IT’S PUNNY OOPS, I MEAN FUNNY!

No Puns Intended
It’s Punny Oops, I mean Funny!

NAMITA DAS
 ISBN 978-81-947146-7-5
Copyright © Namita Das, 2020
It’s Punny Oops, I Mean Funny!
Namita Das

First published in India 2020 by

FRATECLAT PVT. LTD.
ADA, Shahjamal, Aligarh
Uttar Pradesh (202001)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system—except by a reviewer who
may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web— without prior permission in
writing from the publishers.
Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure the accuracy and completeness of information contained
in this book, we assume no responsibility for errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or any inconsistencies herein. Any slights on
people, places, or organizations are unintentional.
Typeset in Sabon LT Std at 11pt
by Danish Khan for Kiwi Books India (Frateclat Pvt. Ltd.)
Printed in India
To find out more about our authors and books visit
www.kiwibooks.in
Email: info@kiwibooks.in
 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Writing this book was a long journey; outlined chapters, edited and
re-edited, manuscript approved, formatted, polished, but in all this
completely forgot one thing. The gratification note, for all who supported
me in this crazy writing voyage.

To start with, thanks to Kiwi Books India for a last-minute reminder

to write a note and for being a part of my debut authoring venture.

Coming to the personal front, let's talk about the person whom I
gave the real deal stress but he still preferred to stick by me; my dear hubby,
Amit Das. He has always supported and pushed me to boot up my laptop
and go click click click click on Microsoft word. He signed up for it so that
he could get a few hours of alone time when I locked myself up in the room
busy writing. Smartie, Huh!

I also want to thank all my friends and readers who instilled

confidence and encouraged me to continue writing. Be it a quote, a blog, or
a book, they were always there cheering for me. Guys, Thank you so much!

Before ending this note, I want to remember a special person who

brought me into this world and taught me to write and read. For all her
efforts, any kind of thankfulness will not suffice. I know, wherever she is
right now she would still be blessing me with good fortune and success.

It is so thrilling, we could make it happen. This debut book of mine

was released on 15th January, her birthday. “Happy Birthday, Mummy!”
 Writers’ block is real, it’s confusing and stressing but the only
solution is pumping out words every day however silly the thought is. Just
note it down wherever you can, even if it means using your toothpaste to
write on the bathroom mirror.
- Namita Das
 TABLE OF CONTENTS
- Writing My book
- Decided
- DINK
- Urban Relations
- Use Me
- Plunder Tale
- Diamond Proposal
- Demo Please
- The Alert
- I Saw A Ghost
- Love Express
- Biggest Achievement
- Extortion message
- Deceptive Surprise
- Drink And Drive
- I Too PMS
- Who’s Your Valentine?
- That’s Mom
- Broken Glass
- Comments Unwelcome
- Video Call?
- Bloo Shar
- Hatchback
- The Urban Duplet
- About The Author
 WRITING MY BOOK
Distracted from distraction by distraction.
– T.S. Eliot

I have always dreamt of writing a book. Well, not just a book but a
lot of books. Keeping it simple, I will be happy if even one of them
becomes the world’s bestselling book. Not aiming too high, you see.

“One book, only one bestseller book, God, please.”

“Anu, darling, shouldn’t you first write your book before thinking
of making it a bestseller?” I heard God speaking.
 “Honey, did you hear that?” I turned to Mr. Husband. “I heard
God’s voice, he told me to write a book and it will be a bestseller.”

Mr. Husband quietly looked up from his phone, “Silly, it wasn’t

God, it was I. You were blabbering so loudly about your book which you
have not even started writing but were already launching and selling it. In
fact, you had already made it a bestseller. For that same God’s sake stop
dreaming and start writing. I am telling you, think of me as the epitome of
God.”

“Whatever…” I shrugged him off.

“And please, prattle in your mind, you are disturbing me. I am

unable to concentrate on my online Ludo match.” And he shoved his head
into the phone again, his face glowing in the blue light. Huh, epitome.

It’s 11 PM and like every night I am in bed thinking what should I

write about? What will be my book about?

Today I made up my mind I will finalize my book theme and story.

I ponder and ponder and ponder, then I pick up my phone to search for
some ideas. I open Chrome, which is my favorite browser, type in GOO,
and Voila! It’s auto-filled with the mighty god of all techies ‘google.com’.

Om Namah!! Googalaya Namah!!

I open the page and start punching the keys ‘novel ideas.’ Nah, not
this, I already searched this keyword yesterday. I amend and retype, ‘what
novel sells best?’ There are about 173,000,000 results in front of me. I
muster courage and click on the first link. It is some writing services
website, which has a listing of all the top authors and their books. The first
one has sold 500 million copies. Guess which book it is. Guess, please
guess.

OK, let me tell you it was Harry Potter by J. K. Rowling. Whoah! I

open another Chrome tab and search for the whole book series, recreating
all the book scenes, matching them up with the movie. I feel books were
better than the movie, but then what about Daniel Radcliffe? Oh, my all-
time infatuation! I have grown up crushing on him. Of course, the movie
was better but what was Miss Rowling thinking of when she wrote ‘You-
Know-Who’ the psychopath Lord Voldemort, that nose-less man. Eeeks,
my visualization of that character was even worse when I read the book
than what it looks like in the movie. Reading imparts creative thinking and
gives imaginative liberty. So, I conclude the book was better than the
movie minus Daniel.

I am making sheep’s eyes at Daniel’s image when I realize I am

supposed to be searching for novel ideas. I go back to the previous tab and
check the next one in the list. It’s sold 200 million copies, and the one
below it has sold a little lesser than 150 million copies. Dammit. Ditch
this, let me lower the bar completely, and straightway head to the bottom
of the list, hoping to find something acceptable. Whoa! That one has sold
100 million copies.

