Mrs Funnybones: She's just like You and a lot like Me Read online

  Twinkle Khanna

  Mrs Funnybones

  She’s Just Like You and a Lot Like Me

  Contents

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Foreword

  A: Am I an idiot?

  B: Beware of mommy dearest

  C: Can Indian men control anything besides their wives?

  D: Doing the daughter-in-law thing

  E: Eureka! Mom, I can make anyone pregnant now!

  F: Fitness mania spreads in the building

  G: Good grief! This weighing scale must be defective

  H: Hurricanes hit my household

  I: I refuse to celebrate this bloody Valentine’s Day nonsense

  J: Just leave me alone in June

  K: Karan Johar celebrates Karva Chauth

  L: Love is imperfectly perfect

  M: Masked bandit on the prowl

  N: Not quite a feminist, so how did I reach Mars?

  O: Oh no! I am under arrest!

  P: Please don’t let go

  Q: Quarter of a century ago

  R: Reaching for the vomit bag

  S: So what’s changed, mommy?

  T: Travel and tyranny

  U: Undressed under duress

  V: Victory lies in cutting your losses and not your wrists

  W: Where are the homing pigeons when you need them?

  X: Xerox copy of mom required

  Y: Young underdogs

  Z: Zip your mouth for God’s sake

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  MRS FUNNYBONES

  Twinkle Khanna, aka Mrs Funnybones, crafts satirical stories and funny fables when she is not running a design business, selling candles or running in circles around her small but rather odd family. She narrowly escaped a gruesome tragedy when Bollywood tried to bludgeon her brain to the size of a pea, but she ducked at the right moment and escaped, miraculously unharmed. She is a popular columnist and a regular contributor to the Times of India and DNA After Hrs. Currently, she is in the process of creating lame jokes like, ‘Why do all Hindu boys worship their mother? Because their religion tells them to worship the cow.’ She firmly believes that nothing in life is sacred except laughter.

  For my Dad

  Foreword

  First things first, am I exactly like the woman in the book that you are about to read? Not entirely, she is slightly lazier, a bit more high-strung and her jokes are a lot funnier than mine.

  In writing her and the characters around her, I have thrown in a few facts, a little fiction, a few decaying brain cells and a couple of old bones into my brewing cauldron of words.

  It all started with Sarita Tanwar asking me if I would write a humorous weekly column for her newspaper. Her exact words were: ‘You crack daft jokes all the time and you read incessantly, I am sure you can write.’

  I tried telling her that millions of people watch cricket all the time but I doubt if they can play, but she interrupted me by saying that I should write a piece and then we shall see.

  What did I really know about writing? Memories of a half-written book in my teens surfaced; this, along with a file of morbid poems, all focusing on death and maggots, constituted my entire writing experience.

  But I have always had a peculiar way of looking at life, and my goal to amuse myself often ended up amusing others as well.

  In my opinion, growing older is all about learning and passing it on, otherwise there is no reason for biological evolution to keep us alive after our reproductive years are over.

  A clearer view of life is probably the only silver lining to having to hoist your boobs over your shoulder and getting to the point where not only do you have eye bags, but even your eye bags begin to sag.

  So, having fulfilled my function of ensuring that the population of India continues to explode, and before dementia sets in, I decided to sit down, open my laptop and start my first column, which led to almost a hundred columns, and then it eventually brought me right here, to this very book.

  Now, this is the time to turn the page and dive into Mrs Funnybones (the book, you twits, not me!).

  Starring ‘you know who’ as the main lead, then of course, the man of the house, the eccentric mothers, two fairly strange children, and cameos by stubborn canines, weird neighbours, Parsi electricians and even a movie star or two. Welcome to my world . . .

  A: Am I an Idiot?

