Last weekend we had gone to Bharani’s house for lunch. After working with ibibo for a year, Bharani (along with another ex-ibibo star Sunny) started a neat search engine called Antya. Since, this search engine could turn big and I might need a good job when I am kicked out of ibibo, we invited Bharani and his wife home.

There is no better way to spend one’s time than by investing in Networking & Public Relations. So much so, my wife sends me gifts on Diwali, and New Year to maintain the relations. To start networking log into ibibo now.

Besides Bharani and his wife, we also invited Fayaz, who came home with a bottle of red wine. After seeing the bottle of red wine I told myself: “I got to invite this guy more often.”

As for Bharani and his wife, they brought along loads of fruits and sweets. After close scrutiny Rekha looked at me and nodded her head, which meant: “No, this is not what we gave them last week. They aren’t returning stuff.”

The difficult part of inviting colleagues… is preparing the house for their arrival. After we borrowed good furniture from the neighbor (who had borrowed our fridge when his colleagues came visiting) we started cleaning the washrooms. It was a good thing we did…for we discovered a mirror that was hidden behind all the muck. I also had to clean the toilet bowl – which was a disaster because the moment I had applied Harpic on the inner walls of the toilet bowl I had to pee!

As part of the cleaning process we also had to change the baby’s diaper. For those of you who are curious…well yes, I spotted a Yellow Africa on my baby’s bums when the diapers were removed.

The initial discussion was about office – what else could be common between colleagues. With time we moved on to Television programs, our past, stand-up comedy, search engines, and eventually babies. As soon as the topic veered on babies, Rekha started contributing and we all started listening.

By 8 p.m. only half of the wine bottle was full. After complimenting myself for my positive approach to life (remember, I saw the half empty bottle as half full)…I poured myself another round. Ten minutes later I noticed that the bottle as three-fourths full. Needless to say, I had to compliment myself again and pour myself another round of the red wine.

By nine we started the buffet. Being a health conscious cook, Rekha had ensured that half of her dishes were only half cooked. Being the good Samaritans, everybody said: ‘Great food.” Fayaz went on to add: “Is the less salt in dal, intentional?” Thankfully, Rekha didn’t hear the statement.

After dinner, we sat down and started talking again. I had half a mind to put on the music and ask the guys to dance….but the fact that I only had Jai Santosh Ma bhajans in the iPod made the decision making easy.

At 11 p.m., everybody bade farewell and went their ways. The moment they stepped out, Rekha asked: “So, how do you think we fared?”

“4.5 out of 5, I guess. What do you say?” I have always been lenient towards myself.

“Yeah. Good that we practiced our jokes & responses twice before,” Rekha said with a wink.

“Yeah. And now they will think we are a happy couple,” I said even as I placed the soiled plates in the sink.

“You mean we aren’t?”

Though the silence was deafening, I decided not to respond.

Other Funny Reads

# Television - my new friend, philosopher & guide
# Train-ed Romance: Romancing a married woman
# Inviting friends over in Chennai
# Inside the Jet Airways flight
# Do all married men need mistresses?

After consulting hundreds of friends – some of them special and close to the heart and some that come two-a-penny – we decided to go in for a Samsung CE1031LAT (Read its Review on MouthShut | To post a review on other consumer durables products, try out ibibo Opinions)

If you are planning to buy a microwave oven, I suggest you hold on till it is really necessary – like when your wife cites ‘not buying a microwave’ as a reason and cancels the trip to her mother’s place.

I say hold on because…one of the friends I sought advice from said she used it only to cook Maggi. Another friend pointed out that after the first week of enthusiastic microwave cooking the sleek machine was used to store her niece’s and nephew’s crayons. We anyway went ahead and bought one for Rs 10,000 and upwards.

At 4 p.m. on Monday, after swiping my card, the consumer durable guy told us that the mean machine would be delivered within the next two hours. We called him at 6.01 p.m….and complained about his lack of punctuality. I don’t know what did the trick – we only called him 17 times in the next one hour – but by 8 p.m., the microwave was in our house.

