Page 25 - Love Story of a Commando

and now had turned out as respectable shop walas. In my school days, they
had shamelessly hovered around me, circling around me on their bikes while
some ogled at me, standing in a nook or under a tree.
I had loathed them once, but now I found them adorable.
They looked at me like I was a diva, way out of their league. The
cold drinks would never stop arriving and snack plates would be filled at
those weddings. The nostalgia was really overwhelming. They never judged
me for my cooking skills or marital status, just put me on a higher pedestal.
It felt great.
But my mom and Gupta aunty shot me disapproving looks and soon
my mother stopped taking me to weddings. Perhaps her ideas about finding
the perfect groom at weddings, like it happens in Bollywood, were shattered.
I would sleep for hours, soaking my soft pillow with saliva, getting
up way past afternoon. Brush slowly and blast music while bathing. The
room would be a mess and most of my clothes were usually on the floor
instead of in the wardrobe. Not that I needed many, my shorts and ‘I don’t
care’ printed tee would suffice for days.
My mother had now relegated to me the task of bringing home the
groceries, accompanying her for vegetable shopping from the weekly haat
and witness the ultimate adventures of robbing the poor sabjiwala over a stiff
bargain and extra nimbu-mirchi. I would also quickly run to the local sweet
shop for samosa and rosgulle if any unannounced guest would visit us. I felt
truly accomplished now that I was helping my mom and most importantly,
my mother suddenly thought of me as an important and responsible person.
No degree can ever raise you in your mother’s eyes as much as a
simple round of vegetable shopping can do.
Often, I would slip out of my house for sutta breaks in the most
abandoned nooks of my colony. Despite the disgusted looks from the
shopkeeper, who also sold cigarettes to my father, those sutta shots felt very
fulfilling. But he never told on me, being a true professional.
One day, I was smoking under the neighbourhood banyan tree when
Gupta aunty saw me. She had come to light her Shani Dev ka diya laden
with pure mustard oil, believed to ward off the evil eye. I don’t know about
Gupta aunty, but Shani Dev definitely looked pleased with me. After that
incident, Gupta aunty’s groom hunting for me stopped altogether, and she
even stopped visiting our house. Thankfully, she never said anything to
Mom. It was not like I was a smoker. I only did it because I was bored.
God never shuts all doors at once. Just when you think you’re in the
middle of doomsday, he will show you the path to salvation or send some
angel to drag you out of your misery. And this happened to me. Finally, I got
my joining dates and would soon be on a plane to the city which never
sleeps—Mumbai.