  8 a.m.: The prodigal son, the baby and I are wildly dancing to ‘All about that bass’, a song that primarily deals with the concept that a big backside is infinitely better, and since the baby can also just about warble through the chorus, this is immediately declared our favourite song of all time. The radio plays on and there is the notorious Anaconda song again about having a big booty, and when the baby starts trying to mouth, ‘Oh my God, look at her butt’, an observation that may not go down so well with her playschool teachers, I hastily switch the music off.

  9 a.m.: Trying to check my emails, I get hold of my iPad and boom there it is: #breaktheinternet and pictures of Kim Kardashian pouring champagne while balancing a glass on her bottom. Kimmy darling, why didn’t you tell me you wanted a drink? You really didn’t need to pose as a human bar counter; I would have just sent my Ramu and Pappu. One would hold the glass, the other would pour and you could sit, relax and use your posterior to break the sofa instead.

  To digress a little, before the world even knew Kimmy existed, we had the famous choreographer Saroj Khan who could certainly balance a tray and a cup of tea on her bottom if she tried, not that she ever did. She used that bit to sway gloriously and teach others to do the same. Just like our politicians, I am bringing this up to prove that anything anyone can do, we Indians could have or have done it earlier and better.

  As I am formulating the rest of my patriotic speech, I hear the man of the house say, ‘Can you be quiet for just five minutes?’ And I realize that I have actually been speaking aloud while hunched over my iPad. Blimey . . .

  11 a.m.: Sitting in front of my computer and drinking coffee, I spot an email from my accountant stating, ‘Dear Madam, My sister very dangerous. I want to saw her. Please give leave three days! Good day, Srinivasan’

  Hmm . . . Either his sister is a serial killer and he has decided to cut her in half or as I quickly figure (with the help of a strong swig of coffee), he is saying that his sister is sick and he wants to see her.

  I send him an email back informing him that since this is his nineteenth relative in grave danger, he needs to either consult a tantric to remove a curse on his family or to simply stop lying to take extra days off. I shut my computer and hurriedly get ready to reach the office.

  4 p.m.: I am at the store and we are launching our new collection when I notice that instead of dealing with a customer who will hopefully spend all her husband’s hard-earned money on my beautiful, gold-embossed candles, my salesgirl is fast asleep at her desk. I tentatively wipe drool from the cash register and give her a sharp nudge. She yelps awake and then gives me her sorry tale of being sleep deprived due to her husband’s daily sonorous and torturous snoring. Blimey . . .

  7.45 p.m.: Mother has come over for a cup of tea, and as we are chatting, the prodigal son runs into the room and yells that he needs to buy a book urgently for his English assignment. Crossword is the nearest bookstore, so we quickly decide to go there. I grab my bag with one hand, lug the baby with the other and hurriedly ask mom to drop us off at the store while leaving instructions with the watchman to inform our driver to reach Crossword in twenty minutes.

  8.10
p.m.: We are at the bookstore and I tell the prodigal son, ‘Hey, let’s go to that aisle, I need some pens and I can see some marker pens there.’ And the baby immediately chirps, ‘Where pens? Show me!’ She is at such a precious age; curious about everything. We buy two books on poetry for the prodigal son and a Dora sticker book for the baby and head out.

  Standing on the dark pavement, I am scanning the street for my car to no avail. I try calling the driver but the number is unreachable, and after fifteen minutes of being stared at by passers-by with the baby squirming in my arms, the prodigal son says that he sees a rickshaw. The baby squeaks, ‘Where rickshaw? Show me!’

  8.30 p.m.: The prodigal son hails the rickshaw and we all clamber in. This is the baby’s first ride in a rickshaw and she is rather thrilled. We then turn into the long private road that leads to our building when the rickshaw driver suddenly says, ‘Madam, that hero Akshay Kumar used to live here but now he lives in Bandra.’

  As my mouth falls open and before I can protest, he continues, ‘Arrey, he’s married to Rajesh Khanna’s daughter, na, and Dimple Kapadia is there but the daughter doesn’t have anything to do with the mother; especially now that she is the only heir. So this Akshay and his family have all moved to that big house in Bandra.’