This is the Samsung Microwave Oven we bought

As soon as the attendants left, I realized the microwave oven was way too big. In the shop it didn’t look so big. The same happened to me when I bought a Samsung 29 inch TV (and no…Samsung isn’t paying me to endorse them, yet) three years back. I thought the TV looked fine but when it came home, I couldn’t sleep with my legs straight till I changed my house the next week. If you like your girls small and cute…please don’t buy Samsung CE1031LAT.

Anyway, I opened up Samsung CE1031LAT’s User Manual. Due to smudging of the printing ink…it read ‘Loser Manual’. “How true,” I commented…while memorizing all the controls. I am now planning to apply for a helicopter pilot’s license – a helicopter’s controls can’t be more complex than a microwave oven’s.
By the time I had complete control over the mean machine that lie naked in front of me, it was 9 p.m.. Rekha noticed the passion in my eyes, and covered the microwave with a piece of white cloth. Here is the excuse she gave: “It is new…I don’t want a coat of dust on it.”

To cut the long story short, we had been living & breathing microwave oven the whole day and when we went to sleep that night, we nursed only one grudge: “Why does it have to be microwave-friendly vessels…and why not steel utensils, which we had in abundance?”

Other Similar Reads

# A funny commentary on being fat
# Rekha is getting ready for my family
#Do Platonic relationships really exist?
# Things to remember when men decide to cook

Instead of asking –

“Do people in your country fart a lot?”

I ask –

“Is your country’s cuisine fart-friendly?”

Instead of saying –

“You spend a lot of time shopping and wasting money.”

I say –

“What all would your parents have bought for their house if we had given them the money we spent today?”

Instead of saying –

“I want to have sex and beer tonight.”

I say –

“You look pretty – is that the new lip gloss?”

If you have been as diplomatic, do leave a comment…after all there is no end to learning.

Other Must Reads

# To be a father or not to be
# A married man’s guide to safe and sound staring
# I think I am pregnant
# Our visit to the gynecologist….
# How NASA selected me for one of their programs

But Rhea’s arrival has changed everything. Now, we have graduated to bigger issues like - who will change the diaper, who will warm water for the baby’s bath, who will fetch the Johnson & Johnson Baby Powder from the cupboard etc.

The other day I was baby sitting when alone in the house and was forced to change the diaper. Believe me, it is a very easy exercise if your wife is around…but if she is away, it only makes sense to delay it as much as possible.

I did manage to delay it by 10 minutes, but babies seem to lack the patience grown up adults’ like you and me exhibit. I would have held on further…but when two neighbors rang the bell to enquire why the baby was crying, I had to swing into action.

The seasoned internet campaigner that I am, I Googled for ‘how to change the diaper’, and took a print out of the page. I then took a fresh, clean diaper from the pack and spread it on the cot.

The baby was still crying when I decided to remove the dirty diaper. If you have never changed a diaper before, let me tell you that used diaper is heavy. This is new in a man’s world…a used beer bottle is lighter, a used cigarette pack is lighter, a used Printer cartridge is lighter, a used deo spray can is lighter…but a used diaper is heavier.

If you have never got a chance to look at a used diaper, you are lucky. If you have had a chance…I have a question for you: “Which continent did you spot on the diaper – I could spot Africa and a bit of Australiasia?”

I held my baby’s legs up, and slid the dirty diaper from under her bums…somehow…a bit of the what-do-you-call-that stuck to her bums. If I had let go, the only Bombay Dyeing bed sheet we had at home would have turned yellow…so still holding her legs in the air, I reached our for a sheet of paper lying around.

Once the dirty diaper was wrapped in a newspaper (one with a Geetanjali Nagpal photo – poor girl..from fashion to drugs to a shitty diaper), I threw it in a dustbin nearby.

As luck would have it, the sheet of paper I had reached out to for cleaning my daughter’s bums…was the one with “how to change a diaper” instructions.

With no instructions at hand, I didn’t know how to fix the diaper around the baby’s waist. I tried using Fevicol…but all those promises of Fevicol ka mazbooth jod proved to be lies. I then searched for a cellotape and pasted the diaper around my daughter’s waist.

As luck would have it, my wife was home sooner than later and the first thing she saw was her baby sprawled on the bed, with a new diaper taped around her waist.

“What have you done?” She shouted at me.

