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.