Not Likely

Lets Talk About *** Baby!

"You know Mrs. Dhandekar?"

"Yeah."

"Her son is getting married. To some model."

"Wow."

"I know. Can you believe it?"

"Is she hot? Then yes." I said idly, scrolling through my feed as Ma got her hair done by the stylist.

She gave me a look. "Yes. She's very good-looking. But she's British-Indian. You know how that crowd is."

I rolled my eyes and went back to my feed. When I had gotten back from a busy day of work, Ma had wrangled my bath towel off my hands to take me to the salon for some 'pampering' (for her). I hate people touching my hair, hands, or feet so I respectfully but firmly declined the stylists from venturing near me but was a willing and cooperative companion to her shenanigans.

"What are you looking at?" she asked me.

"Huh? Oh, just looking at what to buy for Rita. You want to buy something together?"

If you guys can throw your minds back to a few weeks ago, you would remember this cousin of mine called Rita who bravely introduced her white boyfriend Chris to my uncle during a Sangeet party. Of course, this news spread like wildfire across the entire society, and Uncle, after asking Rita if she had lost her mind, resignedly agreed to this wedding.

This affair was going to take place in two weeks and Ma had already begun her 'getting ready' journey while I was being the victim of several targeted ads for 'Wedding gifts'.

Should I just give them cash?

Or tickets to Iceland.

God knows I want one.

"You get. Dad and I are giving her jewelry."

Great. Now, I have to think of an inappropriate gift.

Due to the lateness of the hour, the salon was almost empty so Ma had all the time to speak to me.

"You won't talk to Dad?" she asked, looking at me from the mirror.

I gave the mirror a flat look. "He talked to me?"

She tutted. "Both of you are so alike. So much ego."

"He insulted me, what do you mean, I have ego?"

She placed a placating hand on my shoulder. "Forgive him, no. He speaks whatever he wants sometimes."

"Both of you do that", I corrected.

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes. For you, only your boyfriend always makes sense now, no."

I grimaced at the mirror. "No."

"So? He doesn't make sense too?" she asked, her eyes lighting up with curiosity. Since my vehement refusal to bring said 'boy' home, she has been pouncing on any tiny titbit I happened to remark about him- and let me tell you, it's all been work-related. I do not think about him in a personal way, okay?

I don't. It's all croissant under the bridge.

Wait what?

Anyway, whenever she asks me questions like this, I knew she was itching to launch a full interrogation about him. Kudos to Geeta Aunty, she refrains.

"He makes sense", I said grudgingly. "Too much sometimes. That's aggravating."

"Well, if I know one thing it's that you're the smartest of them all", Ma said loyally. "So if he does too much, slap him with your intellect."