My head is spinning. Folks have sold 100 million copies, and here
I am unable to write one book. I scrolled completely to the end of the
page, where there was a small hyperlink saying ‘Publish with Us’. I
deliberate with myself. Yup, I will keep this particular website in mind,
bookmark it in my favorites. You never know, my book will also be on
their list one day. I will unquestionably, come back here for my research,
as soon as my book is ready to publish.

I close the browser and at once proceed to Instagram, in need of

some mental relaxation. Nowadays Instagram is better than Facebook,
with a lot of informational videos and posts, but the secret is, it is not the
posts. The best part is the followers. I love it when people follow me, so
the first thing I check is my notifications.

‘Wow, I have a new follower.’ I go to my profile page to see the

follower count; it must have increased by one. But wait! ‘What? Why?
Who unfollowed me? Why is the number reduced by two in the last hour?
I have one new follower, but my count is less by two and my brain has
started some complicated mathematics. Gosh, I came here for amusement
and got jumbled up in this calculus.

‘Forget it; let’s stalk some people.’ I start scrolling through the
feed, double-clicking randomly on every picture passing by. All done, I
look at Mr. Husband who is fast asleep, snoring at the peak of his pitch. I
put on my earmuffs to cut down the decibels and look at the time. It’s
12:30 AM already. I should rather go to sleep. I put my phone down, close
my eyes, and start counting sheep.

‘Sleeping Beauty, bless me with some sleep,

I am counting sheep, yet I cannot sleep.’

I am humming in my mind when suddenly, I recall with a flash,

‘Did I pay my electricity bill?’

Again, I fetch my foe gadget, ditching Sleeping Beauty. I log in to

my internet banking, pull out the mini statement. ‘Oh! OK. It was paid 2
days back, and there is also a message of payment received in my inbox.
It was a pointless effort, and on top of it, I again flashed this blue light on
my eyes. Else I would also have been a Sleeping Beauty by now, lost in
my dreams.’

I am about to log out from the internet banking, but a thought

crosses my mind. ‘What is my credit card bill this month? Ah, not much,
I see. Should I just go and buy that dress that is lying in my shopping
cart? I think I should buy it before the price shoots up.’

I quickly switch apps and go to the online shopping app. ‘Oh no!
The price is back to the original one, with no discounts. Shucks, I should
have bought it two days ago. Anyway, I need to buy a new dress, so let’s
scroll to find a replacement for this one.’

I make my way to the dresses tab, then sort it by new arrivals and
start scrolling.
 ‘These are nice, but they are too expensive. Yeah, they are new
arrivals anyway, I will just put the ones I like in my wish list and check
for discounts on them later’.

Then I again go back and sort by discount high to low. ‘What is

this crap? They put huge discounts on everything that is not getting sold.
Cheap stuff.’ I keep scrolling, cursing each dress I see.

‘Hey, this one is nice.’ I stop at the sight of a beautiful red dress -
but to my dismay, it is out of stock for my size. ‘This always happens to
me.’

I go back and sort it from price low to high. OK, this is my bae, I
continue scrolling and scrolling, finding one dress and another, and
another, stuffing them up in the shopping cart. Then I abruptly have an
urge to check matching sandals. Again, I repeat new arrivals, Naah,
discounts high to low, Offo no, price low to high. That’s my bae again. I
push or say throw some sandals and sneakers into the shopping cart; my
exhilaration has no bounds when I am shopping.

‘Should I buy some makeup too?’ And the cycle runs again.

‘Enough now, let’s pay and go to sleep.’ I go to the final payment

page, ‘What in the Heavens did I buy. Such a huge bill. Now, I will have
to remove one dress, and yeah one sandal too. Let’s see, No, it’s still too
much. Anyway, this cut never suited my figure. I will remove this dress
as well.’ And again, look at the final bill. ‘Chuck it, that is still too much.
Anyhow, where will I wear this, there is no occasion. I will quietly go to
sleep now.’

The phone clock was indicating 3 AM and I rightly inferred it was

too late and that I should sleep. Once again, I put the phone down, and
start counting sheep.
 ‘Sorry Sleeping Beauty,
come back and bless me with some sleep,
I will not look at the phone,
I am counting sheep; I want to sleep.’

Instantaneously, I open my eyes. ‘I can wear that dress for my

book launch event, whenever my book gets published. It will look very
prepossessing in pictures. That’s a great idea.’

I pick up my phone once again and go back to the shopping cart

and look at the dress image. ‘Yeah, it’s perfect for an event. Not just any
event, but for my book launch event. I have to look pretty.’

I am about to click pay but I stop, contemplating, ‘But wait. What

should I write in the book that’s going to be launched?’ and I go back to
Chrome and punch in ‘GOO…’
 DECIDED
I love being married. It’s so great to find that one special person you want
to annoy for the rest of your life.
– Rita Rudner

This quote set my mood to write about the irritating but jovial
relationship I share with Mr. Husband. The two main characters in this
book are Mr. Husband and me.

Mr. Husband is a snarky but lovable person. He has the knack to

convert any serious situation into a funny episode. How? That will be
evident as you read through the chapters of our life. By the way,
sometimes I don’t find him amusing but irksome. But don’t you guys
worry about that! Those chapters are not included in the book. It’s taped
in my mind’s recording to be used as future references during any losing
argument. Also, I detest it when he can’t click good pictures of me when I
am dressed in my best glad rags.

Anyway, Mr. Husband’s got enough limelight. Now about myself,

I am Anu and I am just me, a straightforward but balanced person, a good
listener, full of positive vibes, fair by nature, and exceptionally charming.
You can add many other good traits that you like when you are done
reading the book. But keep in mind that the stress is on the word good.
Only ‘good’ traits will be accepted.

