The husband has been rejecting most of my blog posts for the last couple of times. No, he is not the proofreader, in fact, he doesn’t read any of my posts; but on days when my gut says that I could get him in trouble, I seek his validation and eventual rejection.
So much so, that I have started to feel that his first response to everything is a No.
“Can you get some Cookie Man brandysnaps from so and so mall?”
“Can we go to Kashmir?”
“Can you cook?”
“Can you sing a song?”
“Can you share my posts, at least?”
“The ones in which you say you insult me? No”.
So, it had been ten days that a local mela had been at full swing. My neighbors had visited the mela more than once and they couldn’t stop bragging about the kitchen utilities at dirt cheap price, the poisonously sweet jalebees, the brave men in maut ka kooan, and everything else that a mela has.
I am not the nagging kind. I couldn’t bring myself to ask the husband to come to the mela with me. In my head, he was lecturing me already. I devised a fool-proof plan. My neighbors were with me on it.
My friend and my local guide, Kamli, was super excited. She promised to take me. She got me things which the husband cunningly said weren’t available, like meetha paan or an Amazon delivery.
She rode around on her motorbike day in day out and she was never alone. There were always two people going pillion with her.
So, when I asked her if I was the only one going with her, she said, “Na, na, didi bhi aayengi”. She sensed fear on my face and confidently said, “Aap daro mat, main panch logo ko leke bhi gayi hu. Main tanki pe aa jati hu phir” (It strangely reminded me of the gymnast bikers on our Republic Day Parade. I was pretty sure I would be hanging somewhere on the bike). She also suggested a dress code.
On the eventful day, I told the husband that I was going to the local mela with Kamli. He was both stunned and dumb founded; actually one led to the other (He couldn’t say no so he muttered, “go safe”).
Kamli, Kamli’s mother, and I zoomed on her motorbike like rogues let loose.
Once we reached the mela, there was no looking back. I stuffed myself with bhel, golgappas, and sugarcane juice, and jalebees, while the Yezdis and the Maruti 800s raced against gravity in the maut ka kooan. I also threw myself on the pirates’ ship while Kamli’s mother waved at us.
As I unwillingly left the mela, I packed some maghai paan for the both of us, and promised to return soon sometime.
There are some days which are just out of the ordinary, that which you would want to keep with you forever; this was one such day.