‘That’s not fair… he makes others slog while he parties.” Why are they picking on you?”
Illustration/Uday Mohite
Lobo Lobo came over—he looked like he’d run 100 marathons.
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“Lobo Lobo… why so tired?”
“Dikuna men, I just completed a 120-hour week?”
“That’s crazy, that’s inhuman, Narayan Murthy demanding a 70 hour week, then this Larsen and Toubro dude suggests a 90-hour week, now you’re being asked to complete 120… who’s your boss?”
“Our boss is Chaman Chinchpokal.”
“How many work hours does Mr Chinchpokal put in?”
“120 hours,” Lobo Lobo said “Wow, 120 hours a week.”
“No, he works 120 hours a month!”
‘That’s not fair… he makes others slog while he parties.” Why are they picking on you?”
“Actually…, uhm men, Dikuna,” Lobo Lobo started looking a tad sheepish.
“Actually what, Lobo Lobo?”
“Actually, I onie aksed my boss to work the extra hours. See, my missus, Myrtle, she’s toh 24 hours eating my head, complaining dat I don’t spend enuff time with her.”
“And therefore you asked to work more hours?”
“Uhmmm I go home damn late on week days, arrey she starts her ‘kit-pit’ men, about Ronaldo my son and Cinderella, my dotter and de neighbours and de smell of methi… and her badbad she goes on and on, men.”
“And Sundays, what about Sundays, isn’t that a day of rest?”
“No men, Sunday, not a day of rest, but unrest… early morning she says fust come to de church for Konkani mass, where she duzz ‘guss-puss’ wid de udder aunties, Mabel, Misteltoe and Magadalena, and she spends hours in de confession wid de Fadder Princey Gonsalves and den she drags me to de fish market, he duzz all dat haggling wid de fisher ladies, for all dis teesriya and squids, and jinga and bekti and clams and Bombil… den we go to buy all de pork and paya and wot not. Den she wants to go shopping, of foe how much time she spends, full kanjoos-kakdi she is, she akses me, ‘Eh Teo, should I buy dis hanky or dat hanky, dis scarf or dat scarf, dis Lewis Viton or dat fake one’. And now dat blinking mudder-in- law has come to stay wid us, arrey men, she is ten times worse dan my missus, she demands dat I massage her legs in de evening, den dey bot want to play Housie in our dat Vincent Club in Virar. So like datwhole Sunday goes—I’ll toh radder be at work, na men?”
“I see your point, Lobo Lobo.”
“I just want to sit on my couch and read de James Hadley Chase books and listen to my Perry Como and Jim Reeves and John Denver, on my ole Murphy radios. And in de night I want to meet wid my ole football chaddi buddies, and we can play de carrom, and drink de Old Monk wid de Tums Up, and eat dose masala peanuts and tok about de old days at de Nagpada football ground where we played against de YMCA boys. I just want peace and quiet.”
“But blinking Myrtle, nag nag nag de hole day, so I tolded to my boss, don’t pay me also, but I cannot be at home—I tolded my wife dat I am WFO… meaning Working From Office.”
“So wot work do you do sitting in the office on a Sunday?”
Lobo Lobo’s eyes twinkled.
“Arrey, wot you tink men, I put my feet up, whole office I is empty, na…and I on de TV and watch my favourite Liverpool playing, and I order food, dat seeks kebabs and dat my mutton biryani from Café Naaz, it’s in Bombay Central onie, and den I have some nice siesta…”
“So why are you looking so tired?”
“Arrey men I was binge watching dat Games of Trones den de new season of Patel Log has started… so den I get home in de wee hours.”
“Hmmmm, that’s now you spend your 120-hour week”
“Yes Dikuna men, whole whole day I was staring at my wife… even while at office.”
“How is that possible?”
“Arrey simple, I have one wedding photo of me and her on my desk,” Lobo Lobo concluded. “So I stare at her.”
Rahul daCunha is an adman, theatre director/playwright, photographer and traveller. Reach him at [email protected]
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