A dying fridge and a living hot mess

My fridge is an ancient beast. If you calculated its age in dog years, it would be close to 108 years old. The doors are mottled as if they have metallic measles. There is a mysterious dent on one side, and the ice dispenser stopped working a decade ago. It has also started emitting a constant high-pitched sound. We have been through thick and thin, the fridge and I. Well, I have changed sizes. The fridge has always been enormous.When I returned from a recent vacation, I was told that the fridge had become temperamental, switching off and on of its own volition. The manufacturer no longer makes spare parts for this outdated model, but we found a vendor who could cobble together a compressor. It would cost Rs 25,000. Or we could just get a new one.Deferring the decision, I go to colour my hair. I have never been a salon person. To me, it’s the equivalent of menstrual cramps. But as the cycle that caused those cramps ceased, my trips to the salon have increased. Hair that is greying needs to be coloured. Hair that has migrated from the scalp to other areas needs to be eliminated.With my head bent at an unnatural angle over the salon’s wash basin, a position I once read could cause a stroke, I check the prices of new fridges. It feels like a betrayal.Fridges are not good for the environment. Neither are the plastic bowls in which they mix my hair dye nor the dye itself. I have been thinking more about the environmental cost of things recently. A climate activist suggested cutting down on air conditioning. This rattled me. Along with the planet, I am undergoing my own heat waves. Though I could stop using my air conditioner and stick my face in the fridge when I have a hot flush. Actually, I could even sit inside; it’s that big. If I were a serial killer, this would be the fridge I would buy to store dismembered limbs. Torso tucked into the left side; limbs on the right. My husband often says that I don’t have to tell everyone my thoughts. Sometimes I think he has a point.When I return home, I quickly do my pranayama. An important part of maintaining my sanity while looking a bit insane. I inhale and exhale like a buffalo. I place my fingers over my eyes and insert my thumbs into my ears as I hum like a bee. I then hold my breath till my heart begins to thud.Before I can finish, my phone rings. I am told I must complete an urgent online verification so I can pay my taxes. Chasing time-bound OTPs is like playing bureaucratic Pac-Man. Finally, I get a link and instructions for video verification. I log in, but it rejects the password repeatedly. On my sixth attempt, it accepts the same password. By the time I get to record the video, I am in a state of acute anxiety. There are instructions. Hold your Aadhaar and PAN card by the edges and show them for at least five seconds. Ensure your face is visible and occupies 50% of the video. Maintain a neutral expression. Do not wear headgear, eyeglasses, sunglasses, or headphones.I have to read aloud a line from my phone. ‘I, Twinkle Khanna, with video code 398, have applied for digital signature with Capricorn CA.’ The font is minuscule. I cannot wear my glasses, so I squint to read the code. That is not a neutral expression. I panic. I hold up my Aadhaar card and say, ‘This is my PAN card.’ Then a second later, ‘Sorry, my Aadhaar.’ I press submit. My application is rejected. I have to start all over again. I recall a comedian joking that Vijay Mallya hadn’t fled to avoid paying taxes; he simply couldn’t complete the digital verification. That stand-up comic is a genius. I can’t remember his name. This is another thing that happens with age. You lose names. You also lose friends when you forget their names.Other women my age are going through similar lapses. Some worse. A close friend wanted to see Drishyam 3. To brush up on the previous two parts, she decided to see a 12-minute recap video on YouTube. She told our group she waited for Ajay Devgn to show up, but he didn’t. Then she asked us, ‘Ajay Devgn is not in the first two parts?’ She had not realised she was watching a recap of the Malayalam version. Later she recalled that she had actually seen the Hindi Drishyam 1, with Devgn in it. But she couldn’t remember the plot. When my fridge overheats, the meat inside goes off. I wonder if something similar happens to our brains when we have hot flushes.That evening as we walk around the garden, I tell my husband that I am thinking of getting the black-market compressor. He says, ‘Please buy a new fridge.’I reply, ‘If there was something wrong with my heart, would you get me a pacemaker or just replace me?’‘There is a difference between a human being and a fridge.’I say, ‘You can get attached to any constellation of atoms. You are one. I am one. The fridge is one.’ ‘It’s not the same thing. It can’t move or speak.’‘Tomorrow, if you couldn’t move or speak, should I stop bothering about you? Or, if we are being less existential, if people can get attached to a Rolex watch, then why not a Samsung fridge?’He nods. At last, he understands me. Then I realise he is actually doing a series of neck exercises. If he were a fridge, he would not allow pizza and ice cream on his shelves. He would close his doors at 9 pm and open them again at 5 am. He would defy the laws of mechanics and thump in place. He would be a fridge and a tank, all in one.I call the compressor vendor and ask about a warranty. He can’t even give me a two-month guarantee. I decide to let the fridge shut down in its own time. My fridge has led a good life. It preserved everything entrusted to it well enough. It wasn’t perfect, but it tried its best. Like me, even as it gently decays, my fridge hums.

Disclaimer: Views expressed above are the author’s own.