Did I hear you call me bossy? Ah, I am just kidding. Er, but I am
damn serious.
 Oh! And how can I forget Mr. Tots? He holds a very special role in
this book and our lives.

I hope you enjoy reading the goings-on in our daily lives and
might as well relate that with your own life. Coz Mr. Husband and I are
just like that next-door urban duplet.
 DINK
Political correctness is tyranny with manners.
– Charlton Heston

A city called Mumbai where people are ever contesting to set up a

career and make a living. A few do manage to get a house of their own
as well. Mr. Husband and I were among those laborious ones who
managed to get one place of residence. Thanks to the magnetic bank loan
EMI plans.

If there was a heaven above seventh, then we were there. These

were the joyous moments of our life. We bragged about it among friends
and family.

Today was the D-Day, for we were shifting in our house. All the
furniture was moved into the house and we were setting up our
customized sofa set when a very curious neighbor peeped through our
door.

“Hello Dear, shifted new here?”

“Hello Aunty, yes. Just shifted. Please come in.”

“Where are your kids?” a direct question was thrown towards me

like a burning arrow.

“No kids, Aunty, it’s only my husband and self in the family.”
 “Oh!” she exhaled audibly as if she discovered that there was no
oil in the well gifted by an Arab.

“You must be newly married then” and a burst of terrible laughter

followed, expressing derision.

“N…” before I could finish, the consort interrupted. “Yeah, Aunty.

Not even a year.”

I looked at him in awe and we shared a little telepathic

conversation. ‘Is it? I thought we are together for close to five years
now.’

He threw a flying kiss at me. ‘That was to shut her up baby’, said
his mind to mine.

Auntie’s curiosity was somewhat relieved. “Hmmm. You guys do

look young.”

I smiled shyly. A two-minute silence followed.

To take the conversation ahead, I prompted, “Who all are at your

home, Aunty?”

“I am sure a lot of kids,” added Mr. Husband, grinning sheepishly.

“Well, yeah kids. My two sons and their wives, with two kids
each, and one daughter who is here with her two daughters for the
summer vacation,” she retorted blithely, counting the members on her
fingers coming up with a total of eleven.

“Wow! You must be having a great time umpiring this cricket

team.” gabbled Mr. Husband.

A long pause ensued during which everyone looked awkwardly at

each other.
 “I have to pick up my grandson. He is out for his cricket practice.”
Aunty rose from her seat and turned to leave.

“OK. See you around Aunty.” I waved goodbye.

‘This Aunty is the first umpire in cricket history to walk out of the
ground, declaring herself out,’ murmured Mr. Husband in my ear as he
waved.

“Bye-Bye, Umpire Aunty.”

 URBAN RELATIONS
The secret of a happy marriage remains a secret.
– Henry Youngman

As usual, I am late for the office again this morning, trying to find
the car keys with one hand in my not-so-organized handbag and the other
adjusting my laptop bag. I was stopped by the same I-am-so-interested-
in-your-life Umpire Aunty.

“Hello Anu, you look great. How do you manage to keep up that
smile? No fights with the hubby, is it?” and she burst into terrible peals
of laughter.

Back came my suave reply, “Who says I don’t fight. My husband

is a monster. We fight every day on petty stuff. Where to buy a house?
Mumbai or Pune. Which car to get next? Fortuner or Audi. Where is the
next trip? Seychelles or Maldives.”

She was startled by my response.

I continued, “It is very taxing to have such arguments every day

without concluding.”

Discontented with the riposte, Aunty opened her mouth again. “I

am sure your mother-in-law will always be in support of her son. I
understand your problem.”

I rejoindered, “Of course. Which mother is unsupportive of her

son? She is always persuading him to take me out for movies or trips so
that she can get the house empty for her kitty parties.”

Before I could say anything else, grumpy Aunty started to leave.

“Dear, I need to pick my grandson from school. Will catch you later.”

I reckoned that I was getting late for the office, too. But it also
came to my mind that what I called strain was probably a dream for most
people. It’s called the new face of urban relationships.
 USE ME
We are all here on earth to help others. What on earth the others are here
for I don’t know.
– W. H. Auden

It was Saturday; I was still trying to catch up with my lost sleep

after my hectic weekdays. But there it goes…

Tring Tring!

I picked the ringing gadget, cursing Graham Bell. It was my

mindless gang, ready for an obtuse beach outing. They were waiting
outside my house, beeping the horn loud enough to get me a noise
pollution notice from the neighbors especially Umpire Aunty. I dragged
along Mr. Husband, who was a super lazy version of me. Though
unwilling, he came down.

At the beach, Mr. Husband decided not to walk but sit at a cozy
spot and enjoy the warm breeze, watching the sunset. Friends perceived
he was throwing tantrums so he was conferred the guardianship of
slippers, wallets, and cell phones. He quickly agreed to babysit the
gadgets and footwear and stuck his bums on the sand. I went ahead with
my gang, keen to jump on the water waves.

From far away, my one eye was still set on Mr. Husband. I could
see a couple talking to him, though within minutes, they walked away
furiously. What was the matter? I had to check, for my mind was
teeming with questions.
 I walked as fast as I could towards him and questioned, “What did
you say to piss them off?”

“Oh! Them?” Mr. Husband said very calmly. “Nothing.”

“No, tell me,” I demanded.

“Okay, so here it goes.” His narration started. “Whilst I adored the

sunset, saffron hues mixing with the shimmering layers of water, getting
into an imaginary world talking to nature…”

“Yeah, Yeah! Come to the point,” I said anxiously.

“It’s my story, let me put it my way.”

I simply rolled my eyes. “Go on.”

