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4 January 2013, 7.00 p.m.
It’s official.
We are on red alert. There is no mistaking it.
Mum is a rather spectacular shade of red from all the stress. Nothing can be less than perfect now, else Mum will murder someone.
I am not kidding.
No, seriously, I am not.
Like really, I am not.
‘Kasturi,’ Mum said to me yesterday, staring thoughtfully at the curtains that she and Ramu had just spent hours hanging. ‘Have you ever noticed the curtains in Purva’s house?’
‘Hmmm,’ I said noncommittally, busy texting Pitajee. Pitajee, officially known as Amay – only no one calls him that now – is one of my best friends, who has just been offered a fantastic, front-end job with a hi-fi investment banking firm in Mumbai. I am, of course, trying my level best to dissuade him from taking it.
‘Are theirs better?’ Mum asked in her fake-disinterested voice.
‘Maybe…’ I said, still busy texting. The word was out of my mouth before I could stop myself.
‘Maybe? Maybe?’ shrieked Mum, and I readied myself for immediate flight. No one – I repeat most emphatically – no one should be around Mum when she gets all shrieky.
New curtains have been bought, stitched and hung. All in less than twenty-four hours. Don’t ask me how. Ramu does not know either, but he is borderline hypertensive and is running a high risk for a heart attack.
Ramu, you say? I know what you’re thinking – in this day and age, who has help called Ramu? How seventies is that? Well, to be fair, it’s only Mum and Dad who call him Ramu; I prefer the infinitely more fashionable ‘dude’.
‘Kasturi bitiya, doodh bol rahe hain hum,’ he says when I call our landline and he happens to answer the phone. And then he laughs, each time, without fail.
I digress. If there were ever a championship at digressing, I would win the gold – no questions asked. I think it would be fun to participate in a digressing championship. Anyway, I digress again … coming back to today, the house is resplendent and gleaming, ready to welcome the guests. Mum is in a frenzy, trying her best to do everything at once, Dad is a little annoyed for he is unable to really comprehend the magnitude of the situation and Ramu is wondering if he has put salt instead of sugar in the gulab jamuns (he has done that before, mind you). The point I am trying to make – or rather was before I digressed again – is that everyone is so busy that no one is really bothered about how I am feeling. No aunt putting the aanchal of my sari over my head and telling me how pretty I look. No mum getting teary-eyed, no kurta-pyjama-clad dad looking at me with Alok-Nath-ish pride in his eyes.
After all, the ladke waalas are coming home.
And that brings me to Purva. At twenty-eight, Purva, a doctor at the prestigious AIIMS hospital in Delhi, is two years older than me. In the two years that we have been together, I have realized that he and I are as different as two people can possibly be. My unending madness starkly juxtaposes with his calm serenity. My hollers that reach neighbouring countries contrast well with his shy smile. And my complete lack of commitment to work can hardly be compared to his dedication for the ailing.
*deep sigh*
‘Why are you not ready yet?’ Mum asked, walking past and not waiting for me to even answer. ‘Ramu! The flowerpots! The Dixits will be here before we know it and they will see the flowerpots looking all shoddy! Who will want to marry a girl whose flowerpots are all shoddy?’
Somehow, in my head, something about this sentence seemed very, very wrong. However, I had little time to react with the indignation that such a sentence merited because the doorbell had just started ringing.
‘Oh my god!’ Mum shouted to no one in particular. ‘They are here! The Dixits are here!’
No one said anything except for Sultan, our family dog who, excited by Mum’s shrieks, began chasing his tail and barking uncontrollably. I love Sultan but, sadly, I have no delusions about his IQ.
I sighed and closed the door of my bedroom to shut away the madness. I desperately needed a moment to myself. I stood in front of the mirror and a sari-clad girl stared right back at me. The sari was Mum’s choice. Whatever said and done, there is no denying that she has extremely good taste in clothes. Even if I say so myself, the light pink of the sari set off my complexion beautifully. I took my time doing my hair, twirling strands of it around my finger before pulling it all in a low, elegant bun. Mum had planned my look for the evening and had sent me the link to a YouTube video titled, ‘How to make low bun like princess’ many weeks in advance.
A lot was going on in my head. It was odd having Purva and his folks visit mine like this. It made things seem all official and grown-up. Was I ready to grow up? Probably not. But then would I ever be ready to grow up?
I decided to not answer that question. Instead, I picked up the rather huge rose that Dad had plucked from our garden earlier in the day and stuck it into the bun, exactly as Mum had shown me.
I breathed deeply. I looked elegant, demure and err ... unrecognizable. A small smile played on my lips as I wondered what Pitajee would say, were he to set eyes on me right now.
I had been told that I was to stay inside my room and not emerge till I was called. So I sat down and thought. Thought of Purva. Quiet, calm, sensible, wise Purva.
Soon, sounds of excited chattering from the living room reached my diamond-adorned ears. Mum was laughing that maniacal laugh of hers. I sighed. The maniacal laugh was a clear indication that she was stressed out. Poor Mum.
I sat twiddling my thumbs for some time and then decided to check Facebook and Gmail. Another friend was getting married and no new emails had popped into my inbox since I’d last checked it about two seconds ago.
I turned around at the sound of the purposeful clicking of heels.
‘Bettaaaahh,’ said Mum in a weird accent. Really, where does she get this accent from? It pops up every now and then, particularly when she has company she wants to impress.
‘Mum,’ I said, getting up, my heart beating fast.
‘Oh Kasturi,’ she gushed, and I almost smiled, ‘your hair is disgusting!’
My face fell. Mum, of course, did not notice. She tried to do something with my hair, but gave up in about a second. ‘It is beyond salvation,’ she said dramatically, ‘Let it be. We don’t have time.’ She paused and seemed to think. ‘Do you want to cover your head with the pallu of your sari?’
‘Mum!’ I said, indignantly.
‘Okay. Okay,’ she said pacifyingly. ‘It’s fine, let’s go. You will look?’ she asked, looking expectantly at me as the two of us walked towards the living room. We had been through this drill many times in the last week.
?
?Demure,’ I replied, mechanically.
‘You will not?’
‘Scowl.’
