A couple of years before I got married, my parents were all in a tizzy about getting me to say yes to a suitable boy. I wasn’t inclined for reasons of my own, which of course I didn’t share with them. One time I was home on a holiday, we decided to visit the nearby seaside town - my parents, my younger sister and I. This was a place where we had had countless family holidays and one we still enjoyed going back to. I could see how far my sister had come from the time she used to fill and empty umpteen buckets of sand that seemed to me to be a totally mindless activity. Perhaps she did it to convince me she was busy so that I wouldn’t drag her into the sea. She was scared out of her wits at the sight of the surging waves and even the harmless surf that ran up the beach. Now she was all grown up and hot; the chubby baby lost in those miles of sand.

 

Well there we were, at our favourite restaurant for lunch, the only one where we could dress up and go in that sleepy little town. As soon as we walked in I saw my mother greeting some people and my father echoing her actions. They introduced me and I smiled and greeted them with Namaskar. My kid sister’s glare was lost on me completely. We enjoyed lunch and on our way back the two of us walked a little ahead of our parents.

 

“Why were you flashing that dazzling smile at them?” my sister abruptly shot at me.

 

“Why, what’s wrong?” I asked in all innocence.

 

“Do you know who they are?” she responded with another question.

 

“That was Mom’s professor Mr. Das,” she hissed to my incomprehension. I knew that he had been my mother’s teacher and had till recently held the position of the head of the institution she worked at. He had now moved on to another assignment. I couldn’t understand what that had to do with my greeting them pleasantly.

 

My blank look irritated her all the more.

 

“Oof! Don’t you remember the proposal that came for you for his wife’s nephew? Those were his parents accompanying them.”

 

“Oh, now I see,” I said, and I did in more ways than one.

 

For one I had rejected the guy a year back after a cursory glance at his picture and threatened my parents to come clean if they had sent my picture across. All this was standard procedure between offspring unwilling to be hitched and their conscientious parents. I had since completely forgotten about it and couldn’t make the link when I met them. For another I sort of understood the “candidate’s” (common terminology for prospective spouses) father’s appraising look of me.

 

My sister on the other hand was my devoted foot soldier, my informer of the intrigues happening at home while I was working in another city. She was the one who hurriedly whispered on the phone when I called home to let me know of any upcoming proposal. I just had to raise my gun and shoot down the doomed clay pigeons (questions each of my parents put to me) as soon as they were released, like a confident double trap shooter. She was the one who in spite of knowing the facts, stoically stood up to questioning by my father if I had someone. She was ready for every unexpected volley and was now justifiably miffed at having been let down by the general she was protecting.

 

I gave her a squeeze which mollified her and later called my boyfriend to tell him about the episode. I finished by saying that the old man had looked me up and down as if to assess my fertility.

 

“The @##**,” my boyfriend swore, “will he assess my wife’s fertility?”

 

I wasn’t technically his wife then but I did become so two years later. All in good time, after both of us felt ready, but at the expense of my confounded parents. They could never understand why I never let on as they wouldn’t have raised any objections anyway. They couldn’t understand why we would want to delay the inevitable. Their sentiments were not echoed all around though. Certainly not by my husband. Like any man who has lost his freedom he did not enjoy lying in state now that he had been martyred. There’s only so much a dead man can do. Lie still.

 

Now my new husband understood the difference between a wife and a girlfriend. All his possessiveness over the decorative gold braid a prize girl friend placed on his chest vanished over night. Soon after we got married he would keep asking me if I wanted to go visit my parents and that he was perfectly okay about it. Quite contrary to him wanting to have me close as much as he could, before we were married. As an emancipated woman I should have been crowing, but why did I feel I had missed the bus somewhere?

 

It was on another visit to my parents in this changed scenario that another situation unfolded. My mother wanted to visit the same Professor Das who had retired as her boss recently. She needed to get some paper work done with him and also to see him socially. I accompanied my mother as we had a few other things to do together. When I saw his wife the earlier memory of running into them came back to me and I decided impishly to have some fun. Mr. Das’s wife was unwell and while helping her make coffee I turned on my charm full blast. So impressed was she that she came to the lift to see us off as we left.

 

I could see her sparkling eyes almost saying “What have I missed?” and hear myself replying “A super niece in law” as the lift descended.

 

After getting back to my husband I related the story and reminded him of his earlier reaction to the prospective groom’s father. My husband pounced on this window of opportunity.

 

“Fool that I was, I should have known a favour when it was being offered to me. If I met the guy now I would say – Please, please take her away. You are more than welcome.”

 

“I am going to die anyway after what I have been subjected to since I got married; diets, exercise, less TV and no smoking. But I will settle you down before I do pop off,” he addressed me, patting my hand solemnly.

 

I started to bristle in righteous indignation. After all, what wife worth her salt does not take upon herself the onerous task of reforming the delinquent she has condescended to get herself hitched to. Hence the constant admonishments to eat healthy, prodding in the ribs early every morning to hit the gym and the nagging every time he lit up. However he wasn’t paying the slightest attention to my reaction and continued on his discourse.

 

“I’ll get the best brass band to play from midnight to dawn and dance till the cows come home. I’ll be right at the front of the wedding procession, dancing at Meri Biwi ki Shaadi.”

 

Try as I might I felt my stern expression slipping and my resolve dissolve. I laughed helplessly clutching my belly at the image this conjured in my mind. My husband dancing to a Hindi film song with one end of a hanky in his mouth, and the other in his fingers. It was the well known routine called Nagin dance and very popular in wedding processions. He would be gyrating like a snake charmer imitating the motion of a snake to charm the imaginary reptile into submission. I didn’t even bother to punch my husband, so used was I to his brand of humour by now.

 

That night however I had the weirdest dream. It naturally followed on from the recent events. I dreamt that I had a wedding proposal from Abhishekh Bachchan. (It wasn’t hard to understand why; he was the latest hottie splashed on all the magazines and newspapers, and so was top of mind) But right at the moment when I was going warm all over, not least at the sight of the whopper of the ring I was going to get, I saw (in my dream) my husband standing there.

 

Before I knew it I was in a room with him (my husband, not Abhishekh) and he was saying ever so sweetly, “You would have been happy if I hadn’t been there, wouldn’t you?”

 

And then both of us were bawling our eyes out. I knew I couldn’t leave this fool even if it meant turning Abhisekh Bachchan down. Even if it was only in a dream. I woke up and heard my husband snoring away beside me. All emotional and teary-eyed in the dark I covered him up with the sheet, thinking even this snoring would do for me. I put my arm around him with love in my heart.

 

A minute later he had kicked off the sheet because he always feels hot while I always feel cold. My wifely solicitude according to what I liked was wasted on him. The next night when I woke to his snores, I wasn’t in a very loving mood. I elbowed him and told him to shut up because he wasn’t letting me sleep. Totally unaware but probably registering my protest somewhere subconsciously he rolled over and was quieter. I resisted the impulse to kick him and instead put the pillow over my head to drown out the remainder of the noise he was making. I had my suitable match and we were even at the odds of alternating mush with the mash we made of each other.