There is a smell of spiced milk in the house and his wife is wearing a pale pink sari that brings out the colour of her cheeks. She has a rose tucked in her hair. She is a small but spirited woman. In the evenings, she sings songs that make his heart stop.
There is some function at home, the pandits move around wearing silk dhotis in purple and gold. He doesn’t buy their pretentious sounding chants and it angers him that his wife calls them anyway. But he knows if he tells her she’ll say, “To each their own. If you don’t believe, do that silently.”
It is a ceremony to ward off evils. He goes out in the balcony to stay out of everyone’s way. His son is going to be married soon and the pandits feel that before such an occasion, it is of great importance that any lurking spirits be removed. He wants to smoke a cigarette but he can imagine never hearing the end of that from his wife. She comes and taps him on his shoulder, “Don’t stand here like a guest. Come and help in the living room. Also, don’t forget you’re the father of the groom. Your presence is required at all times.” Her Hindi is sprinkled with English words. It makes him smile when she talks like that. She thinks he is mocking her. She turns around and walks away in a huff.
His son is wearing a crisp white kurta and is sitting cross legged on the floor. He keeps using his phone until his mother comes and takes it away from him. She whispers something, her eyes blazing. His son nods silently. Relatives walk around the home offering advice and making suggestions. The women keep offering to make tea. The men pat the son on his back and make marriage related jokes. He watches all this from a distance, feeling neither out of place nor completely involved.
The rituals start and he grudgingly sits near the fire between his wife and son. The pandit asks them to hold hands and repeat some chant. His wife clutches his elbow and he thinks of how she would do that when they were newly married and went for a walk. Her hand is cold despite the heat. The ceremony goes on for the good part of an hour. By the time it’s over, his back is drenched with sweat. His wife touches the feet of the pandits and urges them to stay for lunch. They agree and she busies herself with the food.
They leave after lunch, their hands full with fruits and gifts that his wife insists that they take. The relatives eat and leave, giving the son their blessings. His wife sits on the sofa and massages her feet. She talks animatedly about the ceremony and the people.
He falls asleep listening to her lively chatter and when he wakes up, it’s evening. She hands him a mug of tea and chides him for being nothing but a lazy husband who makes his wife run around. He tells her he didn’t even ask for the tea, but she makes exasperated sounds and walks away.
When he thinks of her, he thinks of her like she is in this moment. Holding tea and making jibes at him. They both know that soon enough, she’ll come sit with him to watch snippets of whatever he is watching on TV. He knows that she’ll make comments but she’ll watch it anyway. He knows he’ll grumble but will hate it if she stops.
She always demands details of his day when he comes home from work and insists he do a little yoga every evening with her.
He doesn’t admit it to her, but he secretly enjoys it.