JUST MARRIED, PLEASE EXCUSE

by Yashodhara Lal

  She leaned forward as much as her ball-like figure would allow and said earnestly, ‘Just keep in mind that the happiness of your child depends in large part on your sorting out your issues. Seventy-five per cent of a child’s development takes place in the first three years of life. You both should consider that when deciding whether to get the help you need or not. Based on today’s session, I have only one piece of advice for each of you. You ’ – she looked at me – ‘should attempt to state what you would like as preferences instead of demands. And you’ – she turned to Vijay – ‘should seriously attempt to communicate your feelings more, instead of stifling them. That’s all for today.’

  My head was buzzing with what she had said as she went back to reading her notes. It appeared that she was dismissing us for the day.

  Despite her obvious quirks and the fact that my head was spinning, I thought that she was sharp and had pretty much nailed the issues. In any case, the ball was now in our court and we would have to decide whether to continue with her or not. The two of us exchanged glances and then slowly started to get out of our chairs.

  ‘Just one more thing,’ she said, and we froze halfway out of our seats.

  She kept her pen at the ready and asked, ‘Do either of you have a drug problem?’

  We were both as silent on the way back home as we had been on the way to the counsellor’s. Finally, Vijay spoke.

  ‘I thought that went very well,’ he said. I hated that, of late, he was the sarcastic one.

  ‘There were plenty of things she got right …’ I began.

  ‘Such as the part about you being more psychologically sound than me, I suppose.’ He practically spat out the words, adding in a murmur which he thought I would not hear, ‘What nonsense.’

  ‘Well …’ I decided not to go down that path for the time being, although that was exactly what I had been referring to. I changed the subject instead. ‘What was with the whole Yashodhara-Reema and Vijay-Reema thing? That was weird.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Vijay suggested, ‘she thought it was weird that you kept on referring to her as Reema.’

  I was surprised ‘Why? You think it was too informal? Should I have called her “doctor” or something?’

  ‘That might have been better,’ agreed Vijay, ‘since her name isn’t Reema. I noticed it on the visiting cards she had on her table. They said “Lavanya Aggarwal”.’

  ‘What?’ I squeaked. ‘But Vivi told me clearly that her name was Reema when she gave me her number … She even said they had been friends in college.’

  Vijay settled back in his seat with a sardonic smile. ‘Only proving yet again that Vivi is the absolute right person to take advice from regarding our marriage.’

  I had nothing more to say and we settled back in stony silence.

  Vinod thoughtfully cranked up the radio again.

  Just Married, Please Excuse

  7

  Guess Who’s Coming to Visit?

  A couple of days had passed since our visit to the counsellor, who I began to confusedly refer to in my head as Lavanya-Reema. I had questioned Vivi loudly on the phone as to why she had misled me with regard to her name, but was only rewarded with a gay, tinkling laugh. ‘Ah, that’s right. Lavanya. I knew it was something close to Reema … what? Well, they both end with “aaa”, na?’

  I was convinced that going back to her would be the right thing to do for our marriage, but I wanted to give Vijay the time and space to come around to the same decision himself.

  ‘Well?’ I planted myself in front of him as he ate breakfast on the third day after the visit, deciding that he’d had more than enough time and space by now.

  He paused with his hand midway between his plate and his mouth, his omelette-toast hovering uncertainly. ‘Well, what?’ he enquired politely.

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, Vijay. When are we going back to Reema, I mean Lavanya, to start our sessions?’

  ‘You know what?’ he said thoughtfully, ‘I don’t think I’ll be going back there. But all the best with that.’

  ‘WHAT? You want me to go for our marriage counselling alone?’

  He winced at the words and said, ‘I’m telling you, we don’t need counselling. And in any case, I think that counsellor is crazy. Besides, Mummyji and Papaji are coming to visit us next week – what will they think if they find out we’re going for counselling? ’

  The tension in the room was suddenly so thick that you could have cut it with a knife. Or I could just have cut it with my tongue, off which the words now rolled slowly and icily, ‘Mummyji-Papaji are coming? Next week? And just when were you planning to tell me this? When they landed and it was time to pick them up from the airport, perhaps? Or maybe just before they walked into the house?’

