Fleece by Niece and Aunt Aerobics

Fleece by Niece and Aunt Aerobics 

My grumpy niece revolted on the breakfast table, menacing everyone with the threat of a hunger strike if her demands weren't met. 

"I'll drink my chai only if I get ice cream," tiny Shivi publicly threatened. Shivi's mom, on the table, sighed at the young one's daily dose of Gandhi theory. 

I've never had a problem stealing toys from kids, and I wanted more chai anyways. I jumped at the opportunity to be a provocateur. 

"I'll drink your chai then" I counter-threatened tiny Shivi, reaching out for her cuppa tea. She growled at me, bottoms-uped the tea, and complained to her mom. 

Yeah, like I was scared. What could her Mom do? Punish me with the task of moderating Shivi's mint-plucking effort in the garden? 

As the breakfast drama played out, my aunt in Gujarati was spouting the grueling art of cooking a vegetable called "Tindoda" to a young friend on the phone. She thought the 'younger generation' was hopeless and she felt it an obligation to pass on her junk advice. 

"Youngsta(e)rs don't know what they are doing," aunt said to uncle after the call ended, nauseated. "And they have no respect for elders," she added for good measure. 

I listened attentively, hoping to use the Tindoda argument to cook her into an overburnt veggie. 

Next morning, on the breakfast table, aunt took niece's seat as I ate Apple Jacks, Shivi's favorite. It could've been her bowl, I forget. 

My aunt poured herself chai, with 3 spoons of sugar to her tiny cup. With not much to do, It seemed like the right time to pick a fight with her. 

"Why are you threatening everybody to learn how to cook? Are you trying to spread the gospel about the only vegetable you eat?" I shouted at aunt, unloading a can of whoopass. She put that bitter Tindoda vegetable in mango juice too, she loved it that much. "Look at me, I am fit," she countered, tooting her own horn. "When you are 70, if you are like me, then talk," she said, getting ready for battle. "Yeah, your jumping jack is one more thing you brag about," I responded, adding fuel to the fire. "I am an aerobics champion. I challenge you to a workout," Aunty Aerobics said, crunching her teeth and pointing a finger at me. Add terrible dubbing, and this could be a bad kung fu movie. She naturally thought I was a bum who could walk only 15 baby steps. Dumbfounded, I asked her to elaborate. "Compete in aerobics?" I asked. "See who lasts longer. I can outwork my instructor," she said, enjoying the chai with an annoying sip that sounded like a drilling machine. "Then why send me to the car to pick up 20 bags of groceries yesterday?" I asked her. "All you youngstars need workout," she said, her energy level and voice rising as if she was in the middle of a commercial selling fitness gear. "I spent 3 to 4 hours shopping and saved $50 to $60. You should also learn how to save money," she added, continuing her drill of advising the next generation. So I was a fat ass, couldn't save money, and was an expert at reheating pizza. What allegation next? My small niece came out of nowhere, piggybacking aunt's relentless attack and sensing victory over the chai incident. "Want some ice cream, mama?" she asked me in cute baby code. Sure niece, sure. Don't try to be too smart. Before Aunty Aerobics called me a dumb-bell, I quit. "OK Shivi, lets go pick mint from the garden," I told niece, a punishment I imposed on myself after losing to Aunty Aerobics. The self-punishment wafted me back to the days of being a 4-year old, when I regularly disciplined myself, without parental involvement, over mistakes. I once locked myself up in a closet after misbehaving. It took hours for Mom -- who was aware of my peculiar habit -- to track me down as I chose a new closet everytime.