Once a week, I call my Auntie Lily in India, on the phone. Both my parents are gone and she’s the only person of their generation who I remain in contact with. I use one of those calling cards which take five minutes to dial the initial number, then the password, then another long number all without making mistakes before the call finally connects. The line sounds like there’s a tropical storm in progress. Auntie Lily is alone now, so she’s always the one to pick up the phone. Whenever I call, wherever I am, the first thing she says to me is: “How’s Bins?”

This is because, like everyone who meets Bins, Auntie Lily adores him. It’s partly because of the French connection. She travelled to France soon after marrying my uncle, who joined the Foreign Service post-Independence. There she learned to speak French and cook French food. Whenever Bins and I visit her home in Chennai, staying for a few days, the two of them chatter away in French. At all mealtimes, he not only eats everything my aunt’s cook-lady sets in front of him, but he polishes his plate clean and asks for more.

In the evenings, he watches the TV news with Auntie and agrees with all her political opinions. At night, after dinner and over a wee glass of wine, he asks her about her life as a Foreign Service wife, shares anecdotes about his disastrous first visit to France and says how much he prefers living in India. Thus he polishes his reputation as a Visiting Angel Nephew while I am forced to sulk in a corner.

The reason I sulk is that Bins is not an angel! No-one is! But I can never actually prove it. For instance, this week, when Auntie asks about Bins, I tell her he’s gone out. “Out! But where?” she wants to know. Next door, I tell her. “Really? I thought you said that man didn’t like him?” There’s a new tenant, I tell my aunt. She moved in just three days ago.

“My. That’s nice. And it’s another lady?” asks Auntie Lily. Yes, I say. What I don’t say is that Bins also thinks it’s nice. Extremely nice.

“And he’s helping her move? Is she an old lady?” No, Auntie, she’s a frizzy-haired minx with 10-inch stiletto heels, is what I want to say. But I don’t want my aunt to worry. So instead I say the new tenant’s from Jamaica and has a weak back, without mentioning her age: 28. “That’s very kind of Bins!” trills Auntie, over the tropical storm. “Please tell him I said hello. And don’t let him strain himself too much! And tell him I said you should make fish curry for him!”

Yes, Auntie. Of course, Auntie. But I still don’t know how to make fish curry, Auntie.

Then it’s time to say goodbye. I put the phone down. From next door I can hear the sound of furniture being moved. Tinkling laughter. Tip-tapping heels. From my house: the gnashing of teeth.

( Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes about her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, in this weekly column )

Last episode : Vive La France!

Next episode: Tip-tap troubles

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