  Vijay mumbled through a mouthful of toast, but I could make out the guilt in his voice. ‘I was going to tell you earlier. I just forgot. I only asked them to come over about a week back.’

  ‘Only a week back, eh?’ I said in an overly polite voice. I had never fully understood the phrase ‘apoplectic with rage’, but I suspected I was getting close to that state now.

  ‘It’s been such a cold winter in Jaipur this year.’ His tone was more conciliatory now that he realized he had made a tactical error in forgetting to tell me. ‘I thought it would be nice for them to come here and be with us in Mumbai for a change. Besides, they haven’t actually visited us even once in the three years of our marriage.’

  I was silent. This was true. And also, I was thinking, it was a shame that they had hardly had any time with Peanut so far, apart from the flying visit we had paid them during Diwali.

  Yes, it would be nice to have Mummyji and Papaji over. It would bring back memories of happier times. And maybe their presence would make for a better atmosphere at home. I hadn’t yet told my mother about any of my problems with Vijay, partly due to the fact that it was all just too complicated to explain to her and partly from the conviction that she would take his side, like everyone else in the family. But yes, the way things were, maybe Vijay and I could benefit from some amount of adult supervision.

  I took a deep breath and tried to work out some sort of a compromise. ‘Look, honey.’ He looked up, surprised at the use of the endearment which, I realized, had been missing from our conversations for the past two months. ‘I think it will be great if they come here and they should – but I really do think that their being here should not stop us from giving the counselling thing a shot. They don’t even have to know about it, we can just go off quietly for the sessions once a week or so. So, consider it a request from me.’ I paused and swallowed here. I was trying to apply what the counsellor had suggested about re-stating ‘demands’ as ‘preferences’, and I hoped it didn’t show how much effort it was taking ‘We go and see Ree … Lavanya a few times, and work towards sorting out our problems. I know she seemed a little strange, but I would personally prefer it if we didn’t give up on it before even starting the sessions. Of course,’ I added craftily, ‘I can’t force you to do it. It’s just something I would appreciate, if you think you don’t mind giving it a shot, that is.’

  Vijay had been listening intently. After a slight pause, he said in an agreeable tone, ‘Okay.’

  I had to stop myself from doing a double take.

  Our erratic counsellor was nothing short of a compact, round ball of pure genius.

  This was going to work.

  I hoped.

  8

  Hello Ji, Mummyji, Papaji

  ‘What,’ I said to Vijay, my hands on my hips in an unconsciously aggressive stance, ‘do you think you’re doing?’

  I had woken up an hour earlier, at six-thirty, but had been drifting in and out of sleep, as I lay in bed nursing Peanut. I had been dimly aware of unusual sounds outside our room and once Peanut had fallen asleep again, I had come out to investigate.

  All around me, the house was bustling with activity. It appeared that Vijay was spearheading some sort of mani
c spring-cleaning spree, and had assigned various tasks to the team of Kajal, Zarreena and even young Vinod. I took stock: Kajal was pulling down the curtains, trying not to get fully entangled within them, presumably to wash them. Zarreena was flitting about busily with a bottle of Colin, polishing mirrors and all other smooth surfaces she could see. Vinod was assisting Vijay in clearing out all the junk in order to make more room in the small spare bedroom.

  I noted almost immediately that Vijay had apparently classified my drum set in the aforementioned category of ‘junk’, had dismantled it into barely identifiable pieces and was now in the process of piling the carcass of my hobby into a cardboard box.

  I tried to keep my voice steady while I asked, ‘Why, honey, would you dismantle my drum set without even asking me?’

  Vijay had a look of surprise on his face. ‘Arrey, the last time you played this was a year ago – it was just taking up space over here.’