“What do you mean? The baby is fine…why you shouting at me?” I raised my voice. A man, especially somebody who had proved himself by fathering a child, can never take anything lying down.

“You have used cellotape for the diaper? Didn’t you know that diapers are self-sufficient?” She was even louder.

The neighbours who had come when the baby had cried, were back. Just that this time, they didn’t ring the bell…they stood at the door witnessing the fight.

“Rekha, how am I to know that? The print out I had taken had to be used in wiping some extras from your daughter’s bums.” I was being loud, and I was sure.

By now, Rekha had deftly removed the cellotape and set the diaper right. With the confidence that comes from handling a husband for more than three years, she turned towards me and said: “A man with your IQ should have a low voice!”

Being a chaste man who didn’t take anything lying down (especially milk & water), I retorted: “Tell me everything you know about rearing babies…I have the time….anyway you will take only fifteen seconds.”

I gave my victorious smile – the one which involves taking my upper lip over my Bugs Bunny teeth. Just when I thought I had won the battle of wits…my wife said: “I refuse to enter a battle of wits with you. I am not used to hurting unarmed people.”

I didn’t say a word.

Moral of the story: Always take two print outs.

# When I became a cockroach
# What if there were no women in the World
# What if meat were made in a lab…
# What if I were an egg….
# Encounters of the third kind

I would have never come to know of my wife’s plan if she hadn’t returned from a shopping spree with a toilet brush gift-wrapped for me. It was to be my Indian Independence Day present.

Not one to throw away a gift, I have been using the toilet brush for 3-4 days and it has been a killing experience. I plan to go back to using toilet paper.

If my wife isn’t killing me physically with her presents (and the toilet brush is just one example), she is draining me monetarily.

A month back, I remember her asking me: “Rajan, can we go shopping?”

“No, we can’t. We have just shifted to Gurgaon and haven’t yet claimed all our re-location bills…we don’t have much money.” I said with a serious tone.

She was relentless. “In that case, can I go window shopping?”

The magnanimous gent that I am, I said “Go ahead.”

That evening, my wife brought home three windows – one French and two Italian. To cut costs, we are now using forks to carve out the wall where the windows will be fitted.

It is for this reason that I never let go of my wife’s hand when we go out. The moment I let go, she grabs a shopping cart.

As if she wasn’t enough, she also conspires with the sales boys to fool me. The other day, we were in Benetton when Rekha stopped in front of a pink pull over (sweater, for the common folks).

On the pretext of feeling the cloth, I checked the price and it said Rs 4500/-.

I am not going to buy that, I told myself. Not long back Rs 4500 used to the amount my whole family – my parents and two sisters and I - spent in a month. How could I commit this crime?

“Can we buy this please…it is already August and very soon it will be winter in Gurgaon.” Rekha was at her pleading best.

“But Rekha…Rs 4500 for a sweater? I could get you a similar one on Chandini Chowk for Rs 350, including the fuel costs to reach there?” I protested vehemently.

Rekha looked at me, and then let out a sigh. She then turned towards the sales boy and said: “Why don’t you tell my husband the specialty of the wool used?”

The sales boy didn’t need a second invitation. Pity, he was being my wife’s knight in shining armor while I was being looked at as a villain.

“Sir, this is a special sweater. The wool used here comes from special sheep of New Zealand. By special, I mean sheep that haven’t had sex with other sheep, in the last 90 days.”

“Yeah?,” I enquired further. The wool used to make the pull over definitely seemed special.

“Yes sir. This is a beautiful yarn.”

I couldn’t help say: “Yes I agree, and you say it so well.

Unfortunately, the humor was lost on the sales boy and my wife.

She now wants to go to Chandini Chowk and get the same pullover in light green.

Other Funny Blog Posts

# When a pretty colleague heads for Mumbai
# Flying Kingfisher class: Falling in love with air-hostesses
# Why should you marry the girl you love?
# Do all married men need mistresses?
# CBI arrests Joe King; detains him for questioning

What about Rhea? Well, more on that later. But the thing I am sure about is that…Rekha, the lady you all seemed to love more than I did, is no longer my better half.

I am mighty upset at this…but there is very little I can do. Rekha is a strong woman and if she decided on something, it is difficult to budge her.