  Bemused with the nonsense this moronic man is spouting, I say, ‘Really? And how would you know that?’ Pat comes the answer, ‘Madam, rickshaw chalata hun, sab pata hain.’ (We rickshaw drivers know everything.)

  The prodigal son starts laughing hysterically as I struggle to pull out my fare of seventeen rupees, and we run up the stairs to our house.

  The man of the house is sprawled on the couch and I breathlessly start narrating the whole sequence. ‘So funny! Listen, na, apparently Akshay Kumar used to live here but now he lives in Bandra and his wife hates her mother and . . .’

  The man of the house narrows his eyes and exclaims, ‘You were heading towards it but now you have gone certifiably insane. What are you babbling about Akshay and his wife and her mother? That’s us, our family! Who refers to their entire family in the third person? You are really an idiot.’

  I immediately correct him. ‘The word is not idiot but illeist. Illeist is a person who talks in the third person, whereas an idiot just talks; though they sound similar, they cannot be used in place of each other.’

  Shrugging his shoulders and giving me a goofy grin, he retorts, ‘I don’t know what an illeist is but I know an idiot when I see one.’

  The baby immediately stops playing with her tea set, looks up and says, ‘Where idiot? Show me!’

  Blimey . . .

  B: Beware of Mommy Dearest

  My mother has never been the Band-Aid dispensing, cupcake-baking, checking-on-homework sort of mother that one sees in commercials. She is funny, sometimes wacky, a little eccentric and fallibly human, and has consistently over the years found new and unique ways to embarrass me, starting at birth when she decided that naming me Twinkle was a foolproof way of making sure that I would get teased throughout my life, have immigration officers at various airports stare at my passport and shake with hysterical laughter and strangers stalk me with WhatsApp messages like, ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, little star, I hope you get hit by a car!’

  Here is a short list of the things that she has done to traumatize me at various stages.

  I AM THIRTEEN: I am studying at Panchgani and have been selected to play in the inter-school basketball match. Mother has come to see the match, as it is a big moment in my life. In the middle of the match, she starts yelling from the stands, ‘Tina! Tina! You are the best!’ and when I turn to hear where all this ruckus is coming from, the ball is thrown my way, smacks me on the head and I fall down flat on the court.

  I AM EIGHTEEN: Mother has read a book on some colour therapy diet by Linda Clark, and decided that I must follow this innovative weight-loss programme which consists of eating only red- and orange-coloured fruits, drinking solarized water in red bottles and sitting in front of an infrared light for fifteen minutes every day. End result after two weeks: I have gained 3 pounds and have a burn mark on my stomach from the infrared light toppling and falling on me.

  I AM TWENTY-NINE: Mom and I are going to London for a shoot and Mom is then going on to New York while I am heading home. Every day mother goes shopping and as I see our tiny room filling up with shopping bags, I start getting a feeling that this will not end well. It is the last day, my flight is at 8 p.m. and mom’s flight is four hours before mine. I start fretting as to how she will fit all her stuff in her suitcase and she reassures me that I have nothing to worry about—to go to work and she will pack everything for me as well before she leaves.

  That evening I rush to my room to pick up my bags, only to find no suitcases, just two trunks. Description of the above-mentioned trunks: Dented, battered aluminium boxes with my name plastered across in massive letters and misspelt ‘Twinkal Khana’ with a bright red marker pen.

  Mommy dearest has taken the two suitcases I had come with, to accommodate all the shopping and has packed all my things in the film unit’s costume department trunks.

  I AM THIRTY-SEVEN: My mother decides to call my entire family over for dinner—husband, in-laws, cousins and all—and then proceeds to talk about how fat I was as a child, how I got stuck in a bucket while trying to have a bath, how I used to eat mangoes sitting on the potty and how she had to buy clothes for a fourteen-year-old when I was just seven.

  And then last week . . .