“Whilst I adored the sunset, saffron hues mixing with the

shimmering layers of water, getting into an imaginary world talking to
nature, a crackling voice interrupted me, ‘I see you are taking care of
slippers; can we leave ours, too?’ I turned my gaze towards the voice.
This lovely couple was looking at me with hopeful but confused
expressions. I said. ‘Sure, I can take custody of your slippers.’ And they
started pulling off their slippers readily as I added, ‘Along with your
wallet and cell phones’. Before I could finish my sentence, the slippers
were back on their feet and the feet started moving in another direction. I
even called out ‘Hey, it’s free of cost service.’ The guy turned back and
shrugged his shoulders saying ‘NO THANKS’. I am still pondering, why
they were not obliged by my kindness. Were the slippers too expensive
to leave with me or the cell phones were local models and wallets
unbranded, not good enough to show off? But you know, right, I am not
the judgmental type.”

Mr. Husband’s face was flooded with innocence and to date, I feel
bad for that couple.
 PLUNDER TALE
Every rascal is not a thief, but every thief is a rascal.
– Aristotle

Mr. Husband was on a business trip, somewhere in the outskirts of

Africa. He rented a self-contained house as he had to spend a good one
month over there. We would chat the whole day on WhatsApp and video
call on Skype in the evenings.

Today the internet network was bizarre at his end. It had been
fifteen minutes since we were trying to connect fruitlessly.

Fed up, he walked up to the refrigerator to get a beer. The doorbell

rang. Ding Dong!

He strolled lazily with his chilled beer and opened the door. Like a
bolt of lightning, a robber rushed into the house. “Co-operate or I will
shoot you,” said Mr. Robber, raising his gun.

Mr. Husband was aware of such housebreaking thefts in the

vicinage and passively accepted that it was his turn today.

“Take whatever you want,” he said, and calmly witnessed Mr.

Robber filling up his bags.

He picked the Rolex, then the iPhone. Next was the Puma wallet
containing 500 Rands and credit cards. Now Mr. Robber turned towards
the study table and started to pick up the MacBook. Mr. Husband
shrieked, “Please leave that, I do my daily calls through it.”
 “Come on dude, take this as your time off from boss. You should
thank me for taking it away.”

“I beg, please leave it.”

“You are one workaholic, aren’t you? Shut up or I will shoot.”

“I solicit, I talk to my wife through that every day, and I have not
yet called her today.”

There was complete silence in the room. A minute later, MacBook

was back on the table.

“I see your predicament. Talk to her, else your boisterous time here
will end.” said Mr. Robber, pointing towards the open beer can.

He fumbled in his bag and pulled out an iPad, “Here, take this. I
picked it from your neighbor and it’s of no use to me, please return it to
him.”

Mr. Robber picked up a beer can from the crate lying next to the
table, opened it, and took a couple of big gulps.

“It’s not chilled,” said Mr. Husband.

“Yeah, I know. Anyway, thanks, Buddy. Have fun and enjoy your
stay.” Mr. Robber fist-bumped Mr. Husband; lifted the beer crate and
fled.

Mr. Husband was still shockingly astounded. ‘Robbers have

hearts, too.’
 DIAMOND PROPOSAL
If you can stay in love for more than two years, you’re on something.
– Fran Lebowitz

It was that day today, a few years back when we’d fought and
struggled to get the knots tied. Tightly!

Looking back into the past, I wish it was a fairy tale proposal, my
handsome Prince down on one knee with a diamond ring in one hand,
the other rising in the proposal.

Huuuuhhhhh! Dreams and realities are always two extremes.

Anyway, cut to today. It was celebration time for me, and Mr.
Husband would dare not deny any of my demands. We were having our
usual boring oatmeal breakfast like two obedient kids, but Mr. Husband
decided to break the silence.

“Let’s spend the whole day out today. Will go to your favorite
shopping mall, watch a movie, have dinner. Whatever you say, Honey.”

Keeping my tone quite sensuous, I asked sheepishly, “And what

about my gift?”

“Anything you want baby, ask for my life and it’s yours.” Well, he
is trying to be as melodramatic as he can be. Doesn’t suit him though.

“Think twice before you promise.”

 “Just ask. At most what will you ask for, a dress, shoes, bag? Ha.
Tell?”

“A platinum ring studded with a solitaire diamond.”

There was silence, but to my surprise, it took him only three

seconds to oblige.

“Why not? It’s our day. Anything you like.”

God knows if it was my seductive tone or he had already got the

bonus paycheck.

I was so excited that it didn’t take me more than twenty minutes to

get ready, with lightning speed I showered, wore my favorite little black
dress, put my make up on, heels on, and tada! I was ready.

Mr. Husband happily drove to the nearest mall. We were at the

jewellery boutique, where I tried to play reasonably, but Mr. Husband
proved to be a mind-reader, too. He picked the one I liked the most,
which I had omitted to look at, as it flashed a heavy price tag. After a
couple of minutes of discussion about the price, budget, and liking, Mr.
Husband convinced me to get that one.

Ms. Salesgirl at the boutique was being or trying to be so sweet, I

discarded the idea of dessert after dinner. My day’s quota for sugar was
done.

“When is your engagement ma’am?”

Mr. Husband and I exchanged smiles.

“It’s the wedding anniversary gift from him,” I said.

“That’s so sweet of you, Sir. So which anniversary is this? First or

second?”
 I blurted, “Fifth” followed by her exclamation.

“Fifth!”

“Is everything alright?” I enquired.

“Yeah, just wait for a few minutes, I will be back.”

We nodded and turned to each other, saying it together, “What just

happened?” and burst out laughing.

After a few minutes, we saw a trolley coming towards us, a cake

with lit candles standing on it. The strawberry topping on the cake
looked tempting, and my sugar craving was back.

I jumped on my seat, “That was not required.”

