NOW IT CAN BE TOLD

NOW IT CAN BE TOLD

This piece is neither about revealing important state secrets after the expiry of the statutory lock-in period, nor is it about a long lost love/crush. The matter is a little more scatological. The story has been poking me during those spells of lucidity after or in-the-process-of-trying-to-avoid, the odd middle-of-the-night visit to the loo. (Could be the early onset of a prostrate condition according to our family doctor, who normally dismisses every complaint I take to her as ‘psycho-somatic’). So finally, here I am, at 0400 hours, writing about my windy issues.

Our only daughter Mugdha tied the knot in the spring of 2008. Both I and my better half Shubha were in a tizzy during the yearlong period between the engagement and the wedding. Shubha and Mugdha spent hours and hours rummaging through all the saree shops of Mumbai looking for just the right saree for every ceremony during the marriage function. In the process, the best show rooms of wedding trousseaus in the various upmarket parts of the ‘financial capital’ of the country were declared ‘Bekar’ (of no use) by Mugdha. But that is for another day.

As all the shops in Hyderabad were considered to be equally ‘ Bekar’, it was decided that our future son-in-law Ashvin would visit us over a weekend to select his marriage-wear. Mugdha had calculated that two days would be enough to select a formal two-piece suit for the wedding reception and a few Kurta-Pajamas for other sundry occasions. I didn’t dare mention that 30 years ago, I had picked my entire wedding wardrobe in one 30 minute visit to the Raymond showroom. That would have invited snidely devastating comments on my sartorial ignorance. Also, that was before all those movies like ‘Hum Aapke Hain Kaun’ and DDLJ. Anyway, the future bridegroom was to arrive one Friday evening and leave by Monday morning.

We are a conservative family of orthodox Brahmins. So the sleeping arrangement was to be like this: My old parents in their own bedroom, my wife and daughter in the guest room and yours truly and Ashvin in the master bedroom. As the day was approaching, I suddenly realised a serious flaw in these arrangements. This was my pre Rujuta Diwekar phase. So, like all normal Indian families, we were in the habit of having a hearty dinner before going to bed. This had its ‘consequences’. We were not unused to occasional fireworks of the noisy kind during the nightly rests.  The nocturnal emissions of the gastric kind   were not of the noiseless and odourless variety. But in the privacy of our bedroom, after 30 years of marital bliss (?), who cared? But, suddenly, I did! Any such transgressions during the two fateful nights which I was to spend in the proximity of our future son in law were unthinkable. The consequences could be serious. I began to play out various versions of ‘Ye Shadi Nahi Hogi’ in my nightmares. They all started with Ashvin rushing out in the middle of the night with his nostrils shut tightly in a pinch. I was a deeply worried ‘father of the bride’.

Thank god there was Google. I searched all the food groups which caused bloating and farting and prepared a mental list of things to avoid. During the two days of Ashvin’s visit, both my wife and daughter were surprised at my sudden health consciousness and admirable restraint. I avoided milk products, deep fried stuff, lentils, Bengal grams, beans, radish, sweets and tea/coffee after sunset. This being the first visit of Jamai-raja, Shubha had rolled out an impressive array of goodies and assorted sweets. I scrupulously avoided all these temptations, to raised eyebrows, and finally came out victorious in my battles of the boom. As soon as Ashvin caught the cab for the airport, at 5 am, Monday morning, I heaved a sigh of relief and assaulted the fridge with a vengeance.

Looking back, I wonder how the person, who was the recipient of all those gourmet dishes which cause bloating and acidity, managed. He happily partook them in large quantities, thanks to the relentless pressure by the future mother in law, and gentle persuasions of my parents (how can you say no to them without appearing to be rude). Not that I noticed anything. I was a sound sleeper then and the fan was strategically kept full blast.

Anyways, thank god Mugdha married at the right time. Now? Such sphincter control? Impossible.

Bhaiya kaka

BHAIYA KAKA

The current brouhaha about molestation and attempted rape, triggered by the Tarun Tejpal and justice Mukherjee controversies has invoked a raging discussion on the many ways in which women are sexually abused at home and outside. This brought back some of my memories which were long forgotten and buried. Every family has that one uncle who is a lech and a pervert. Women instinctively know to steer clear of them and warn the girls about them also. But sometimes, things are not so black and white. Some people always give you the feeling of sliminess and creepiness when they are in female company but you cannot put your finger on their exact transgressions.

            Bhaiya kaka, my father’s first cousin, was one such character. When I was growing up, he was well past his prime and was a balding pot-bellied man with faux dentures. Often you would find him chewing a wad of tobacco, his mouth too full of spit to speak coherently. He mostly communicated in grunts and sign language. At all family gatherings, it was customary to touch the feet of elders. That was his chance. As soon as a lady or a girl bent down to touch his feet, he would hold her arms and give her a hug. In our family, physical contact of this kind was a no no and it always irritated me and my cousin Parag, who were in our teens. My cousin sisters, who were in various stages of tweens and teens, were equally peeved by his behaviour. The other older ladies in the family, however, did not seem to mind his hugs much and would laugh them off till I, Parag and the younger ladies started talking about them after the family broke up post such gatherings. Every time the girls would try to either forget (?) to touch his feet or try to get off with a quick perfunctory namaskar,  Bhaiya kaka was quick to remind them of their manners and equally quick to hold their arms and snatch a hug if they tried to sneak away with a half bend. Every time, he made a successful hug, I and Parag used to fume and curl our fingers in suppressed rage. When home, we would loudly protest against Bhaiya kaka’s excesses and vow to insult him, or even hit him if he did it again. We were, however, always chastised for being so brash and disrespectful, by the older ladies in the house. My grandmother always forbade us from doing anything rash. Bhaiya kaka never went beyond a hug and nobody reported a grope or anything more objectionable.

            Thereafter, it was always a dodging game which we, i.e. I, Parag and my cousin sisters played with Bhaiya kaka, at all the family congregations. To our frustration, however, we always lost against the guile of Bhaiya kaka and the indifference of the older ladies in the family. Luckily, age soon caught up with Bhaiya kaka and he was too old to run around hugging women. We could almost sense his frustration at family meetings and gloated about it.

            Bhaiya kaka was either a lech or a compulsive hugger of women, we would not know for sure. Today, I do not remember anything about him except his obnoxious behaviour, which  went unpunished. I don’t think he was a closet rapist, but you never really know the boundaries of a pervert human mind. Interestingly, it    were always the older women in the family who restrained the boys from doing anything drastic about his excesses and the men simply did not condescend the subject a serious discussion.