A happy marriage

Abruptly, she switched off the TV. It was playing ads anyway.

“So, listen, do you know how they reacted when I told them about the new – “

“Why did you switch off the TV?” This was the warning she missed. Not a naturally perceptive person, she was too excited to pay attention to his receptivity anyway. She had information she needed to share. A day had happened. She needed to tell someone about it. She missed that the tone was curt. Almost angry. She missed the raised brow. She missed the slight frown. She missed the mouth that remained open after the sentence was uttered and done with.

“Because I don’t want you distracted when I am telling you this…”, she continued like it was the most natural thing to do, “ So I told them about the new working hours. They were pissed of course. But – “

“You already told me that.” He countered immediately, bored already.

A breath of air left her in a whoosh.

No.

No. No. No.

She stared at him. Tears gathering in her eyes. Breathing heavily. After she told off her stupid staff all day long, acting like their damn PA, she did not deserve this. After she cooked for this man, everyday, everyday without complaining, every goddamn motherfucking day, with zero motherfucking complaints, she did not deserve this.

She tore her gaze away.

Collecting and picking up the used dishes they had eaten their dinner in, she quietly walked out.

He sat up with a start, when he heard the clanging of metal on metal as plates and bowls went clattering into the steel sink, the noise loudly and unpleasantly breaking the silence of the once peaceful 17th floor apartment.

He rearranged his face from the cringe that had worsened as the bowls bounced and clattered. He waited for her to come back screaming at his face.

Seconds went by. He looked at the red digital clock she had insisted she needed in the bedroom. She did not want to fumble around looking for the phone to check the time. She needed a bloody digital clock to shout at her eyes in red. And so the room must be bathed in a murder mystery red all night, every night.

More seconds passed. 20 degree Celsius. It cant be that cold, he thought, pulling the comforter over his legs. Why was it not on his legs before. Was she hogging it as they watched tv and ate their dinner together?

Or can her damn clock only function as a bloody night lamp. Cant even get the damn temperature right.

He noticed the weave of the bed cover. Not that there was anything remarkable about it. There wasn’t. But he noticed it for over a minute.

She did tell me over tea, he thought, as he leaned back and switched on the TV.

So cute. So Perfect.

Only the Bodos and I knew real suffering in the monsoon of 2012.

Perfect, they call him.

Perfect.

And everyone agrees.

I don’t blame them. I don’t blame anyone. With those acting skills, the guy belongs on Broadway. Besides, you see a 4 year old, you tell the parents he is cute. And if they choose to elaborate on it, and then conclude he’s perfect, you agree. It’s what is to be done. A moral duty of the ranks as high as shutting up when you hear the national anthem. Or making sad faces when a friend fails. Or nodding sagely when a babbling teacher looks directly at you in class. No matter how insincere the feeling, some circumstances demand that the expression be propah.

And calling my nephew, Vanit, cute is an obligation most fulfill rather willingly. He is not ugly. Far from it. And as the dear darling child hides shyly in the folds of a curtain, a distinct twinkle in his eyes, you go all “Awww…how cute…”, with good reason. Blithely ignorant as you are, of the fact that the 15 kg gorilla will probably pull the curtains to the floor with one vicious tug the moment you look away.

Ten days this…this thing is to live with me. His parents away.

It starts when he transfers the entire contents of my bed to the floor. Now that’s just okay with you. But my bed? It’s like the authentic south Indian thali. There’s a little of everything. Laundry and clean clothes. Books. Sheets. Extra sheets. My earphones. Her earphones. His earphones. Hairclips. Original mark sheets. Emergency lights. Newspapers. Dirty coffee mugs. Squiggly pieces of maggi. And other assorted rubbish that has magnetically found residence with me. And as if thus displacing my garbage wasn’t enough, he plants himself in my way, chest swelling with pride, hands clasped behind his back, expectantly gazing at me.

What.

Thank you?

Good job?

Pompous ass…

With the patience of a saint, the responsible bua teaches him to draw. Again that would be okay with you. But here, flowers look like mashed masticated bananas, men look like men…only the irrevocably disfigured jumpy dancy kind. And everything else, for all its variety, looks exactly the same...Like hoofed paws...

So I choose balloons. Not much that can go wrong there right?