I turned around, only to find Mr. Husband bending on his right

knee, the ring in one hand and the other hand stretched out, asking for
mine.

“Will you marry me, again?”

I stood there blankly, while Ms. Salesgirl called out, “Ma’am, go

ahead.”

I was still standing blankly. ‘This is impossible,’ I thought to

myself, as someone started tugging at my hand.

“Ma’am, go ahead. Sir is standing at the payment counter. He

needs his credit card that you have.” Ms. Salesgirl was pushing me
towards the payment counter where I saw Mr. Husband waiting
impatiently.

It was a dream, but I am still happy. I don’t have the fairy tale
diamond proposal, but I have that special someone gifting me the
diamond ring on the wooden anniversary.
 Fairy tales are indubitably beautiful, but the reality is
prepossessing only when you have that one alluring person around you.
 DEMO PLEASE
The cars we drive say a lot about us.
– Alexandra Paul

Mr. Husband had been rather fidgety for the last few weeks. I was
trying hard not to budge but he smoothly convinced me to visit
showrooms to see new cars, almost every weekend.

He wanted to get the best car in place, which was bulky, looked
trendy, and provided safety features at the same time. “Whoa! It is not
too much to ask for,” he said.

As usual, this weekend, too, we were sitting at this glamorous

showroom. Mr. Husband started enquiring about the automobile and I sat
beside him yawning, unwillingly listening to the sales guy’s recitation.

“Sir, it’s a good choice. The car has Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah.”

Mr. Husband was no less, “My analysis says Blah. Blah. Blah.
Blah.” Trying to show off all the knowledge he had as if he was the one
to invent this mechanism.

I tuned into my snooze mode, realizing this would go on for some

time, but my nap was disturbed by a tap on my back. “Come on, let’s see
the demo car.”

I wanted to growl but I simply grinned.

 “Sir, see this feature Blah. Blah. Blah.” started his monologue,
again.

Mr. Husband was listening quietly for a long while, and the sales
guy broke into his thoughts.

“Sir, do you want to test drive.”

“Yeah, I would love to check it.”

“Please get into the car along with Ma’am, let’s take a test drive.”

“Oh no. I want to check the safety features first.”

This confused the sales guy. “Sir, this car has multiple safety
features. It has six airbags.”

“Right. Could you just drive it and dash it after two hundred
meters? I would like to see a demo of how the airbags are deployed.”

“What?” The sales guy jumped out of the car, displaying a demo
feature he might have just invented, viz., ‘SIS - Springs in Seat’.

Before Mr. Husband could blurt out any more, I jabbered. “He is
just kidding. Please don’t mind. We will come back for a test drive next
week. Need to rush now.” I pulled Mr. Husband out of the showroom.

As we moved out, I whispered in his ears. “Let’s get out of here

before he calls the mental hospital.”

“But why? I did ask for a plain-spoken demo. If the car has a
feature why can’t they show it for actuals?”

I wanted to shout my lungs out but only decided to purse my lips.

On second thoughts, it was not an invalid request, but an experientially
impossible demo to demand.
 THE ALERT
Man may have discovered fire, but women discovered how to play with it.
– Sex and the City

It was Monday evening, and Mr. Husband had returned home from
the office, successfully beating Monday blues. He headed straight to bed.
He kind of had invisible blinkers on to avoid acknowledging my
presence in the room.

Just as he started to sway in peace, the Graham Bell invention

rang. He looked like he wished he could fling it off, crush it to pieces,
but the too exhausted middle-class man in him woke up to merely reject
the call.

“Dammit! I am already unhappy with this 6 AM - 3 PM shift,

overruling my morning sleep. Boo Hoo Hoo! And top of them, these
phone calls,” he murmured to himself.

It rang again, he rejected; it rang again, he rejected. And again.

And again. By now, his resentment was at its peak and he got up to put it
in the silent mode.

“Now let me sleep peacefully,” he mumbled to the device, but fate

had something else in store for him.

I was observing him silently and this worse half of me was in no

better mood. What? I’m the better half, aren’t I?
 Anyway, I was getting into the violent mode from the silent mode,
“Who’s call have you been rejecting?”

“Nothing, it’s from the office.”

“So why can’t you talk.”

“It’s not important.”

“How do you know it’s not important when you did not even
answer that?”

“I know it.”

“May I know HOW?”

The stress on the HOW made him intolerant to the rants but there
was no point in arguing with your manager.

Knock knock! Who’s that? I am his ‘home’ manager, and I need to

know every teeny-weeny detail of what’s what in his life.

“Look, it is just an alert from the office system; there is someone

else at the office to take care of it, so I don’t need to pick it.” Mr.
Husband explained, but in vain.

“If there is someone else to take care of the system, why the hell
are you getting calls?”

“These are automatically generated calls, why don’t you

understand?”

“Because I can’t understand! Whose call do you reject every time

you are at home? Who is SHE?”

And that’s called the wife turned antagonist sign. He looked too
perturbed to respond, but I was in no mood to back down. “Tell me, who
is she?”

“Baby, you don’t trust me, so next time it rings I will give it to
you, you hear that.” He tried to be charming.

“It won’t ring, you already messaged her not to call since you are
home now, I see that happening almost every day.”

“No. No. Honey, it’s not any girl. There are some changes in the
organization, where they have set up auto phone calls as alerts in case
any issues are reported by the application users that my team manages.”

I was mildly sniffing by now and all his agitation flew out of the
window. He was turning into a Nervous Nellie.

“Honey, trust me. It’s not like that. I was putting it on silent
mode.”

And it was the first time he wished and prayed to get just one more
phone call alert. I shrugged and left, and he wished, and he prayed, and
he cried, ‘One phone call, just one call, please.’ Struck with the Devil’s
luck, there was no alert after that.

