Madonna

If it wasn’t a grin, what was it? I tell you there is no way I could have mistaken the stretching of those facial muscles as she bounded away from the window. How dare she?! Wait till I get my hands on her tomorrow – I am going to make her life so miserable that she should wish her ninth life was over at that instant.

For some vague reason, my neighbor’s feline fatale is named Madonna. I see no resemblance whatsoever with the singer or the diva except in the art of making others feel inadequate, inconsequential and wish they had the power to be invisible.

For days, I have been watching Madonna stealing, but haven’t been able to do anything about it. Anything that is edible, she steals – I never knew cats could eat Lay’s Chips for breakfast and taste apple juice for healthy living. For one, she must have been watching too much TV with her owner.

Now it’s altogether a different issue how Mrs. Miriam is influencing the thought process of her children (read three cats and two dogs). As far as I know, she is the only lady with the virtue of being in the wrong places at the wrongest of times.
She provides utterly illogical views of how, in general, citizens of the neighborhood are behaving like inconsiderate nincompoops in grumbling about her dogs getting a little air on the sidewalks, sniffing and clearing their bowels right in front of people’s gates. What harm is a little doggy poop compared to all that man made pollution? Anyway, if I go on about Mrs. Miriam, I will lose track of Madonna’s sins.

Yesterday was the worst. I had invited a few friends for dinner to celebrate my fifty-fourth birthday. Boy, there was so much work left. It is not easy when you alone are responsible for all the cooking, cleaning and decorating. Of course Chanti offered to help, but being very independent, active, even self-respecting, I politely refused.
Chanti, my parakeet, is a darling, I must say. Though I have given her the freedom to go wherever she wants to and do whatever little work she can, she has not misused it, and has always been considerate towards me. What I further like about her is that she is not so nice towards Madonna, which is very fine by me.

So, as I was saying, I slowly got all things done one by one. The cake was baked, the icing was done, the cookies were out cooling, the fridge had enough cool drinks and a bottle of Grey Goose – the Agarwal couples loved a swig of vodka in all their dinners. The only thing left was the prawn curry. Now, I have to tell you I am very modest and all that, but I think you should know, if there was one thing for which my Andrew married me, truly honestly, it was for my special signature prawn curry.
When I was younger, people in the church used to say that there was no one in the neighborhood of Mother of Sorrows Church who could summon an entire community to attend charity night with the power of a single prawn curry. I had kept the task to the end of my list since I needed great concentration for the preparation.

My guest list consisted of Mr. Solomon from London, who is a friend of Agarwals, and the Agarwals themselves. There was no way I would let Mr. Solomon picture me as a superficial person – apparently that is what he secretly murmured about Sonia Sheth three nights ago when that stupid woman was sashaying around trying to attract his attention during the Fate Club party. No sir, there is no way he would label me that! Why, my cakes are deeper than Sonia’s charm and personality put together.

Cooking was done and I had to hurry up if I had to be ready in time for the party. I wore my favorite cream-on-peach colored top on burgundy skirt. This was Andrew’s favorite combination. My Andrew liked anything that reminded him of food and wine – poor thing, I hope there is such a thing as fifteen-course dinner in heaven.

At eight-o-clock sharp, my guests arrived. I was nervous as hell, Lord knows why. The first thing Mrs. Agarwal did was to barge into the kitchen to sniff around for the obvious – it was all done and it smelled heavenly. The little party started on shaky grounds but went to on to become a nicely settled affair – the ginger ale and cookies, the cake and the sweets were all contributing to the bonhomie. Mr. Solomon even complimented me on my dress! Nice young lad, I must say.
I cannot conclude the party was a complete success. The very skill that I am proud of was instrumental in proving that good times such as this party don’t last long. Mrs. Agarwal kept on singing praises about my upcoming prawn curry. Sometimes I suspect she over does it hoping it would change the way curry tastes – I tell you, sometimes she goes queer.

So coming back to the prawn curry. I had not lost the magic touch after all. Even Madonna seems to agree with that – she was the only one got to taste the curry that night. Horrible four-legged creature! I got into the kitchen to get the curry and I froze. There she was, happily gobbling up my precious creation, shooting my temper beyond danger-level. I lunged at her with a force that surprised not just her, but that witch was too fast. She sprang on the ladle and jumped through the window to have a perfect landing on the compound.

Twwanng... the ladle too had a perfect landing on Mrs. Agarwal’s head and remnants of the curry on my cream-on-peach top! I could see all that praise that I was to receive at the dinner table, the admiration that would flow and the glory that I would achieve, going up in smoke. I was speechless with horror. First my top, my curry and then Mrs.Agarwal’s whining – with murder in my eyes, I looked out. That is when I found Madonna grinning.

I tell you, whoever created that phase, ‘grinning like a Cheshire cat’, is going to have a hell of a time when I meet him in heaven.