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Oh dear! She actually has a boyfriend? I immediately straightened my face and tried desperately to disguise my guffaw into a groan.
‘And … and…’ faltered the mighty Padma.
‘And?’
‘He won’t take me to meet his mom!’
‘Big deal! Don’t meet the mom. Trust me, no good comes out of meeting the boy’s mother,’ I said, forcefully smacking the bathroom floor with my hands, my mind wandering to the parantha-making classes.
‘Tiger,’ she said, then shook her head when I looked blankly at her. ‘My boyfriend, Tiger, loves me but … I think … I think he does not think his mother will approve of me.’
I bit my lip and tried not to comment on the name of her boyfriend. It was not the time to say anything about it. I vaguely recalled a friend in engineering college whose dog was called Tiger and I had found even that deeply amusing. Who calls a dog Tiger? Would that mutt not grow up with a deep rooted identity crisis?
‘Why?’ I asked instead.
P.P. Padma pointed a finger at her face and cast such a sad glance in my direction that my heart melted for the gawky girl.
‘P.P. Padma,’ I said, ‘looks don’t matter!’
‘It’s easy for you to say that … you’re pretty; men fall for you left, right and centre. And even if it were not your face, there’s your personality. You…’ Padma seemed to be lost for words for a minute and I looked at her encouragingly, ‘…you … bring sunshine into the room … guys just can’t help … hell, if I were a guy, I would have a crush on you…’
My eyes and ego grew to the size of Jupiter in a matter of nano seconds. P.P. Padma is not that bad, I thought, chewing my lower lip thoughtfully. Maybe I had misjudged her all this while. And no, it had nothing to do with the compliments she had just thrown my way. I am not, I repeat, I am not that shallow.
‘So … err … that sunshine bit that you were talking about … is it, like, my dress, or you think it’s because of my….’
Another glare from Padma and I shut up.
‘So what’s the big deal about him not taking you to see his mom?’ I asked after a few moments.
‘How do you think we will ever get married if I don’t even meet his mom?’ she asked the rather pertinent question.
‘True,’ I agreed.
‘Tiger loves me for the person I a
m, but I overheard him talking to his friend. He is sure Aunty will not like me because … because … I am not pretty enough!’
‘P.P. Padma!’ I interjected, trying to exclaim indignantly at the regressive line of thought. However, it is tough to say ‘P.P. Padma’ and sound indignant. Try it, if you don’t believe me.
‘I don’t know why I am telling you all this...’ said P.P. Padma, tearing up. ‘You will just make fun of me…’
‘P.P. Padma,’ I repeated, more sternly.
‘Please,’ she said, equally sternly. ‘No one calls me P.P. Padma. Call me Padma.’
I smiled. ‘Padma,’ I began again, with authority this time, ‘you have a pretty face.’
‘What utter rubbish!’
‘Shut up and listen,’ I said, shocked and pleased with the firmness of my voice.
‘Okay.’
‘You have a pretty face. You just don’t know how to present yourself.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Padma, intrigued.
‘Will you trust me?’ I asked, with a smile on my face.