From now onwards, Rekha will be my better three-quarters. Yes, she has put on a lot of weight after the delivery!

Now-a-days times have changed. Relatives no longer go around town pissing on parapet walls, tree trunks, lamp posts, post boxes, and picket fences just because a baby was born in the family.

With little resources in hand, I have decided to use my mobile to communicate to the world as soon as our kid is born. In a way, it is revenge. In the eight years I have had a mobile phone, I received this dreaded message – ‘At ** p.m. today, I became a father. Both the baby and the mother are fine’ - umpteen number of times. How does one go about replying to such messages? Here are some of my responses over the years -

One thing that has bothered me for long is…why don’t the mothers send these messages? I am yet to receive a message reading: “At ** a.m. today, I became a mother. Both the baby and the father are fine.”

Maybe the women in my world are lazy. Or maybe, a child birth for them is just another daily chore. Or maybe, they reach out to their husbands lying next to them in a stretcher (after witnessing all the action in the labor room) and ask them to send out the SMS.

I will be in Kerala when my child is born, and sending messages to the 300 odd contacts in my phone book would cost me at least Rs 1000 (while roaming, Hutch charges Rs 3+ per message). Quite a costly affair, considering I didn’t accept a penny in dowry. Primarily, coz penny isn’t accepted in India.

With little money I plan to drop the inform-by-an-SMS plan and look for a simple (by which I mean a cheap) mode of communication.

Maybe, I can place a star on top of my house - like how Jesus’ parents did. The problem is, my house is not a manger but an apartment (from outside, that is). Even if I decide to have the star, I need to get the permission of my flat association president and I am sure he wouldn’t allow me because I sent him this message when he announced the birth of his daughter: “Wow…I never knew your wife’s tummy actually had a baby. I thought it was more a case of overeating.”

The other option I have is to immediately boot my laptop, connect to the internet and dispatch a mail to all contacts. I have done my homework in this regard – I already have the mail ready. Here is how it goes:

Hi all,

If you forward this mail to eight people within the next eight minutes, you will get a baby in the next eight months. Unmarried people please use your discretion.

Other Must Reads

# Kissing – how it all began
# Getting to know sex
# Toilets – how lucky we are to have them
# The initial months of pregnancy

Fully aware of my hair’s need for coconut oil, my mother decided that Sunday was a good day for me to apply coconut oil and take bath. Like a lamb to the slaughter, I extended my head while she applied copious amount of Parachute oil (I still wonder why coconut oil has to be named Parachute. Why not ‘Lifeboat’?). Till this seemingly small incident, I didn’t realize that my hair was disputed territory. Though, the intelligent me should have guessed that anything at the top – Kashmir for example - is likely to be disputed. At least that is what half the World says.

I heard my wife, who I assume was just passing by, say: “Aunty, I could have done that.”

I heard my mother quickly respond, as if somebody had already given her the script and she had been practicing all night. “That’s ok dear. He is my son after all and I applied oil on his head for 28 years before you married him.”

“But now, I have married him, aunty.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t apply oil on his head. Or does it?”

I tried to intervene but could only say ‘hey, mother…Rekha…” before my mother rolled my head around in such a way that my Adam’s apple hurt. Surprisingly, it was Adam’s apple but I felt the pain. While on the subject of apples, did you know that Newton’s apple fell? Anyway, I couldn’t utter a single word thereafter and was a mute spectator to this favorite pastime in Indian families.

“I know you have been applying oil on his hair for the last 28 years and that’s precisely why I am asking you to leave this to me now.” It was Rekha. She had her arms akimbo which meant she was angry.

With bated breath I waited for my mother to respond. What was she going to say? I saw logic in what my wife was saying.

“Rekha dear (I swear I spotted some sarcasm when she uttered the word ‘dear’)…you will know once you give birth to your child.”

“But aunty, you would have applied oil on uncle’s hair…so it is only just that you give me my share of joy.” You could accuse me of being a hen-pecked husband but I thought my wife was doing a fairly good job here.

Maybe the argument was taking a toll on my mother’s motor faculties…she was just running her oily, sticky fingers through my hair now. I knew she was thinking. Hard.

“Are you saying you will not apply oil on your son’s hair after he is married?” Now, the scales seem to tilt in my mother’s favor. I wondered how Rekha saw herself reacting when a similar situation arose – 30 years hence.