Right?

Wrong.

He wearily asks me, like a long suffering teacher giving an oft repeated lesson to an exceptionally stupid student-Arrey bua!! Ye kya karri tamatar ko?!

You wait till you grow up young man. 18 years worth of frustrated blows shall await you.

The little glob refuses my food. Unless its “chikaan”, which he will devour raw if given the chance. Bloody haddikhor. But anything else and he screws up his nose and pushes away the plate with a tiny fist. As if it’s inedible. Nonsense. The whole world lives on lightly charred vegetables. Once I offer him milk, forgetting the bournvita and the noises of disbelief that follow, create a ruckus loud enough to rival that of our parliamentary proceedings. Tiny fists are surprisingly notsotiny anymore.

Kids his age, they like real cycles and toy cars, trains that go round and round and bricks and green red black men dressed to fight.

He just likes to fight.

Me.

And the greatest folly of our generation is the underestimation of little feet clad in little shoes.

Babysitting aint no child’s play. But this guy here makes it impossible. The baby won’t sit. And the baby won’t let me sit. Thermocol packing from the new telly is the dhol and as he thumps it, to randomness that pleases his fancy as rhythm, I am given the clearest of instructions-Bua naach yaar!! What’s to be expected…I sigh, as I awkwardly raise both arms and a leg. The man lives opposite a banquet hall.

He sneaks up on me if he suspects I am engrossed in something- which would be the TV or…or…okay that’s it-and pours a full glass of water over my head. While I recover from the surprise cold shower, he starts to snicker. Eventually my eyes open, my mouth shuts, and I fix on him the stare that makes lesser men shake in their boots…even makes my friends get to studies (!), but by now, I am too late. He is on all fours. Mad convulsions of stomach grabbing head thrown back HAHAHAs rock him. Its makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.

Still. I stop talking to him as punishment. The guy leaves and promptly appears with a stick in hand and proceeds to hit me with it, one question asked repeatedly through miserable tears-kyu ni baat karri, mujse! Kar! Baat kar!

After I teach him how wrong it is to drench unsuspecting buas, the guy hugs me so hard, I melt on the spot. And then with petulance mastered by 4 year olds across the world, he cries accusingly-Baat ni karti yaar tu…

And there. That’s enough to break a heart.

We hug it out. Till he suddenly pulls back and tugs on my hair. Then stands back. Wondering if there will be another tantrum from the nautanki bua or will she take it like a man this time. I laugh at the expectant gaze back in its place. And pull his hair right back! We are lost in a tumble.

That’s how everyone finds us. Unsurprised, they continue about their business. It’s nothing new. They have found us like this countless times before. Rolling around on the floor. Laughing so hard we are near tears. No one willing to let go first.

Sooner or later, I know he will let go. I won’t. I can’t. But some day, he will.

Till then, I bask in the joy of being the only person referred to as “tu”. Of being the fellow mischief maker often and the target equally often. Of being the special teacher who can’t draw for her life…but still the one who taught him that Kareena Kapoors secret code name is maal, and that the Vanshika girl in his class is pretty. Of being treated like an equal. Not another boring overbearing adult. Of being anything he needs me to be.

Together we make a team. Hell, we make a whole baraat when we want to!

But for now its time for Vanni boy to go back home. I ask him his name. Again.

Master Vanit Joshi.

Secret code name? I whisper.

Master Vanit Joshi Teddybear Hanuman Camel Joshi, he whispers back.

We high five.

You be bad, I tell him.

With a flash he realizes he has to go. Guy breaks down, holding on to my clothes. We see the filmi scene through. When we feel sufficiently dehydrated, I remind him how it’s just us two against the world. He agrees heartily and bids his goodbyes.

I go up to the street so I can wave till he’s out of sight. He keeps shouting Bye! Baaaae! Gunnyt! ja ra! And shoots flying kisses like I taught him.

Midway, he turns around and runs back to me, announcing loudly, as if it makes perfect sense,

Main kare to saala!

Main pade ke paala!

I don’t try to think what it means. Its some song, obviously remixed by DJ Hanuman Teddybear Camel.

And god!

Yes.

I admit. In this moment, if someone tells me the son of a gun is freaking perfect, I’ll probably agree.