  8 a.m.: My phone rings, it is mother, and she says, ‘I saw your console table in the foyer yesterday, it’s the first thing guests will see when they enter your house and it is looking very empty. You need to buy an antique statue and place it there immediately.’

  I need to nip this potentially long conversation in the bud quickly, so I reply, ‘Granny is antique too, let’s make her sit on the console whenever guests come by.’

  Mommy dearest hangs up without a word.

  1.30 p.m.: Mother has forgotten all about our morning spat, and calls me in high spirits. She informs me that an old acquaintance from Delhi is coming over this evening. The lady in question has been trying to persuade mommy dearest to partake in a great money-making scheme, and mom has already decided that it is a fabulous opportunity and is now persuading me to take advantage of her friend’s generous offer.

  6 p.m.: Our much-awaited visitor arrives. She is articulate, intelligent and extremely charming. I am almost convinced that I must part with most of my money, when I start mentally doing some calculations and an alarm bell starts ringing. I protest that nothing in the world can help you earn 125 per cent per annum, especially when the bank is just about giving 9 per cent. Every question I ask is met with vague answers like angel investors, trading in yen, etc. till the meeting comes to an abrupt end.

  8.30 p.m.: My mother receives an SMS from her friend, which states, ‘I am very disappointed with your daughter’s attitude. What does she keep mumbling percentages for? Does she even know what she is saying? Under these conditions I take back my kind offer of granting you a place in my scheme. It’s your loss.’

  Mother starts berating me for having spoilt this great prospect and when I try explaining to her that this is just a money-making racket as the numbers don’t add up, she again yells at me for behaving like I am ‘some kind of maths teacher’. Hurt about the maths dig, I remind her that I had scored 97 out of 100 in my board exams on the same subject. She must remember that at least, since she and my aunt had made fun of me saying, ‘The Human Calculator not only gets 97 marks but also weighs 97 kilos.’

  She gets even more irked, so I sneakily grab her phone and send her friend a message back: ‘CBI has just arrested MP Ramchandra and two ex-MLAs in a Ponzi scheme, would you like to join them?’

  A month later, mom calls me and says, ‘I have been trying our Delhi friend’s number but she hasn’t returned my calls. Really, you should have been nicer to her. Didn’t even serve her biscuits properly with tea that day. But I agr
ee with you, it’s better to be safe than sorry. What is too good to be true usually is . . . Anyway, listen, I got a letter from a nice Nigerian man who wants to give us some money . . .’

  Before she can continue, I yell, ‘Oh my God!’ She starts giggling and says, ‘I am just joking.’ I tell her, ‘It’s not funny, Mom, and sometimes you really do make stupid mistakes.’

  She snorts, ‘That’s true, I made you.’

  C: Can Indian Men Control Anything Besides Their Wives?

  7 a.m.: I feel a sharp tug on my nose and suddenly something damp and smelly falls on my face. As I struggle to open my eyes, I realize that it is in fact my daughter who is struggling to put her finger up my nose in anticipation of perhaps finding a brain wedged in there somewhere, and to free herself from all encumbrances in this fruitful task, she has removed her overnight diaper and thrown it on my forehead.

  8.45 a.m.: I grab some coffee and decide to get a head start on my day by jotting down my to-do list.

  To-Do Today

  1. Remove brownie stains from the sofa.

  2. Remove stains from my new pants when I sat on the brownie on the sofa.

  3. Box son on the head for saying he stored the brownie behind the cushion on the sofa for safekeeping.

  4. Delete twenty-six pictures of cousin Kamalnath (Sweetie) Khanna and his family that have very sweetly been emailed to me.

  5. Delete seventy-three early morning ‘inspirational’ SMS forwards that only deranged people have the inclination to send.

  6. Call the lawyer to check on my court case regarding my (tied-to-a-tree) dog managing to bite our nasty neighbour—double check if I can file a counter case against our nasty neighbour for violating the dog’s personal nasal space by regularly stinking of methi theplas, thereby provoking the dog into a biting frenzy due to temporary insanity.