He had to sustain the heinous frowns at the dinner table. Also had
to forfeit his bed and squeeze on the couch.

It was 5 AM and he was leaving for office. There were still no

alert calls, and he cursed his office system for being stable the whole
evening. Though at the other end, his heart urged it stayed so today, as
well, during his shift’s hours.

With his first step into the office, his phone rang. Yes, it was the
alert.

You may feel, what a mistrusting wife I am. But truth be told, I am
not. I already knew about the alerting system, but the antagonist in me
was in revenge mode. We had missed a movie date on Sunday because
he was busy watching his cricket match with Umpire Auntie’s kids.
 I SAW A GHOST
While it’s cool to think ghosts exist, I don’t want to see one.
– Dean Ambrose

Every midnight, dogs start barking and wailing continuously for

hours, initiating my eerie imaginings.

It was getting unbearable, horrid really. Some days I could also

hear faint sounds of a weeping man. It was really scary.

‘It goes with your imagination and creativity,’ Mr. Husband said
the other day. As per him, it’s open ground and stray dogs barking in
such unrestricted places is normal and a weeping man is just enough
exaggeration to last a year.

Last night what happened is just hard to believe and inconceivable.

I still get goosebumps while I narrate it.

I was unable to sleep while Mr. Husband was comfortably off to

dreamland ignorant of all the facts. In the middle of the night, I heard
someone calling out a name. I was startled, rubbing my eyes as well as
ears, I tried to listen carefully. Yes, someone was calling out for
“Shantabai”.

I was shaken awake by this time. Glancing at my phone, I found it

was 2:45 am. I heard it again, “Shantabai”.

Mustering all the courage I had got till now by killing spiders in
the kitchen (yes that is the only level of courage I possess), I pushed the
French window slightly and peeped through my two-feet long balcony.

I was taken aback by what I saw. A strange male, dressed all in

white, was wandering frantically on the open ground behind our
building.

“Shantabaiii.” I heard it again.

He was indeed calling out for Shantabai. Close to 3 AM and

someone in white was visible from my balcony? It was certainly not a
good presage. Had I encountered a ghost? Did I see a soul calling out for
some Shantabai? What was happening? Who was Shantabai? A maid in
this building or maybe this dead man’s ladylove? Was she dead, too?
Would her soul come by to visit him? Would I be witnessing a dead
couple reunite?

What on earth was happening? I wanted to visit the loo, but no, I
couldn’t go there. I wanted to go back to bed. Nope! I didn’t see
anything. Oh goodness! Did Shantabai’s lover catch me watching him?
Would he follow me?

Suddenly the callouts stopped, and I felt a hand on my shoulder.

Was it him behind me? Had he reached my bedroom? I tried to

scream, but no voice broke from my throat. I could hear heavy breaths
very close to me.

And then he said in a creepy voice, “What are you doing here?”

“What the heck? You nearly scared the life out of me.” I pushed at
sleepy Mr. Husband with full vigor.

“I scared you? It’s the other way round! What are you doing here?
Look at the time? This is not the time to dry clothes in the balcony.” He
said, massaging his half-open eyes.
 “I am not drying any clothes. I just saw Shantabai’s lover’s soul.
He was calling for her but now there is no sound of him. I guess she
might be here to see him.”

“Whoa. Cut it. Whose soul?”

“Shhh. Speak softly, they might hear us.”

“Who might hear us?” Mr. Husband whispered.

“Shantabai and her lover’s ghost.”

As soon as I took their names, Mr. Husband started laughing

hysterically. For a moment, I felt he was possessed by one of the souls.

“Oh! Oh! OK! OK! Wait. I got it,” he said, controlling his mirth.

“What? Don’t start off by saying it was that writer in my

imaginary story.”

“No. That’s real. He comes here every night.”

“Whaaaattt?” My mouth was wide open in surprise, with my body

full of shivers. “Evve.ryday?”

“Yes. Everyday. He calls for his girlfriends. And when he is done

and tired, he sleeps there.”

“Sleep? How can ghosts sleep? They don’t sleep.”

Mr. Husband burst into peals of laughter again as if I had given my

best performance in a stand-up comedy show but honestly, that irritated
me to the core.

“He is not a ghost. He is the watchman of the next building and a

habitual drunkard. Every night he gets high, comes here, runs behind
dogs, beats them with a stick, and calls out for actresses’ names.
Yesterday was Deepika, last week Priyanka, and today, I guess
Shantabai. Don’t know which actress is that?” he said, scratching his
head.

“Ah. I see. That explains the wailing dogs. But then what is that
weeping sound?”

“Honey. Now that’s weird of your listening artistry. He sings while

walking his beat, that’s not crying.”

“Oh. But how the hell have I not heard this before?”

Embarrassed, he handed over the earmuffs to me and said.

“Because you forgot to wear these today to avoid getting disturbed by
my snores.”
 LOVE EXPRESS
When a man opens a car door for his wife, it’s either a new car or a new
wife.
– Prince Philip

Mr. Husband called me around 5 PM, enquiring about my

schedule for the evening post-office hours. I was planning to wrap up for
the day in thirty minutes.

“OK! Meet me near the junction around your office. You know the
one where the car showroom is located.”

“Sure, but what are you doing there?”

“Oh, I came here for the car servicing. It will be done and ready by
the time you reach.”

“Fine, I will see you outside the service center.”

“Yeah, Honey. Let’s go on a long drive and then we will stop at

your favorite restaurant for dinner.”

The flirtatious tone in his voice elevated my mood and I excitedly

looked forward to a romantic evening. I finished up my work as fast as
possible and reached the service center as promised on time.

