myself with some basic survival vocabulary (eg: ‘aqua’ = water), I settled myself into the launch and headed for shore, accompanied by some fellow sailors.

Once on terra firma, we proceeded to enjoy ourselves, as all mariners worth their salt do, and were soon engrossed in the simple pleasures of sampling the local wares and shopping for our families.

 All too soon, it was time to return to the metalled framework we called home.

So there we were, on the jetty, waiting for our royal chariot to take us back when, all of a sudden, one of our lads let loose with an expletive (no, I will not elaborate – there are tender ears reading this!). Now when one lives on ships one becomes fairly inured to such volatile expressions and takes them in the spirit in which they are said, rather than literally. Without batting an eyelid I therefore enquired with the greatest concern – “What’s wrong?”

The response was a look of acute embarrassment followed by a low voiced response, ”My button has broken.”

I know intuition is a woman’s best friend, but have you noticed how it always deserts one when one needs it the most? So, instead of picking up the signals from the look and the voice of the young man in question, I proceeded to do my bull-in-a-china-shop stunt and, raising my voice, said, “Which button?”

When am I ever going to learn?!!

That he didn’t throw me into the sea speaks volumes for the young sailor’s self control! (Or perhaps it was the fact that I was the Captain’s wife that had something to do with my safety – we’ll never know, will we? But I digress…) One look at his face warned me that discretion was the better part of valour. So choosing to fall back on the wisdom of the old adage ‘Action speaks louder than words’, I hastily reached inside my trusty handbag, pulled out a safety pin large enough to fit the bill, and thrust it in his general direction, all the while taking great care not to look him in the eye (or anywhere else for that matter).

Having rescued the situation to a certain extent (and his trousers), I fell into a pensive silence, while gazing vacantly into the horizon. Truth to tell, I was doing my best to neutralize a very awkward situation, when, to my horror, yet another cuss word (strong enough this time, to set your hair on fire) rent the air.  I quailed inside, but mustering my rather shredded nerves together, I turned towards the perpetrator and asked in a low voice (as low as the first sailor’s), “Is everything alright?”

The retort that greeted my solicitous enquiry struck me dumb – quite literally. “I need to be stitched.” Why oh why is it my misfortune to be surrounded by tight trousered humanity?! Having, however, learnt from the errors of my previous ways, I refused to ask for any clarifications, but simply once more dived into my bag, yanked out a needle and thread and held out my arm, while averting my eyes.  I thought I was being the soul of discretion. So you can imagine my surprise, when my Samaritan act was met by a deep throated chuckle. Swinging around in indignation, I strove to look for the perpetrator of the rude sound, when I perceived that it was the author of the hair raising vocabulary himself! Frowning at him, I barked (in a most unladylike fashion, I humbly confess), “What’s so funny?”

Instead of replying, the sailor simply raised his arm and it was then, to my everlasting chagrin, that I saw the rent in his shirt sleeve. I had jumped to the wrong conclusion!

Slowly I raised my shamefaced eyes to his grinning face and with elaborate courtesy, he dropped the stitching apparatus back into my hand.

Once again I averted my gaze and pretended to take a great interest in the horizon. Anything, I repeat anything was preferable to meeting the eyes of the by now deeply amused members of my ship!

So I surrounded myself with a dignified silence and continued to stare into space (I would rather have been in outer space at that moment). However, as the minutes dragged by (relativity sucks) I became aware of a disturbing increase in the volume level near me. Being a lady (read ‘woman’) my curiosity started getting the better of me. But my dignity (or marked lack of it at that moment) demanded that I not reveal said (by now overwhelming) curiosity. So I tried to make both ends meet by striving to encompass the gentlemen next to me in my peripheral vision – with a marked lack of success! All I could see were some vague forms floating in and out of the corner of one eye, like ghosts flitting by at the edge of one’s vision.

What did not however, cease, was the ever increasing buzz and from the distant corner of one straining eyeball, I could dimly make out what seemed to be a great amount of unnecessary nudging going on. Just as I was about to succumb to the temptation of finally turning around to have a proper look, one of the gentlemen came staggering towards me. No, he wasn’t inebriated – he had been propelled towards me by the unwanted force of a nudge in the back. And as he approached me with unsteady gait, his face broke into a huge grin as he asked, “I’m hungry ma’am – got anything there in that bag o’ yours to eat?”

So THAT’S what they had been up to! I could see the speculation in his eyes. I scanned the other faces.

The bet was on.

Never challenge a lady about her handbag.

I raked him over with a seemingly cursive glance. But in that one look I had got his measure.

My fingers flexed with the practiced ease of a dedicated gunslinger.

No one. But NO ONE was going to out gun me.

With deceptively casual ease I dipped into the bottomless pit that is rather elegantly called a lady’s ‘purse’ and pulled out – an apple!

Roars of approval burst forth from the gathering that had surrounded us without our knowledge, so focused had we been on our personal duel. Applause filled the air. And with the air of a prima donna who deserved nothing less than her due, I gracefully bowed!

My equanimity was restored. All was well with my little world.

That evening, when we were gathered around the dinner table, my vanquished opponent ventured into the dining room to deliver the final epitaph to the story. He looked at the Chief Engineer, glanced sideways at the Captain (my husband) and dropped the following bombshell into the expectant silence:
 
“Begging your pardon sir, but just wanted to inform you – if you ever lose your engine, or need a new one – just look inside madam’s handbag!!”

 He beat a hasty retreat……….with yours truly in hot pursuit……

9 comments:

  1. This story still holds true with you mom.

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  2. Thanks Rashi! glad you enjoyed it!

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  3. Thanks little princess!! I do manage to get into scrapes, don't I?!

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  4. I wonder what we will find in your purse now ma'am!!! Enjoyed it as usual !!

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  5. I always find the stories better than any renowned writer ...now this one ..better than ..better than...Gulliver's Travels!!
    In The Crucible Newsletter ..one story every month ..by the Principal !!!!!!!

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  6. Traveled I have - touched all the continents. And enjoyed every moment of it! I feel particularly blessed to have been given this gift.

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  7. Very well written Ma'am! I hope you will check out my blog as well! :)

    http://710block16.blogspot.in/

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