Butterflies and Hurricanes

Hello there, dear readers

On Astha’s 29th birthday, I’ve been given the chance to contribute to her blog as a guest writer. Given the fact that only two others in her life have been invited to write in before me, it’s a matter of great honour and pleasure for me. I had fun writing it but more fun watching her read it. I hope you do too.

Cheers,
V (the husband)

Astha’s a cheery, effervescent woman with an innate ability to be warm and affable. If you’re her friend, you probably best remember her infectious giggles, witty catchphrases, and shrill cries of excitement. You’ve maybe even worked or studied with her in the past and hold fond memories of that time. You know that whenever you talk to her, your current conversation about the lack of salt in yesterday’s dal could well be followed up thirty seconds later by a discussion on how baby elephants often trip on their own trunks.

If you’re a really close friend, then you probably know that there’s a lot more happening underneath all those mousy sounds and squeaks. You’ve most likely, at one point or another, seen her break into tears out of sheer sadness or happiness or something in between. You’ve let her address you by an unavoidable sobriquet that is usually a shorter, cuter version of your original given name. What’s most important is that you’ve shared many teas and Maggis with her.

If, however, you stayed for good, to explore all the tall, gargantuan, intricately framed windmills of her mind with a feeling of unaccountable amazement and effortless compassion, then you likely are married to her and share your home with her. Check your right hand for a platinum ring that you’ve sworn to wear until the final flames of your life. See it? You’re the one then! You did it! You’re her person.

As the president and sole member of the ‘Married to Astha Prakash’ club, one of the many privileges you enjoy is taking your meals with her. And if you’ve done it for about a year now, you know that the first (and most important, as some say) meal of the day is where the trouble starts. You’ll see her awake hesitantly from her deep slumber and groan about the planet not being fair to its inhabitants or some such. When she talks to you, she’ll look away from you so whatever post-slumber ‘evil’ resides in her mouth doesn’t reach you. For the same reason, she’ll hesitate to kiss you until she has ‘brushed’. But the poor thing won’t know that her efforts to evade your touch are all going in vain, because, whether you sense the ‘evil’ or not, you’ll kiss her anyway. You don’t care.

When she’s finally up, you’ll wait for her to be done with her ablutions (‘ablu’). But wait. You can’t just sit there and wait idly while she’s at it. You’d better get the tea (or coffee) ready before she’s out. And remember: it’s always tea on paratha days.

If you’re dining at the table together, it means the weather isn’t insufferable that day. She might draw the curtains in the large hall window to let more light in. However, if it’s noisy outside because of the traffic, you’ll find her in a sulk. Halfway into your breakfast you’ll find her picking at her food after her first bite with a woebegone expression about her face, as if the end of the world has just been announced. If you sit quietly, you could be forced to talk. If you sing or whistle, you may be asked to shut it. Tread carefully. All you have to do is broach the right topic at the right moment. It’s not as hard as you think. Oh, and don’t be startled if, during breakfast, you hear Astha making strange sounds. It could sound like an angry banshee, or the war cry of a Kenyan tribe, or something entirely alien. It’s perfectly normal.

When Astha gets dressed up, you might often catch her dropping everything including her hair comb to perform a quick solo dance in front of the mirror. It’s usually a Bollywood dance step to go with that inescapable tune that’s playing in her head. There’s no need to be alarmed; it passes in a few minutes. You may dance along with her if you like. If you press her to get ready faster when she’s just remembered to do something, she’ll say flatly, ‘Hold’, which is an unequivocal abridgement of the phrasal verb, ‘hold on’. But obviously, you knew that, right?

When you both get to the car, her magic hands will somehow time the pulling of the door handle with your disarming of the door lock, thus leaving her stranded on the wrong side of a half-unlocked door with a sheepish look on her face. On your way, she’ll disapprovingly ask you to get your mobile phone out of your butt pocket to play some music. She might pick ‘Wakhra Swag’ or ‘Aaj jaane ki zid na karo’ or ‘Ma dernière chance’ depending on her mood. If an old AR Rahman tune dubbed in Tamil comes on, she’ll fiercely defend its Bollywood roots. Your arguments then will be utterly moot.

If it’s a weekday and you’re picking her up on your way home, you’d better turn your loud music or podcast off as you near her office building (especially if it’s that Michael Annis’ voice). The chances are she’ll want to get in and tell you all about her day rather than listen to music. In good time, you’ll tell her about your day too. Soon, you’ll get back home and change into your pyjamas. Invariably, she’ll comment on the colour of your pyjamas and t-shirt, or the lack thereof. You’ll brush aside her comments, walk up to the kitchen and ask the cook to make you both some tea. It’s you who is craving that cup of tea but still, you’ll phrase it tactfully to hide it, ‘Didi has had a long day and would like some tea. Could you?’

If Astha has indeed had a rough day, she’ll make it known to you by throwing a fit. Every move of yours at that point will be scrutinised and judged. Make the wrong move—like toss your socks away, throw your phone on the bed, or chew too loudly—and she’ll read you the riot act. Make another wrong move—like offer her what you’re eating more than once—and you’ll hear a siren from her mouth, ‘Vigneeessh!’ On a call with her mum you’ll hear her fume about her day at work in ‘pyjama-Hindi’. She’ll begin the call with a resigned ‘Mummmyyyy!’ and tell her how mean the world was to her. Depending on whether she’s speaking or listening after that, her eyelids will change their pace of blinking. If she’s speaking, they’ll resemble a car’s turn indicators. But if she’s listening intently, they’ll resemble a camera shutter in burst mode.

But both you and Astha know weekends are more peaceful though. When the weekend comes you’ll stay in bed all day, goof around, play a slow video game, have sambar rice with potato curry for lunch, and watch silly videos, including numerous episodes of The Office. Oh, and speaking of videos, she’ll expect you to do accents for her on camera. And you being you, will push her camera away grumpily and say you can’t do accents to save your life. You’ll stay in all day but step out for a couple of hours in the evening, as if just to tell others that you too went out to the mall or wherever, like normal people. You’ll even make that very joke about the mandatory weekend sortie every time you step out at the weekend.

Occasionally, you’ll visit the nearby cinema to watch a Hollywood film. And when you do, you’ll get cheese popcorn (her favourite) with just a fine layer of caramel popcorn (your favourite) along with two cups of coffee. As always, the quantity of caramel popcorn in it will be a bit too much and the coffee will be tasteless. You’ll have it anyway. When you’re seated in the movie hall, you’ll find her promptly silencing her phone and telling you to do the same. When you’re forced to stand up for the national anthem, you’ll hear a groan of protest coming from her direction. You won’t say anything but you’ll smile gently because you know exactly what she wants to say. And when the movie’s finally playing and the popcorn is all over, she’ll ease her hand into yours and lean on your arm lightly. And that’s when you’ll lean towards her too, tighten your grip over slender fingers, and smile to yourself in silent exultation.