Ted and Joan
As a child I’d watch Small Wonder on our Onida TV and gasp at the sheer audacity of Ted as he locked Joan in a tight embrace and kissed her lips in front of their kids. I would close my eyes just enough to steal a glimpse through little slits between my lids. “You will burn in dozak if you watch American shows,” my maulvi would say. “Hot, hot, melted mirrors will be poured into your eyes,” he’d say matter-of-factly stroking his rather puny beard. My eight year old self would stare at him in disbelief. “Mirrors don’t melt,’” I’d think to myself, completely missing his point. Curiosity always got in the way of my indoctrinated fear of the afterlife. It still does.
I have never seen my mum and dad hug or hold hands. All their photographs have them standing next to each other with unrealistically erect spines and the most awkward smiles known to mankind. They are too shy and a tad too self-conscious for public declarations of love. They had an arranged marriage at eighteen and had their first child (me) at nineteen. Their post marital courtship period was rudely interrupted by a screaming, pooping (albeit ridiculously cute) baby. And they had three more in short succession. Somewhere along the way, romance was lost in a pile of cloth diapers. Being part of a joint family didn’t help matters.
Their love was not the kind I’d see in movies. Dad never went down on one knee to propose. He never sent mum flowers on birthdays or anniversaries. He loathed Western holidays and believed it was sinful to celebrate them. Even today, he cuts his birthday cake on Eid, which he insists is his real birthday according to the Islamic calendar. Mum and dad never celebrated Valentine’s day, astagfirullah!
And so, I learned about love in scarce, titrated doses. Dad was always “Sana ke daddy” for mom and mom was “Sana ki mummy”. They would never call each other by their names. But when no one was around, mum would call him ‘Channu’. I have no idea of its origin. It’s an inside joke only they share.
There were times they’d bond over common hatred of an annoying relative; dad’s imitation of said relative leaving mom in splits.
I’d wake up early for school and catch them spooning like pandas – all their barriers put to rest by sleep. Love always finds a way.
One summer holiday, dad decided to take us on a road trip from Mumbai to our hometown in Bareilly. The trains were full and mom was missing her parents.
Mum and Dad went to Hindi medium schools – a shame in this heavily colonized country of ours. It’s a strange kinship they have, a pain only they know. I remember them taking me to Sterling to watch Hollywood movies, where they’d struggle to understand the language. They’d speak to each other in hushed tones, trying to piece together the plot.
I got my love in strict portions and now it gushes out unexpectedly. It is, perhaps, the reason I kiss my husband of five years twenty times a day. My hand always seems to find his in crowded places; and it fits. We also spoon like pandas in bed, but while we’re wide awake.
Today I go home to visit mum and dad as they sit lazing in bed. Dad is helping mom type a reply on her Singing Class Whatsapp group. “Very naice pic,” he types. They sit together to eat missi ki roti, ghee and hari chutney – a dish that mum has taken great pains to make because dad had a craving.
They are companions who have been through everything together – family feuds, four teenagers, two failed businesses, illness, and deaths of parents. They have stuck by each other during the perfect times and the not-so-perfect times in their marriage. It’s not textbook love. But I’d like to believe that somewhere, in a parallel universe, they are Ted and Joan.
They look extraordinarily cute today so I click a candid from mum’s phone. I open Whatsapp to forward it to myself when I happen to glance at a message from dad. ‘happy ballantine day,’ it says.