I give up.
The teen potters around in the kitchen , and fixes herself a large tumbler of cold coffee. The froth threatens to overflow onto the freshly mopped tiles . I rush to fetch a straw. The man grunts . I stay put , on leash, and ineffectually mouth -"Plastic straw. Third drawer."
The teen frowns , uncomprehending . Takes an enormous gulp . Wipes frothy moustache on shirt sleeve . I groan . Bury my head into weekly horoscopes.Mine predicts "paarivaarik vivaad"(familial dispute).I eye my better half warily . He is submerged in the sports section . Hopefully , there is no "vivaad" in his sign. I sigh. The teen smiles a frothy smile .
The kids are at home , home from school , and they sleep late .
At 11 a.m., one with tousled hair , scratches her belly and yawns “,What is for breakfast ?”
Gently , she is reminded , that she is closer to lunch. Breakfast has been long ago polished off.
But wait , there is still some batter in the fridge , and boiled potatoes curry . “Would she like a dosa?”
She makes a face .
“Cornflakes with cold milk? ”
Nope .
“Toast with cheese ?”
Turning up of pretty teen noses , sensitive to non-existent odors of fresh cheese and cold yoghurt.
The man turns the pages of sunday newspaper noisily , and grunts with ill-concealed impatience.