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‘What happened, darling?’ asked the mother.
‘She did not,’ Darling said, looking accusingly at me and jabbing a pudgy little finger in my direction. What, in the name of the heavens above, had I done? Or not done?
‘She did not what?’ pressed his mother.
‘Thathee did not touch my pheeet,’ he screamed and then proceeded to bawl his lungs out.
Darling stamped his feet and before his mother could look beseechingly at me, logic dictated that I scutter away – and scutter away I promptly did.
9.02 p.m.
Dazed, I walked into the kitchen where another little scene awaited me.
Mum, for reasons best known to her, was standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding a pakora in each hand, her face wet with tears. Ramu and Dad were both standing at attention on either side of Mum, ready to spring into action should she have the meltdown she seemed so dangerously close to.
The person with his arms around Mum, however, was Pitajee. No surprises there, really. Defying logic and sense, Pitajee and Mum have grown, of late, rather thick. Though they have little in common, they seem to get each other. That, as Pitajee once told me with a profound look on his face, is all that matters.
Much like Darling, Mum also pointed a finger in my direction and, clutching the pakora to her chest, burst into tears. Really, what was wrong with everyone? It seemed that all I needed to do was to merely appear for people to burst into tears.
Pitajee nodded his head sympathetically. What had I done now?
‘Eight-point-five,’ said Mum in a tearful voice.
Pitajee nodded his head.
‘Twenty-six,’ said Mum.
Pitajee nodded his head again ‘Twenty-eight, Aunty, if you count…’
‘Oh yes, see … twenty-eight! And now…’ Mum gesticulated with her hands. Someone had gone away? She was shooing me away?
Pitajee seemed to understand and he nodded his head. He was about to say something soothing when Mum burst into a fresh set of tears and, petrified, I scuttled away. From the corner of my eye, I saw Pitajee give Mum a big hug.
What was wrong with the world?
9.03 p.m.
Everything.
9.15 p.m.
This night seems to conspire against me and refuses to end.
After the obligatory round of dancing, Purva’s cousins, colluding with mine, decided they wanted the newly engaged couple to play some games. After a few minutes of negotiations, Purva and I agreed to play one game.
The game was going to be fairly straightforward. They would ask me five questions about Purva and ask Purva five questions about me. Simple. Whoever got the maximum number of correct answers won. Everyone sat around in the living room, gently nibbling on the food that there was no dearth of and stared expectantly at us.
‘Bhabhi,’ began Purva’s cousin Pinki.
I continued to eat and no one responded to Pinki. How rude people can be, I thought lazily to myself as I chased a pakora on the plate.
‘Bhabhi,’ she repeated.
Purva nudged me and it dawned on me that it was yours truly who was the ‘bhabhi’ in question.
Anu and Pitajee giggled with sheer delight at my obvious shock. I hate it when they do that. With friends like these, who needs enemies?
‘Umm … err … yes, yes,’ I said hastily.