Mr. Husband came running and kissed hard, followed by a tight

hug.
 “Oh, Honey, you look so beautiful today. You are glowing. I love
you so much.” And he kissed again.

But he did not get any response.

“Wow, your cheeks are shining like the setting sun. So gorgeous.”

Again, there was no response.

“I missed you sooo much.”

Still, no response. I kept staring at him in awe.

“I can’t live without you even for an hour.”

He failed to get any reply.

“I will never leave you here again,” and he planted the hardest kiss
ever.

Yet, no response.

“Let’s go on a long drive, just you and me.”

“Ahem Ahem”, I intruded into his one-sided romance.

“Baby, hop in! You also come along.” He mumbled to me.

“I thought we will be out for a dinner date once the car is back
from servicing.”

Perplexed he looked at me, “Ah. OK. Yeah. Right.”

I sat in the car agitatedly as he keyed in the engine. “So, Where

next? Fuel station first or directly to the restaurant?”

“Depends on who you want to date tonight?”

 There was a pause of two seconds and then I blurted, “AND those
are not cheeks. It’s called Bonnet.”

Mr. Husband is still trying to figure out who his favorite darling is.
 BIGGEST ACHIEVEMENT
Women marry men hoping they will change. Men marry women hoping they
will not. So, each is inevitably disappointed.
– Albert Einstein

It has been quite a few months since our last vacation, thanks to
our busy schedules. So, Mr. Husband and I planned an impromptu
staycation for the weekend. He chose to drive as his car was newly
serviced, and I finalized a beautiful (read Instagram worthy) resort about
150 km from our place.

Since it was only a one-night vacation, we decided to leave early

and make the most of our time in the resort. Somewhere on the way,
around the last 10 km, we were trying to locate the resort. It was a
bumpy road away from the tarmac and we were not quite sure if we were
on the right way.

Mr. Husband got a little restless and requested, “Honey, can you
start the GPS, I don’t want to get lost like last time and keep on driving
aimlessly.”

“Oh, I thought you loved driving. Driving was someone’s passion,

wasn’t it?” I mentioned, sarcasm intended.

“Yes, but we need to reach the resort by the check-in time at least.”

“Okay yeah, give me your phone, mine is about to die. You forgot
to charge my phone last night,” I said, flashing my phone and pointing at
the blinking red low battery sign.
 “Babe, I did put it on charging, but you know when you click too
many selfies to post on your Instagram even before leaving for a
vacation, YOLO pictures, the battery can die.”

“Do you want to know the GPS route or analyze the statistics and
usage of my phone battery?”

“Here you go!” Mr. Husband handed over the phone like a trophy;
smirking and winking.

I opened Google maps and punched in the resort name and there it
was. “Twelve minutes to go, we are on the right way,” I said spiritedly.

After a couple of minutes, I instructed, “Take a sharp left from

here,” peeking at Google maps.

“Why is the navigation lady not giving pointers?” exclaimed Mr.

Husband.

“What?”

“Yeah, the lady’s voice from the GPS, it’s not there?”

“Hmmm. You, as usual, must have messed up your GPS settings.

That’s why your GPS lady is not speaking.”

“WOW. So at least there is one lady in my life whom I could shush

up!”

Mr. Husband mumbled to himself; his tone was like that of an

Oscar-winning speech, accompanied by a beaming smile and eyes
twinkling like stars.

“I heard that!” I acknowledged with an irked pitch and then the

next instruction I blurted was, “Ah ok. Take a U-turn.”
 “Oh No No No, I didn’t mean that I am so sorry, no U-turn, we are
not going back. Please.” Mr. Husband started blabbering frantically.

“Dumbo that is what the GPS shows, take a U-turn,” I said.

I tapped a few buttons hard, while the innocent phone took all my
anguish. Thereafter, the only one who spoke was the GPS lady alone.
 EXTORTION MESSAGE
The man who says his wife can’t take a joke forgets that she took him.
– Oscar Wilde

Just another morning in a dreaded mid-week and the weekend

seemed ages away. On the breakfast table, Mr. Husband and I gulped a
spoonful of healthy aka tasteless oats and looked forward to the long, say
another very long, workday.

Work blues were all over our minds and the unappetizing oats
adding to the gloomy mood.

Beep Beep. A message popped on Mr. Husband’s phone and work

blues turned into a terrifying red.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“No one, no one at all, let’s leave, we are getting late,” said Mr.
Husband, trying to maintain the blues.

“Whose message is it? What’s written in the text? Why do you

look so tensed?” I quizzed him with the W words while trying to seize
his phone simultaneously.

“I said it’s nothing. Let’s go.” He quickly put his phone in the
trouser pocket and started to leave.

“Wait!” I demanded, “I want to know right now. Are you cheating

on me or what? Why are you hiding your phone from me?” My tone
pitch accelerated from urging to shrieking.

“Gosh. You women! The only thing on your mind is Cheating.”

“Then tell me what it is?”

“Hmmm. OK. Listen. Someone has been sending me messages for

the last few months.” He paused and took a long breath.

I stared at him with curious eyes. His long pause was distressing
me.

“Someone is sending me messages that he will take away my

money.”

“Do you mean you are getting extortion messages?”

“Whatever you want to name it.”

“Oh, but that’s a bit strange. I have heard of extortion calls but
what is this new style, texting for extortion. Anyway. Don’t worry, we
have his number. Let’s go to the police.”

“No, we can’t because I had borrowed that money and they want it
back.”

“WHAT? When did you borrow money? From whom? Why?” My

day was filled with a lot of W words by now.

“Coz I was in need at that time. So, I borrowed it.”

“Fine, but this is no way to ask for a return by sending threatening

texts and harassing someone. Let’s go to the police.”

“No, we can’t.”
 “OK. Don’t come with me. I will call the police right now, all by
myself.”

