Superman or The Limits of Virility
September 3, 2009
We have had a little door issue lately. Slowly but surely, for the last months, my front door was disintegrating.The painters, when they painted it, forgot to grate the side so it kept getting stuck and we’d have to force it open.
One day the clench gave way. We still got by, relying on luck and the lock. Then we couldn’t open it at all.
Shashir, bless his caring soul, fixed the door.
But the next day my sister and I got locked out. The damn lock was jammed and after calling Papa-ji to ascertain the situation, it quickly became clear that we’d have to break the door open.
Papa-ji called the “building manager”, a snooty Bengali who just had twins with Papaji’s maid and thinks the double baby thing is a testimony to his virility. The lock was somehow coming forward and we thought that might be the problem. Superman tried to hammer it back in but to no avail: we were going to have to break it open.
“This is no problem, Papa-ji said, you will come to my home and stay with me.”
“Oh but Sir no, we wouldn’t…..”
Papa-ji insisted: we were like family to him.
He sent Superman away to fetch some door-breaker and called the lift.
My sister and I looked at each other in plain, utter panic. We looked at the lock. I asked Papa-ji:
“Sir, would you let me try with the hammer?”
“Ha ha, Papa-ji laughed, but it is impossible, you saw it, he tried very hard!”.
I took the hammer and gave the lock a piece of my mind. Bloody hard I hit.
And pop the lock went, back in place.
“OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH! MY! GOD!” Papa-ji screamed.
“Well done!!!!!” shouted my sister, hysterical with relief. She opened the door.
Superman reappeared, his big Bengali eyes wide opened.
“You see, Morgane told him, my sister is stronger than you!.”
Papa-ji laughed, Morgane laughed, the maid laughed – hiding beneath her pallu.
Superman did not.