Password.

Note- Password is short story(It is kind of long). So it will come out in parts. Also,this story doesn’t include a maid.

Biju had been twenty nine when he’d first met Rama. Dressed in a peacock blue salwar suit she had emerged out with a tray. She started serving him and his parents tea. This was the custom. Arranged marriages were the norm then. Anyone who had done a love marriage in that era was looked at with bewilderment today for having taken such a bold step.

Rama wasn’t the first girl Biju had wanted to marry. During his engineering days, Biju, a young boy of twenty had dreamt of marrying Shreya. Shreya was the most popular girl in class. Dark hair, hazel brown eyes and her laugh would paralyze the entire lot of boys in the class. Biju had started liking her in the 2nd semester. In the 4th semester he managed to gather up some courage and tell her about his feelings. It didn’t go well. She ran out of the room and pretended it never happened. Biju told no one about this. In the 8th semester,Biju found out that Shreya was set to marry a guy. He was older than her, had a job in reputed bank. The girls in the class would endlessly tease her and she’d blush. Biju felt angry. He was not the kind of guy who kept grudges but this,hurt. Biju forgave Shreya on her wedding day when he saw her husband to be. He chuckled in his head. “This is the guy she chose?”, he wanted to say out loud.

He remembered this when he saw Rama. She was exactly opposite of Shreya. She had curly hair. He couldn’t wrap his head around the directions it flew in. She had long curled eyelashes and she looked at him softly but with confidence. Rama wasn’t an engineer. She had finished her M.A in sociology. There wasn’t much age gap between them. They were allowed some time alone to decide if they liked each other. They said yes.

Their marriage in it’s initial run was fun. Like any newly wed they would look forward for their day to end,so they could be with each other. Rama would go to the office in the morning after she had cooked for both of them. She would return by 5pm. Biju would come home soon after that. They’d go for a walk together and talk about their favourite Jagjit Singh and the books they had read before they had met. Sometimes dinner was followed by a round of ice-cream that Rama would make and freeze in the fridge from a store bought pack. They would take trips to Khandala and stay there for the entire weekend. They’d go by train as they couldn’t afford a car yet. Occasionally both of their parents would come to visit. On such days, they would give the bedroom to their parents and sleep on the living room floor¬† by arranging an extra mattress. The flat they were living in was bought by pitching in money from both the sides so there were no fights about money as such.

Life was going faster than they had planned when Rama found out she was pregnant. She was already a month in. Rama was excited. She hoped Biju would be excited too. That night Rama waited in bed for Biju. There was a different vibe in the house. It seemed so full of memories. Memories they had made in a short span of two years. She looked around their bedroom. Suddenly, she imagined a toddler walking around the house. The walls dirty with random sketches. Wondering what her son would grow up to be. An IAS she thought. Then she decided that she would let her son be whatever he wanted to. “What if he wants to be a rock band player with long hair?”, she said out loud. She realized she was all alone and patiently waited. Biju came home. Rama was blushing.

“What?”, he asked.

“Nothing.”, she blushed.

Biju climbed into the bed and approached her. “Something funny Mrs. Biju?”

Before she could reply, Biju had started tickling her. The house was full of happy screams. “Stop it Biju!” As the laughter died down slowly they both chuckled sporadically for a few minutes. They both lay side by side.

“I’m pregnant”,Rama whispered.


To read part 2- click here.

 

 

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Make Spit while the sun shines!

Mumbaikars, forever stuck in an angsty teen rebel stage like to live life on their own terms! First came buying of Maggi packets before they go off shelves so you can stock them up and eat it despite being hazardous, then came the meat ban that raised a lot of voices, then came the rumour of alcohol ban and then came the four tough days where people weren’t allowed to consume meat to respect someone’s cultural practices. We saw it all, we abused, we wrote, We spoke, we protested, we spat in disgust. Hold on, hold your spit in because spitting might soon cost you a lot more than pneumonia or other respiratory tract diseases.

While travelling in an auto rickshaw in the suburbs of Mumbai my rickshaw was stuck in a never ending signal in front of IIT Mumbai. The driver took this oppurtunity to bring out the Leonardo Di Caprio within him, took a long drag and spat his chest out on the road. Disgusted by the sticky sight I gasped and clenched my teeth holding back my vomit. I decided to educate my auto driver and told him not to spit. “You will have to pay a thousand rupees fine and work at a government office for a day and the penalty keeps increasing if you are caught again after that.”

He smirked and looked at me through the mirror as if indirectly conveying that he already knew the rules and said, ” Don’t worry Madam, the police has a holiday today. No one’s going to catch me today.”