  ‘That’s not the point. I could have played it. It’s just that I’ve been so busy with Peanut. Maybe I would have started next week. And besides …’ I checked myself before continuing.

  ‘Besides, what?’ Vijay asked.

  ‘… besides, you know I have nowhere else to hang my clothes in the house,’ I finished somewhat lamely.

  Vijay went back to piling the pieces into the box, saying, ‘Well, you know you won’t be hanging your bras and undies in this room any more while Mummyji-Papaji are staying here. So I thought it would be okay.’ He sensed my displeasure and paused. ‘You want me to put it back together?’

  I said sulkily, ‘No. It’s okay. It doesn’t matter.’ I knew he was right and that my percussion instrument was barely used nowadays, except as a convenient clothes line. Still, I thought grimly, he could have asked.

  Vijay’s parents were coming on Monday, and that gave us only this weekend to get the house in some sort of order. I decided to throw myself into the fray and get into the spirit of things with some frantic scrubbing. After all, the idea was to make them as comfortable as possible. Also, this would be their first time with us in our home, so it would be nice to make a good impression.

  I stepped out into the hall and went towards the drawing room. Just then, Vinod went scurrying past me into the kitchen, his arms full of liquor bottles. As I watched, he dumped his load into a big cardboard box and scurried back towards the drawing room, presumably to fetch the next lot.

  I enquired of him exactly what he was doing and why, and he said he was following Vijay’s instructions. We had to hide all traces of alcohol in the house now that Mummyji-Papaji were due to arrive soon.

  Vijay came out and said, ‘Ho gaya? Oh, I forgot about the stuff in the fridge.’

  He hurried into the kitchen and took out four bottles of beer and added them to the box full of assorted bottles of whiskey, Bailey’s and Kahlua. With one last wistful look at his treasure trove, he told Vinod to hide the box in the storage loft in the kitchen.

  I thought this was really going overboard. ‘Vijay, why should we hide the fact that we enjoy an occasional drink? We’re adults! It’s not like we have a drinking problem.’

  Vijay looked at me as though he thought I was crazy. He said, ‘Well, actually, I don’t think my parents are ready for such drastic revelations. It’s too soon.’

  I couldn’t help but snort. ‘What do you mean it’s too soon? It’s been three years. So why can’t we just live the way that we normally live, even when they are around? Let’s show them the real us!’

  He protested, ‘They already know the real me.’

  ‘So then why do you hide your smoking, drinking and your love for omelettes and chicken nuggets from them? Anyway, I don’t think they’ve ever really had a chance to know the real me. I wear shorts at home, and pants to work; I read extensively and research the best ways to bring up Peanut; I work out to my exercise DVDs; I play the guitar; I could play the drums if they were still around; I eat eggs for breakfast; I like chicken soup.’ I became aware that I was entering incoherent, rambling territory and decided to just finish with ‘I may be different from your family, but there’s nothing wrong with any of these things, they’re just a part of me. But clearly, you think everything should change to present a different picture to them. Right?’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said gratefully. ‘That would be great.’

  ‘No, it would NOT be great.’ My voice and hackles were both rising. ‘You’re going to be at work most days, I’m still on leave – it’s such a tiny house, and it’s going to be a strain for me to pretend to be someone else. On top of which, you obviously don’t want us to give them even a hint of a problem between us, so we have to pretend everything is great between us. It’s going to be like one big act.’

  ‘Come on, Y, it won’t be that bad. We all have to compromise sometimes.’ His voice took on a soothing quality. ‘See, I’m hiding all my cigarettes, aren’t I?’

  I tried not to clutch at my hair. ‘But you already hide those – from me!’

  ‘It’s just for a few days. Besides, isn’t the idea to make them as comfortable as possible on their first visit? Please, just “kindly adjust”?’ He sidled up to me and nudged me in the ribs and slurred, ‘Adjusht, pliss? Pliss, adjusht?’

