AllFreeNovel
Share Us
With Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi playing in the back of my head, wondering if I should have, after all, covered my head with the pallu of my sari for added effect and almost revelling in the fact that all eyes were on me, I walked demurely towards Naniji. Bending low, I said loudly – so that everyone could clearly hear me – ‘Charan sparsh, Naniji,’ and, after a pause, added, ‘Pranam, Naniji,’ just for extra effect. Go full throttle, I say. No half-baked nonsense from the woman of substance that I am.
There was deathly silence for a second. Puzzled, I turned to look at Mum and knew that something had gone horribly wrong when I saw that her face was getting redder by the second. The elderly lady cleared her throat, opened her mouth to say something and then closed it again. Further examination made it abundantly clear to me that something about our little exchange had disturbed her deeply; she seemed to be having trouble breathing.
What had happened?
Dad hurried up to me. ‘Beta,’ he said, looking stricken, ‘Naniji is here.’ He pointed to the dark corner where a frail lady with snow-white hair was sitting, a slow smile on her beautiful face. I turned around in slow motion to face the lady whose feet I had just touched. Now I was having trouble breathing. ‘Mausiji,’ said Dad, cringing visibly.
‘Aaah,’ I said, trying control the damage. ‘Badi Mausiji?’ Aunty had an elder sister, I knew, who was older than her by almost a decade. That would make sense, right? And make me look less terrible. I mentally patted my back. Quick thinking. Decisions on the go. Strategizing on the fly. That’s me. Give me a bad situation and I will emerge shining.
‘Purva’s mum’s youngest sister,’ said Dad wearily.
That was when I caught sight of Purva. The dark clouds of a guffaw, ready to break free, were evident on his face. He coughed a fake cough, trying his best to cover up.
‘Kasturi,’ said Purva in my ear, in what he meant to be a disapproving tone. His eyes, however, danced with mirth.
‘What am I supposed to do?’ I muttered angrily under my breath to Purva. ‘After all … inki twacha se inki umra ka pata hi nahi chalta!’
This time Purva and Vikki, who were both standing close enough to overhear, made no attempt to fake it. Their identical guffaws rang loudly in my drawing room. The actual naniji was the first to join the boys and, before I knew it, everyone was laughing at the would-be ‘bahu rani’ who did not know where to look.
Mausaji slapped Dad’s back and Mausiji managed a weak smile. The younger cousins joined in the laughter. Seeing everyone in splits, my mum began to laugh rather hysterically, so much so that I got really worried after about a few seconds.
However, I have just one question to ask.
Why me? Every bloody time.
3
8.00 p.m.
I was in the process of being kissed on the cheeks by another unknown elderly lady when I heard Vikki yell. ‘Here they are!’ he cried, pointing towards the door.
I looked up to see Pitajee and Anu bound in, hand in hand, like two cheeky monkeys. Right. It’s time for the all-important introductions. The goofy Pitajee, officially known as Amay, is my best buddy. Purva says Pitajee and I do each other no good and that he does not know who is a worse influence on the other. I will have to grudgingly agree.
Pitajee is mad. I am mad. Our combined madness, however, is greater than the sum total of our individual madnesses. That, my friend, is the sign of the truest kind of friendship. Nothing is as much fun or as crazy without Pitajee around. He does not shy away from yanking my hair or pinning my hands behind my back and twisting my arm till I agree with him. Of course, I keep my dignity intact and do not resort to such uncouth behaviour. Instead, I have, in the glorious past, locked him inside the bathroom for four hours, thrown his mobile phone out of the car in a Zindagi-Na-Milegi-Dobara-esque moment of purpose and even crank-called his boss with a heart-wrenching tale of how Pit
ajee had ditched me for a prettier girl.
And yet, we mean the world to each other. I will never forget the night when I had just discovered the truth about Rajeev, and Pitajee cradled me in his arms as I howled like a baby. I will not forget how, when I was roaming the streets of Delhi looking for a job, he used all his connections in the corporate world to get me interviews. And I will never undervalue how he always leaves for me the better, bigger slice of my favourite pizza.
And then there’s Anu. Anu – short for Ananya – is my other best friend. Anu and I were part of the same management training program and even though we work in different places now, we continue to share an apartment in Delhi. Anu and Pitajee, who, incidentally, met through me, are also madly in love with each other.
Seeing them standing there, hand in hand, grinning idiotically, I could not help but dramatically bring my hands to my mouth in genuine surprise. These guys were not supposed to be here. I looked at Purva, who was walking towards them, a surprised look on his face.
‘You guys!’ he said, slapping Pitajee’s back.
‘Yes,’ said Pitajee, winking at me from across the room. ‘Us guys. And who is that mataji in the corner there?’ he asked, pointing in my direction.
8.10 p.m.
Family members surrounded us with great fanfare. Purva’s family seemed to be getting very excited about something that they clearly had up their sleeve. One of Purva’s aunts made us stand in the centre, flanked on either side by parents and guests.
While Mum looked decidedly uncomfortable, Dad did not notice anything odd. The frequency with which the ladke waalas were exchanging conspiratorial looks with one another was steadily – and worryingly – increasing. Vikki pulled out something from his bag that looked a lot like the bazookas I had seen on TV. Only it was not. It was one of those fancy cameras. He smiled at me and walked a little distance from us to take his position as the photographer of the evening.
‘What the hell are the Dixits doing?’ murmured Mum, looking around surreptitiously, as though she were a spy in a hostile country.
‘Relax, Ma. Chill,’ I said, shrugging my shoulders, getting very worried myself. I needed to pee.
‘So,’ began Arvind Mausaji in a very important voice. ‘Can I have your attention, please?’
