Kishore Singh: Cracking the hush-hush code

My father-in-law was a Mason, my mother-in-law showed signs of dipsomania, and my wife is a member of a cult gang. She's also a fellow of several kitty groups, whose members we are acquainted with, if not personally, through appraisals of their habits and mannerisms. Mrs Batra belches, Sweety Malhotra owes money, Savitri cheats on her husband, and Bakshi Aunty has had botox done. Sarla, despite her advanced age, continues to threaten to do headstands after a few glasses of wine, but I know that anyway because her husband is a friend, and no one takes one takes her seriously any more. One of these days though, I fear she will carry out her threat, which is why I always invite the doctor who lives near by to our parties, but he's convinced that she's all talk and no action.
 

My wife's secret coven, though, is something she does not share with any of us. Meetings are set up covertly. Names of members are never dropped. What do they eat? Or discuss? For someone who has an opinion about everything, and everyone, my wife's reticence is as strange as it is mysterious. Conversations on the phone are carried out outside of anyone's hearing, and abruptly cut short should I or the children walk into the room. My father-in-law had to wear a costume to his meetings and practised a hush-hush code of greeting, but I have found nothing in my wife's wardrobe that is out of the ordinary.

Yet, I know odd things are afoot. At the start of the week, my wife suggested I catch up on work outside the city since she planned to invite home a bunch of friends she didn't think I would be interested in meeting. "Sarla?" I asked, "Beena and Lily?" "No, no," she said, "it's no one you know." "Then it must be your Saturday Sisterhood," I giggled - all her kitty groups have names - but she said it wasn't a kitty cluster. "Must be your school gang," I hazarded, "or visiting college friends." "Stop fishing," she admonished me, "it's a group of, er, acquaintances that you don't know."

Fortunately for her, I was booked for an office offsite over the weekend, but in the days leading up to it, my wife went about her planning clandestinely, further piquing my interest. "What will you cook?" I asked her, normally a subject guaranteed to set her off about menu planning and recipes, and how her parties are better than my mother's. "Oh, just something," she said, though all manner of produce continued to be sneaked into the house. "I can suggest some cocktails," I suggested. "No, it all right," she said. "If it's a large group, I could ask for the bartender," I offered. "If I need your help, I'll ask for it," she snapped.

Calls were made and received at unexpected times. The doorbell rang with suspicious parcels that were stashed away unopened and shopping trips resulted in still more packages. But any worry that my wife was part of some cloak-and-dagger occult group was laid to rest when I asked the domestic staff to help with some friendly espionage for a little consideration. "Sahib," the cook said, "Madam is arranging for some party to meet people with eligible children to marry Baba and Baby." I've left home in considerable relief, though it's time our children started worrying if they're not to be hitched to someone their mother met for coffee and a covert conversation.