There was a long silence. Was it the right time for me to intervene? I wasn’t so sure. Many a times, a rabbit gets hurt because it thinks the tigresses are in a playful mood and it is the right time to get out of the shrub. I held my breath.

Rekha spoke first. “I agree aunty. You have every right to apply oil…by depriving you of a chance now I don’t want to let go of my chance when my son marries. Besides, medical facilities are really good now-a-days…and for all we know…I might not be able to cheat after you are gone.”

I thought I heard my mother’s victory smile. It was the right time to emerge from under my bush. I said: “Peace then, huh?”

Before my mother could say anything my wife jumped up and said, “Let me give you an oil massage today.” I smiled – luck takes many forms before it smiles on you. As I followed my wife I heard myself say: ‘Sorry, mom!”

Other Nasty Reads

# What if there were no women in the World
# Kid Story: How Onion got its clothes
# Farting…the fading art
# The art of making good tea
# Married men, watch out for dinner-time

Fathers in law are unique relationships. Men have no choice over them - they come with the girl they marry.

It is not that you meet your future father in law in a party or discotheque and give him your number and say, “hey, why don’t you call me up sometime? We can catch up on things.” Once he calls you, visit parks and beaches and develop a relationship and then ask: “Now that we thick and like hanging around together, what is your daughter doing? Got a photograph of hers?”

To give you an analogy, marriage is like jumping a pit – if the daughter is the scenery beyond the pit…her father is the depth of the pit. You can see the scenery before you decide to jump…but you can see the depth only when you look down while jumping. Like all those suffering men, I also met my father in law once I decided to get married to Rekha. I came to know him real better after my marriage.

There are many types of fathers in law (FIL) and mine is the “Surveyor FIL” – because he surveys everything I do.

When he entered my house in Chennai for the first time, he asked: “How many square feet?”

“What do you mean?” I questioned his dominance.

“Never mind. Is the entrance North facing?”

“I don’t know uncle. Why don’t you sit down and take some rest?”

If my words didn’t do the trick my stare must have for he sat down on the bean bag. The moment he was on the bean bag, he opened his mouth again: “You should have bought the smaller bean bags – now they occupy at least 50 square feet of your space.”

What happened next is not important, primarily because my wife came to her father’s rescue. Once she started staring at me, I had to give him more respect than what I gave the fish-thorn stuck between my incisors and pre-molars.

* * * * *

Do you know your father in law type? If no, read on….

THE ASTROLOGER TYPE

One line definition: He thinks he has enough experience to predict the outcome of all your actions.
Usual Greeting: Let the divine plan unveil.
Favorite Sentences: “This won’t work out.” “Why don’t you hold on for a few days?” “I am telling you- invest now and relax for the rest of your life.”

THE ARMYMAN TYPE

One line definition: He thinks if you are not physically fit and disciplined like his pet, you are going to be a failure in life.
Usual Greeting: “Hark! Who goes there?” “Attention!”
Favorite Sentences: “Why don’t you come with me for a walk in the mornings?” “You are putting on a lot of weight.” “In 1975, when I was your age I could run 40 kilometers a day.”

THE MANAGING DIRECTOR TYPE

One line definition: He wants to keep all the stake holder’s happy – his relatives, your relatives, his friends, your friends. Everybody.
Usual Greeting: “May all think good of you.”
Favorite Sentences: “What will your relatives think if they come to know?” “What about your friends – do they know that you are going to US alone?” “What does your mom say about your new jeans?”

THE UNION LEADER TYPE

One line definition: As a union leader is concerned only about labourers, this type of father in law is only concerned about his daughter.
Usual Greeting: “May you live long.” (That is coz he doesn’t want his daughter to become a widow soon)
Favorite Sentences: ‘My daughter would be happy if you come home early.” “My daughter feels you should spend more time with the baby.” “My daughter likes Vanilla ice cream, why don’t you get a family pack on the way back home?”

