The folks come for a visit

y parents are coming to Sydney. All the way from Bombay. They’ll be taking a five-hour flight to Singapore, then stopping over at Changi airport, then boarding an eight-hour flight to Sydney.

My parents are not young. This is their first trip to Australia. It’s their first trip abroad in a long while. They are both diabetic.

I stop sleeping and start worrying.

Then I start making lists. Lists of instructions, things to do, places to see, things to cook, things to eat, things to buy, things to bring, things to take.

I even make a list of lists.

“Relax! They’re only coming for 10 days,” says my husband.

“Ten days is a long time,” I reply. “God created the world in less than that.”

I lie awake at night going over my lists, plotting, planning, and rearranging my parents’ itinerary in my head. I plan for four adults and two cats stepping around each other in our tiny two-bedroom flat in Botany; I orchestrate turns at showering and going to the loo. I worry about the proximity of the bathroom to the dining area. I worry about bodily functions intruding on filial affection.

I worry about food. I buy a 10 kg bag of rice. We couldn’t feed them our staple of Weetbix and tuna on toast, a muffin and a multivitamin.

Or could we?

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I worry about not having a mirror in the bathroom and the size of the sink. I buy a green bathmat and an airfreshner. I stock up on toilet paper.

I frantically scour Freedom for extra plates and bowls. Then I think of the washing up it will generate and buy disposable plates and glasses instead.

I clean the apartment twice. I scrub, I vacuum, I dust. I injure my back in the process.

I micro-delegate and snap at the husband if he shows the slightest sign of slacking off.

“It doesn’t have to be spotless, you know. Your mum would understand,” he whinges. “We have no maids. This isn’t Bombay.” I try not to scream and bite his head off. Our floor gets mopped once a month if lucky, cat hair is everywhere. We wash up when we run out of bowls. We do the washing when we run out of socks and undies. We’ve taken to camping out in the study amidst our books and computers because the bed in the bedroom is buried under clothes and more books.

No, my mum would NEVER understand.

But there were bigger things to worry about. What will my saree-wearing mother say to my Australian mother-in-law when she meets her for the first time? When she sees her drinking an entire bottle of wine?

What would my fire-fighter father-in-law clad in shorts, holding a stubbie of VB, have to say to my father, a businessman from

Bombay?

“They could talk about cricket!” now that in the midst of this colossal culture clash, my husband will abandon me and seek refuge in his computer games.

Meanwhile, I’m on the phone to Bombay rattling off instructions. Check in all liquids, don’t carry any food off the plane, no mithai, don’t forget to stretch your legs during the long flight...

“What should I wear?” my mum says suddenly.

“What do you mean? On the plane?”

“No, in Sydney. Can I wear my salwaar kameez or would you like me to wear jeans?”

“Jeans?” I can’t remember the last time my mum wore jeans.

At this point, my husband intervenes. “Don’t worry,” he’s telling my mother, “You should wear whatever you feel comfortable in.”

I feel a surge of affection for my man. I think of Indians in shopping centres wearing sarees, matching sweaters and sports shoes, drawing smirks. This is the man I married,