  He continued to poke me and after a few moments, I lost my stern expression and almost smiled. I also reminded myself that I had got him to agree to the counselling even while his parents were here. A rather confused metaphor went through my head at this point – something about how I had to learn to pick my battles, so that I could win the war, in the game of love.

  The next day, Vijay went to pick up his parents from the airport while Kajal and I waited at home with Peanut. Zarreena had already left for the day, wringing her hands and praying nothing would go wrong. The frantic cleanup operation had left her thinking that Vijay’s parents, whom she had never met, were very strict, conservative and difficult. Despite my reassurances that they were perfectly nice and kind people, I could see that she didn’t really believe me.

  Kajal suddenly realized that there were six eggs in the fridge and came and asked me, ‘Iska kya karein?’

  I didn’t have a clue. I told her bad-temperedly to dump them in the dustbin.

  She rummaged around a bit more and came up with a lone packet of Knorr’s Chicken Sweet Corn Soup. ‘Aur yeh?’

  I said this too now belonged in the bin.

  Kajal hovered uncertainly. It was against her nature to throw away any food which was not spoilt. Actually, it was against her nature to throw away even spoilt food, and I had to practically ban her from consuming stale leftovers. But then, I changed my mind and decided this was my last chance to eat some non-vegetarian food for a while, and so I asked her to whip up something edible from this raw material while I put Peanut down for a nap.

  By the time Vijay returned with his parents, I was feeling a little sick from having gulped down two pancakes, three scrambled eggs and a large bowl of chicken soup. We stood waiting in the hall as the party from the airport arrived – Kajal glowing with the satisfaction of having avoided food wastage and me swaying with nausea, my face a delicate shade of green.

  Mummyji and Papaji arrived with just one simple, old-fashioned little grey suitcase. Papaji stood tall at his over-six-feet-two height that Vijay had inherited, and as he walked through the door, the house suddenly looked even smaller. Mummyji, tiny in comparison, but eager to see the place, came in and looked around curiously. The first comment she made to my gratification was, ‘Wah, kitna sundar ghar hain.’

  They were very impressed with the ocean view. Vijay threw open the drawing room windows for the full effect. Peanut then woke up from her nap and cried out, and I went to retrieve her from her bassinet in the other room. When I brought her in, there was a touching little reunion, although a lot more enthusiasm was shown by the doting grandparents than the grumpy baby.

  The first two days were nice. Mummyji and Papaji settled down well. Zarreena diffidently did the cooking, avoiding onions and garl
ic like the plague, and her quickness and efficiency were much appreciated. Kajal tried to edge me out of my role as tea-maker by consistently offering to make a cuppa for Papaji before I could, and repeatedly told Mummyji about Peanut and her various superhuman abilities. Peanut herself started getting used to her grandparents and would gurgle happily at them, and got treated to the kind of massage that only a dadi can give. Vijay and I were being carefully polite to each other, so that no hint of a problem was evident to his parents.

  It was a fine, tenuous balance. The kind that never lasts.

  Mummyji, with her keen interest in all things culinary, was always curious about the diet of different people. To this end, she questioned Kajal one evening, while they were sitting in the drawing room, as to what kind of food was usually cooked in my mother’s house in Delhi. She had correctly presumed Kajal to be the authority on the subject, given her long-standing and neverending stint with my family.

  However, Kajal was not taking any chances – she too, like Zarreena, had been impressed by the disposal of all the alcohol and non-veg food in the house for this parental visit, and wanted to do her bit to avoid trouble.

  So she immediately replied with enthusiasm that my family was the type who would not even dream about touching non-vegetarian food, not even eggs. Why, even onion was sparingly used in our house, she said piously, adding that since she herself had personally done the cooking in our house for a number of years, she would know.

  Mummyji was taken aback at this rather extreme response, because it was contrary to her impression so far. She asked, in that case, what type of pure vegetarian food did actually get eaten?

  This question left Kajal momentarily flabbergasted. Although we had a fair variety of vegetarian food in our diet as well, under pressure she could not think of something safe to say and ended up mumbling in confusion, ‘Tamatar.’