Other Must Reads

# Accepting gifts from relatives
# Never be selfish, go and meet your in-laws
# My world is suddenly crowded
# Get, Set, Go! Or should it be Get, Wet, Go!
# Of cows, urinary bladders and the Vivekananda Rock

Last Friday, Rekha renounced her kingdom and made me the king again. She will be in Kerala for six months and in her absence I will be ruling our house. Have already taken her sandals which I can keep on the TV and seek guidance. My only grudge is…I had to soak the sandal in surf water before keeping it on the TV.

She has come up with five pages of instructions on what needs to be done to maintain the house the way it is now. They have been labeled Daily, Weekly and Monthly. A surprise inclusion in the Daily column is me taking bath.

Of the tasks labeled weekly the one that made me sigh in relief was: Give fruits to the maid servant once in a while. Apparently, she is pregnant. I am so glad our maid servant is already pregnant….I can’t visualize Rekha’s reaction if I had to tell her after a few months that our maid was pregnant. It would have been too much of a coincidence.

Of the tasks labeled Monthly, nothing interests me. All of them are about paying back to banks, institutions etc. Didn’t somebody once say, “Life is all about giving.” How true.

We landed in Kerala on Saturday afternoon. Like Keralites, even their trains are laid back. Don’t ask me how I know…for on our way I saw 14 compartments of one of their trains lying on their backs in a paddy field. Not something one would appreciate. Especially, during the weekend when there is so much rush.

As usual Rekha’s father was at the station. Apparently, he had come to the railway station two days in advance….so that he didn’t get late for receiving us. I said: ‘Accha, you could have come in today afternoon…why come two days ago?”

“That’s fine Rajan….I didn’t buy any platform tickets. Whenever the railway police came, I hid under a gunny bag from which I had evicted a homeless child.”

One can’t really argue with a person like him so I opted for the lesser of the two devils. I started talking to Rekha again.

While leaving for Chennai again, I held back tears and told her as only a man can pretend: “So, you are on your home soil. Six month here and you will turn into the daughter of the soil again with a hibiscus flower in your wet, greasy hair topped by a pearl-colored saree.”

She didn’t reply…too choked perhaps. Sometimes love can hurt.

Why is Rekha going to Kerala? Read all about it here!
# Announcing - Pregnancy Diary
# The initial months of pregnancy
# Some of the anniversaries I have to remember
# The baby-mother bonding

No, I didn’t get any money for this advertisement. Instead, he shot my mother-in-law for me.

I was new, and was just getting used to the school building & authorities. Before enrolling me in school, my father had extolled its merits. I was in grade ten – a big boy.

Just because he wasn’t great in studies he wanted me to excel (aren’t all pops like that?). What high ambitions, he had.

On my second day at school, a girl walked up to me and said, “I think I love you. Do you love me?” Her name was Babita Krishnamurthy and she was my classmate.

I didn’t remember seeing her in class. I said so. She gave me two days time to think and was gone.

I spoke to a few of my new friends and when she wasn’t looking pointed at her – exactly like Judas at the Last Supper. They convinced me that it would be a good idea to agree.

“But I do not like her. And I do not even know her name,” I protested. “Who cares man,” they shouted in unison.

“Think of all those greeting cards you will get at regular intervals,” Arun said.

“The tasty lunch she would bring from her house,” Rajah exclaimed.

“Those pastries she would buy you from Sundaram Iyengar bakery, Bhoopathy remarked.

“She could also draw paramecium for you on your biology practicals,” Sundaresan chipped in. Sundaresan had a thing for the Biology madam and was always hell bent on impressing her.

The deal was tempting, and when Babita emerged from behind the shadows two days later, I said, “I do”. She was ecstatic.

Seeing her excited, I was a little worried. Probably she expected something from me – if cards, tasty lunches, pastries & paramecium were on my agenda, I was sure she had hers.

“What do you expect from me?” I asked.

“Just be there for me.” She replied.

I did not a sleep that night. Probably she was a canny lady, waiting to pounce on me with her demands when I least expected them. The demands never came.

We started coming to school a little earlier and spent time together. In the evenings, we would go home together. She had a red BSA SLR (a popular model in the early nineties). I had to cross her house to reach mine, but was careful never to go too close to her house. She had said it could be a little dangerous, for her mother was protective. The last boy she had seen her daughter with had lost three of his milk teeth.

We lost count of days and weeks and later months in our blinded love for each other. I got to admit that the more time I spent with her the more in love I was.

