This is part two of my wife & kids’ visit to Madurai. This is what happened after they came back.
Some of you wanted to know what happened after Rekha came back home. But many of you were worried about what was inside the steel dabba in my fridge.
What’s interesting is that so many of you cared about a steel dabba more than my loneliness. Says a lot about our society, no?
But I am not surprised. When I was growing up, my mother was also more concerned about her “dabbas” than my teenage pride and sent me to collect them from our neighbours’ homes.
Rekha does the same with my kids. They are also going to be traumatised adults, dreaming of dabbas chasing them in their dreams. The worst kinds are the ones that have clamps on the sides…because these dabbas chase you, gobble you up, and then tighten the two clamps on the side.
Anyway, let me tell you what happened.
As expected, around 2.30 pm, the doorbell rang.
I opened the door with the confidence of a man who had done nothing wrong, but knew evidence was lying everywhere.
The kids were standing outside, and Rekha was behind them. All three of them were drenched.
Apparently, it had rained heavily when their train reached Chennai. They had waited at the railway station for the rain to slow down, but you know Chennai rain. It doesn’t stop just because the Rajans had stepped out without an umbrella.
By the time they got into the cab and reached home, all three looked like they had not travelled from Madurai to Chennai by train, but had swum across the Cauvery.
Now, normally, when your wife and kids return after a week, you hug them. That is what a good husband and father does.
But those who know the Rajan family history know that I am allergic to dust. I also have a weak pair of lungs. In fact, twenty-five years back, when Rekha asked me, “I love you. Will you marry me?” my immediate response was, “I am allergic to dust.”
Sceptics will say I was changing the topic. But I was just being honest.
The Rajans are known for three things: we are hardworking, hilarious, and honest.
And because of this dust allergy, weak lungs, blocked nose, and my overall delicate ecosystem, I looked at my drenched family and paused for half a second.
We may be brave. But we aren’t stupid.
It is better to live today and hug tomorrow than hug today and… you know where this is going.
For a moment, I considered saying, “All three of you go, take a bath, change your clothes, and then we will do the reunion.”
But then Rekha looked at me. That look said, “Try saying this and see what happens.”
So I hugged them. Not fully. Carefully. Like a man hugging love, rainwater, and viral fever at the same time.
Ritwik hugged me first and said, “Appa, did you miss me?”
I hugged him tight and said, “Of course.”
Rhea gave me a side hug, looked at my face carefully, and said, “Appa, you look thinner.”
That made me happy. Then she added, “Or maybe weaker.”
If you don’t have kids yet, please avoid them. They are like weighing machines with attitude.
And then Rekha stepped in. There are moments in a man’s life when time slows down.
For instance, from the time the girl you secretly love sits on your Yamaha to the time when the next speed breaker appears out of nowhere….that’s at least a few years.
Similarly, time had slowed down around me.
My wife had just stepped into the house after a week, and even her handbag was still on her shoulder…but her eyes, which I think should be used by airport security, were scanning everything.
She looked at me. Then at the dining table. Then at the sofa. Then, the clothes that were drying on the chair. Then at me again.
For a few seconds, she said nothing. Now you should know that there is a difference between a boss and a wife. When a boss doesn’t say anything, it means the issue is over. When a wife doesn’t say anything, it doesn’t mean the issue is over. It just means the issue is much bigger than you think, and she needs more time to wrap her head around it before she can start firing.
That’s why we Rajans have always believed that in marriage, silence is worse than scolding.
A scolding has direction. But silence is like a sniper. You don’t know from where the bullet will come or when it will come.
Finally, she said, “On WhatsApp, you said you had maintained the house beautifully?”
She was right. I had said that with a lot of confidence because I believed so.
“Yes,” I smiled.
“And this is how the house looks after you managed it beautifully?”
Now, I had two options.
Option one was to defend myself, and option two was to be still married to her, and continue to be a father to my two kids.
I chose a happy life, so I went closer and said, “I missed you.”
This line has saved many marriages. In fact, I think “I missed you” and “You were right” should be taught to boys in school before they start trigonometry.
Nobody has ever used sin, cos, and tan after marriage. But every husband uses “You were right” at least twice a week.
Rekha tried not to smile. But as expected, she failed. We, Rajans, never let a moment go by, so sensing a ceasefire, I tried touching her short curly hair.
She pushed my hand away and said, “First, wash your hands. You look like you have been living in a lodge.”
That hurt. But dare I remind her that she’s the one who had travelled by train for seven hours?
Within ten minutes of entering the house, Rekha had opened all windows, switched on the fans in every room, collected three coffee cups, found one missing sock under the sofa, identified two dead mosquitoes near the balcony door, and asked why the good towel smelled of badminton court.
Then she headed towards the fridge. As she opened the fridge, I stood near the dining table, pretending to arrange the coasters.
But I was watching her. She moved the curd. She moved the dosa batter. Then she picked up the lonely tomato, inspected it, and kept it back with the disappointment she usually reserves for my son’s report cards.
Then she saw the steel dabba. She turned towards me.
“Didn’t you open this?”
I froze. This was not a question. This was a trap with a lid. I couldn’t muster the courage to tell her that steel dabbas inside Indian fridges are not containers – they are emotional landmines.
“No,” I replied, keeping a straight face.
“Why?” She asked.
Before I could answer, she took the steel dabba out and placed it on the kitchen counter.
“What is in it? I asked.
Rekha opened and showed it to me, “I left gulab jamun for you.”
I peeped inside. Left gulab jamun my foot…there was one gulab jamun inside….yes…just one. Floating alone in sugar syrup. Like me, for the last seven days.
For a second, I didn’t say anything.
That little fellow had been sitting in the fridge all week, waiting for me. And I had been sitting in the house all week, waiting for them.
I picked it up with two fingers, tilted my head back, and placed it on my tongue. It melted away down my throat.
We Rajans love sweets, and that’s also when our brain works the sharpest.
As the King of Indian desserts travelled down my food pipe…I realized most of the things we fear are small. But we pack them tightly, put a lid on them, keep them in the coldest corner of our mind, and then spend days walking around them.
Sometimes, all you have to do is open the dabba. As in my case…at worst it would have been seven-day-old sambar….but best case, it was a gulab jamun.