An hour earlier I had met the uncle being criticised so, and he'd complained non-stop, "Go for a walk," she tells me. "Arre, I don't want to go for a walk. All the nerves in her head are creating a short circuit and her brains are fried," diagnosed the old man.
Once inside he muttered that he'd refused a friend's invitation to join him for a drink because we were on our way, and he may as well have gone if he'd known we'd stand him up like this.
Conciliatory, at the dinner table we offered him the drinks menu. I asked the aunt, "What will you have?"
"Water," he replied on her behalf, even as she wrested his cane from his grip and leaned it against the sofa.
Anando and I exchanged smiles.
Forty years ago, they got married, after our aunt fought to convince her rich ghoti family because she had fallen in love with a bangal man.
Four minutes ago, our aunt said as an interlude to her grumbling, "When I see all these old men I still think your Pishe is much more handsome."
Exactly three years ago, Anando and I got married.
Forty years later, I wonder where we'll be!
