I’ll Take the Chicken Pox, Thank You!

The husband was on holiday. And in festive cheer. For Christmas had been splendid, thanks to some very unselfish friends who’d pulled us into their Covid bubble. And wined and dined us. The works. Even crackers.

Four days later, the husband was still in expansive mode. And winging straight out of the blue came the offer, ‘Shall we go up the Brecon Beacons on Saturday and look for snow?’

The husband is like that. Just as I’m convinced I’m not even a blip on his phone screen, he’ll do something amazing. Like remembering I love looking for snow. Now I have little love for snow under my feet. But when it’s up on the mountains and I’m swathed in the warm fug blowing from the car’s heater, it’s quite my favourite outdoor activity.

Nevertheless, I looked at the husband suspiciously. Was this an early birthday present stunt? Totally within the realms of possibility, said the left half of my brain. You’re being mean, squealed the right half.

‘But I can’t!’ I wailed combining the two and swatting away the ‘Yessss!’ that was forming on my lips. ‘I’ve got the Zoom play on Saturday!’

With all compliments to my book club for the wonderful idea, I still had a tiny quibble with it. I had to perform a part in said play. And this, to me, was like decorating a red velvet cake with boiled shrimp. As an audience, you’d have found in me a rare prize. As an actor, well, I’d have been a throwaway.

The WhatsApp message had come around promptly the day after Christmas. Asking us to choose our parts. Just initials to pick from. So that no one would hog the largest part. I had the opposite problem. I wanted to pick the tiniest part. Preferably a walk-on one. Well, maybe not, this was on Zoom after all. I didn’t want anyone to see the lower part of me.

So I hemmed and hawed. The husband says most nasty things disappear if you ignore them. This one didn’t. The procrastinatory lull was dispersed abruptly when I got an urgent WhatsApp hiss from the book club chief: ‘Pick your part!!!’ I muttered a Hail Mary and picked. And prayed every night after. Till I got my lines. Five bits? I had to act out five bits of dialogue?

I was hyperventilating. Babbling hysterically. Till even the Bitmojis had run out of expressions. The husband threw up his hands. And called the son. Whom we hadn’t seen since a hasty Christmas morning call.

‘What’s the problem?’ asked the light of our lives. ‘Just say the lines. You don’t even have to learn them. Only read them aloud.’ What did he know? He was a thespian. Landing all the main parts in school plays. Even aspiring to Bollywood. Instead, he became a lawyer. Same skill set, different profession.

‘I’d rather have chicken pox all over again,’ I said, panic hitting top scales in my voice. But I meant it.

When I was nine, I caught the chicken pox. It was a most nasty experience, but I was ecstatic. For, you see, I had escaped. From the more traumatic experience of appearing on stage. To recite Lochinvar. Before an audience. I had prayed fervently for an exit clause. And my prayers had been answered. Not even the thought that there would be no trips to the movies for more than a month dimmed the shine in my eyes. On second thoughts, that might have been the fever.

But that’s been the story of my life. Even going up to receive a prize for standing third in grade five induced hysteria. And now I have to speak – five times! – in a Zoom play. I can already hear that part swearing at me. Bemoaning its misfortune. At bagging me. This one is going to take a helluva lot of Hail Marys.