Everything was hunky-dory till we went to a movie together. To tell you the truth, there were two other boys accompanying us. I was taking her out, and since she would not come alone, I had to arrange for two more friends to join us. They were happy to help me. I have a feeling it had something to do with the fact that I was paying for their tickets and would get them the customary popcorn too.

We were an hour into the movie and one of the boys whispered into my ears: “Did you hold her hand?”

“What?”

“Did you touch her?” he rephrased his question for my convenience.

An indignant me asked, “No. Why?”

“Act like a man. Touch her. If you do not hold her hand, she would never come out with you again,” he said confidently.

I lost track of the movie from then on. The next one-hour was spent in darkness…not knowing what to do. Being a man quite chaste, I did not hold her hand. I wanted to hold her hand and walk on the green…but only after our marriage.

Eventually, the hormones won. The moment I placed my hand over hers on the armrest, she left the theatre in a huff, and refused to see me. I had to rush behind her. What doesn’t need a mention here is the fact that I had to check with my friends on how the movie ended.

Two days after the movie I got a letter from Babita in which said she could no longer be my girl friend. I was shattered. But as it is in such cases, I could not do anything.

Since then, I have always been confused as to what a woman wants. Even Mel Gibson’s movie failed to register. Guess this is why at 25 I am still a virgin. Well, almost.

*Present: I have been married for 25 months, and still don’t know what women want. Yesterday, Rekha’s friend Pavithra came home and I had clear instructions: “Be good to her. Smile at her. Talk to her.” I did all that…but after Pavithra left, Rekha said: “High time you stopped flirting with my friends.”

Other Stupid Reads

Much married, much harried
Do all married men need mistresses?
Why are married women fatter than the unmarried ones?
When I was in a Pakistani prison…

We got out of the shop – and it is an honor to get out of one – and looked around if we had been spotted coming out of the chic place. Call it progressive social behavior but in recent times we have started to love being spotted at posh/hep places (read costly). Unfortunately, this time around we weren’t.

“So we leave?” I asked Rekha.

“Hmm…”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“We have spent close to three thousand on clothes alone. Don’t you want the others to know?” Rekha seemed to have made up her mind.

“I would love to be spotted, but we just can’t stand here waiting for familiar faces. Can we?” I was keen on leaving.

“If we can’t stand, let us walk.” The Oracle had spoken. There was no questioning the Oracle. By the way, what/who is an Oracle?

Though our car was parked just outside of Fab India, it was decided that we will carry our heavy brown colored Fab India bags on our walk. After 30 minutes of wading through the traffic and crowd, we decided to turn back. Looked like the handful of people we knew had decided to stay in. The other million was on the road to the beach.

Rekha didn’t speak to me on our way back. Perhaps, she was praying for God to send in a familiar face. Somebody from office, who would during a casual conversation the next day over coffee end up saying, “After I saw you coming out of Fab India, we went to …..” which would then be followed by the innocent sounding “Ohhh…so you shop in Fab India is it?” but meaning ‘ohh-you-sucker’.

We reached the car. Not a single soul we knew.

“So, do we leave?” I broke the silence.

“Hmm…”

“Is that a yes or a no?” I was getting impatient.

“Do you want to try the Dollar shop?” Rekha was pointing to the dollar shop right next to Fab India.

“What? Do you want to buy something?” I wanted to rule out window shopping.

“I don’t want to. But if we meet somebody there we could always say that we came to Fab India and thought of visiting the Dollar shop.”

As luck would have it, after spending another half hour looking at huge shampoo bottles with impending expiry dates we didn’t meet anybody. We beat a hasty retreat.

After keeping our brown Fab India bags in the backseat, I opened the door for Rekha. She got in. Even as I was walking around the car to get in, somebody knocked on Rekha’s window which she promptly rolled down.

I got into the car and whispered, “Finally, somebody you know.”

Rekha whispered back: “But I don’t know this lady.”

“Excuse me…can you guide me to Fab India please? I saw you carrying the Fab India bags….” 

Other Fab Reads
What if there were no clothes in this World?
My Great Escape from my wife
Fashion Television and the problems it brings
The difficult choices in real life…
Being a spectator sportsman…