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| Kishore Singh Can we outlaw in-laws? |
| Kishore Singh / New Delhi Oct 10, 2009, 00:40 IST |
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Whenever my wife goes to Jaipur, which is often, I know evil lurks afoot. So when she hotfooted it to the Pink City bang in the middle of the week, ignoring an Important Dinner where Celebrities would be present, I could feel the cold hand of dread reach out and squeeze my heart, leaving me not a little breathless, and mindful of the future.
It wasn’t long in coming, and the shape of it was familiar. “Mummy isn’t looking well,” she said over the phone, the unsaid implication being “I’m bringing her with me.” “I hope you remember our son is visiting for Diwali,” I said, implying, “There’s space in your heart, true, but none in our house, alas.” Lest it be interpreted that I’m less than fond of my mother-in-law, let it be known that I’d rather share my bar with her than, say, Cruella Deville on a dalmatian-hunting day, but that’s neither here nor there since the one is a real and the other a mythical person.
“It was just a thought,” sighed my wife, “the poor dear, rattling around all alone in this big house.” “True,” I tut-tutted sympathetically, “but better than being cooped up in our tiny apartment.” And so the matter rested till my wife called to say she had decided to return along with her brother by air, since he thought it more convenient for his mother to fly than take the bus. “Why, is she going to the States with him?” I asked. “No, just coming to Delhi to see him off,” replied my wife, “following which she’ll return, after she’s rested at home, of course, for a few days.” “Poor old biddy,” I said — for I am sentimental — “you should let her rest in her own house rather than tire her out.”
I’m really, actually as caring of my wife’s mother as she is of our home, which she treats as an extension of her own, though she’s less careful about causing damage here than there. The way she orders our servants, you’d think they reported to her, and can sometimes sulk when the table is not laid to her bidding, or shout if the bed is made a few seconds late, or threaten them with termination of service if the bath water is warm rather than tepid. “It’s because she doesn’t think of you as a son-in-law,” my wife once explained to me. “It’s because no son of hers would allow her the same liberty,” I’d retorted then.
But now, my brother-in-law had booked her ticket “by mistake”, but “don’t worry, he’s cancelling it — though it’s breaking her heart”, my wife said. “She must get used to it,” I said, conscious that a diabolic plot was being hatched and mindful of nipping it in the bud. “I’ll call you from the airport,” said my wife icily, forgetting — or refraining — from the usual spousal exchange of affection that terminates our conversations.
When I hadn’t heard from her in the evening, I called her mobile to find it was switched off. Figuring the flight was late, I only began to worry when several hours later it still remained out of range. Concerned, I called travel agents, flight information, the airport, but no one could tell me with any authority about airline arrivals from Jaipur, and I worried that my brother-in-law would fail to catch his connection and arrive to spend the night.
When my wife finally walked in through the door, I asked her why her phone was unreachable. “Because I was talking with mummy, I forgot to switch it on, silly,” she replied. “But how could you talk to your mother with the phone switched off?” I demanded. “Like this,” she said, pulling her mother from behind her back, “face to face.”
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