Certain things should not happen together.
For example, saying “I am in love with you.” and
“When I was your age, you were not yet born.”. To be explained later.
It was a lovely day. The first rain of the year,
that too heavy. Autorickshaw still managed to cover the eight kilometres to
office in forty minutes. Only one passing car sprayed water. The first Mumbai drain
water on my face but not in my mouth.
By early evening, it was not so lovely. My boss
wanted me to pack my bags and leave the office. A head-hunter with my resume
had forwarded the same to my company and (bless the nitwit for finding the
right match) to my boss. It took half an hour of fervent begging to keep my
job. I was left a lot like Bond’s drink, shaken and stirred, was it not?
In between that episode, I had got two messages,
both from ‘MIL’. The first said, “My dear son, sorry short notice. Reach Mumbai
dom air pot at 7 pm.” The second said, “7. Airport.”
I told my boss my mother-in-law was coming to
town. He offered sincere condolences and reluctantly reinstated me in my job.
I got to the airport at 7:15. I did not have to
apologize.
“Sorry for troubling you, my dear.”
“Why are you late?”
And, I replied to both, “What are you two
doing here?”
You might feel as lost as I was without a bit of
history.
One, I should not have put their numbers under
the same ‘MIL’. Two, the sweet-sounding one is the remnant of the one who had
to go; and the other, that of the one who left.
It is tough to introduce them better. While my former
better halves do not want to have anything to do with me, their mothers had
their reasons to keep in touch. I remember vaguely that they did not turn out
to be like their daughters. While their daughters were rational and religious,
they were religious and rational respectively. Of course, that would have
helped only if I knew which was which.
Introductions were not required. They knew of
each other in that saga of betrayal. We made our way to my apartment. They sat
at the dining table expecting me to do the needful.
Beguiling, I thought, not realizing how beguiling
it could really be.
I did what I could. I called the third number
under ‘MIL’.
Again, history calls. I was a happy bachelor for
a long time, not before but after my first two forays into matrimony. Then, two
old friends pressured me to upset the steady cart. One was on the wrong side of
50 when he knotted himself to a 30-ish. The other was 40-plus 50-minus when he
entered into coy matrimony with a sub-30. They told me that the old regency
ways were fashionable yet again. Women these days want, they displayed a
classified ad: “a man who can handle himself, cook, manage house; a bit low on
pick-up, a bit high on empathy to compensate; experienced, financially
independent, low on ambition, short of time, company for not too long”. And, my
peers added, “They are exactly what we need.”
I bit that apple. I nearly spoiled the taste with
the afore-mentioned two lines at the start of this report.
My friends were right. My wife is a busy
professional. We see each other when she is in town. She is hardly a bother.
She coaxed me into putting our reproductive material in cold storage. She plans
to use it only in her 40’s when she is ready for that. I found my soul-mate
through her. That is, her mother.
Now, that is a really lovely character. And, it
was her who I called in my time of need.
“Will be there, pronto,” she replied sweetly,
succinctly.
The door-bell rang twenty minutes later. For the
second time that evening, I said, “What are you two doing here?”
I hate to do this but history, once again, is the
need of the hour.
A few months back, my wife surprised me with the
question, “Do you think we should try an open relationship?”
For a moment I forgot that women are prone to
such rhetorical questions.
It was a moment too long because I had blurted
out, “Yes.”
Don’t ask me why I wanted an open relationship.
Men do go to places no man should go to. To cut the story short, she gave a
curt nod.
I have not enquired if she has explored that
realm. It is sufficient, and necessary, to say that I tried my luck online.
On one site where one has to swipe right and
left, I found one match.
Our profiles matched because of the single line
in our bio, ‘Love cooking’.
Our chat was definitely risqué:
-Can’t wait to try it with you.
-Same here.
-Will you come here?
-Your house?
-Where else?
-Of course.
-I will get the kitchen ready.
-You prefer the kitchen?
-Where else?
-Of course.
I went to her house. Her mother opened the door
and told me, “She had to go with her husband. His father caught Covid. Sad
case. She told me to take her place.”
Before I could protest, she dragged me to the
kitchen. It was a pleasure-filled hour cooking Hyderabadi biriyani.
Again, don’t ask me where it had gone wrong or
right.
I have not yet seen that Covid-displaced daughter
but her mother and I have tried out many a recipe since then, at her place and
mine. Her number is also under ‘MIL’.
And, she was there at mine that lovely night to
try out jerk chicken.
Do you actually think the Grim Reaper is a
haggard figure in drab clothing riding a dark horse waving an unwieldy scythe
in the dark on a cold winter night?
I had the Grim Reaper in front of me: four
mothers-in-law seated together at my dining table.