I fetched my phone and dialled 100, and within two seconds, the
phone was answered. I blurted, “Sir someone is sending threatening texts
to my Husband…” before I could complete Mr. Husband had snatched
my phone and hung up.

“What’s wrong with you? Why did you cut the call?” Next array
of W words.

“You cannot complain. You have signed on the borrowing papers

too.”

I was unable to recall when I borrowed money but his pitch

assured, I was involved too. My heart was pounding fast.

I asked with watery eyes, “I signed the papers? I don’t remember

when? Did you deceive me into signing any of it? Why are you doing
this to me?” And tears started rolling down my cheeks.

“Oh! Oh! Oh! No No No No! I am sorry, I am sorry. Don’t cry.

Please. I was joking. Stop crying! Please.” And he placed the phone in
front of me. “Here, read the message.”

I was shaken with disbelief to find who the message was from.

The SMS flashed – “Monthly EMI will be debited from your

account towards the joint home loan. Please maintain account balance
for ECS processing.”

It’s been two days now and I am still having a hard time
explaining to the cops. Now I find ECS texts more pleasing than these
explanation calls. It’s the EMI I am paying for Mr. Husband’s weird
sense of humor.
 DECEPTIVE SURPRISE
Marriage is the bond between a person who never remembers anniversaries
and another who never forgets them.
– Ogden Nash

Mr. Husband entered the home, walking his usual post-office-lazy

walk, placed his laptop bag on the couch, and secured a place for himself
right next to it.

“Hey, you are back home? Got late? Too much traffic, is it? How
was your day?” I smiled and quizzed, as usual, settling myself next to
him.

“Yeah,” he drawled. “Good. It was good.”

“Ok. Let me set the table and arrange dinner.” I stood up.

“Wait. See what I got.” He slid his hand inside the laptop bag and
pulled out a cute tiny blue velvet box.

“Ahhhhh!” I shrieked, “A diamond ring for me. Wow! So sweet! I

love you so much.” I jumped nine times where I was and instantly
reached cloud nine.

“Control your excitement, it’s not a diamond ring.” He pulled me

back on my seat and patted my shoulder, but the pat felt like a push.

Thud. I was back on the ground from cloud nine. “Then?”

 “It’s silver,” he pursed his lips. “That’s what could be afforded.”

“Oh, that’s fine Honey. I will manage with silver.”

I pecked his cheek. “But what is this gift for?”

“For the seventh anniversary.”

I wondered what date I had forgotten, and which anniversary was

it today. First meet. Naah. First kiss. Nope. First chat. Na Na. Grrr. How
could I forget? What is it?

“Baby, I am impressed with your memory but what anniversary is

it today, I don’t remember.” My tone was a tad embarrassed.

“No Honey, even I did not know until I reached the office. My
boss gave this and reminded me.”

My pitch converted from inquiring to shocked, “What sort of

anniversary is it today that we don’t remember but your boss does?”

“Yeah, he would know it. He gets reminders from HR.”

“Hell. What anniversary is it that even your HR knows?” My eyes

were wide and big like potatoes.

“My service anniversary! I completed seven years today in the

organization,” and he flashed a laminated 7-year completion certificate
in front of my eyes.

I snatched the cute little blue box and opened it hastily; there was
no silver ring but a small silver coin in there, with the organization name
inscribed on it and the number ‘7’ shining brightly.

I was impressed with the HR’s memory, company affordability,

and most importantly, their ability to arrange a surprise for me that
wasn’t meant for me.
 The lesson I learned that day was never to jump to a conclusion
about the contents of any cute-looking tiny boxes. Looks can be so
deceiving.
 DRINK AND DRIVE
People that insist upon drinking and driving, are putting the quart before
the hearse.
– Gilbert K. Chesterton

“So, it’s your birthday today, what should I order for drinks and
dinner?” An exhilarated Mr. Husband quizzed me.

“Anything for dinner is fine, and any cold drink, you decide.” I
was too reluctant to take the stress of ordering.

“Okay,” his thinking caps went on. “Cold drink is fine but you
choose, what drink do you want?”

“How about Coke?” I said sluggishly.

“Anu, it’s your birthday, a special day, it comes only once a year,
why Coke dear?”

“Why are you exaggerating so much? I know it’s my birthday, but

if you don’t like Coke, then get me Orange Juice.”

“Hello. Ms. Trying-to-be-innocent, I am asking specifically about

hard drinks. What is your poison? In case my into-early-thirties-little
birthday girl still did not get it, let me be clearer. What alcohol would you
like?”

I raised an eyebrow and said, “I am not being innocent, I don’t

wish to gulp on slow poison anymore. I have given up drinking. Clean and
healthy living.”

“Ahha! For how many hours?”

“Not hours. Just practicing clean eating. And I guess it’s time you
stop it, too.” I said crisply.

“WHAT?” He sounded astonished and tragic in equal parts.

“Honey, there are only two things I like to do, and you are denying
me one.” He said, following it up with a puppy-faced expression.

“Oh! That’s so sweet of you. I know you love me very much. But
comparing me with drinks? Nah, Nah, not happening.”

“Uh Oh! You are getting it wrong; I am not talking about you. I
said I like to do two things, that is, Drink and Drive.”

Now it was my turn to go, “WHAT?”

I was disappointed and worried at the same time. Disappointed that

I was not one out of his two likings and worried that my birthday
excitement was turning Mr. Husband insane.

“Baby, I don’t appreciate such psychotic thoughts.”

“Whoa! Psychotic? What’s wrong if I like drinking and driving?”

I was thunderstruck at his obvious query but still gestured with the
help of my long fingers.

“Because it’s harmful and can be fatal.” My tone was

understandably vexed.

“Please explain how?” Mr. Husband demanded, reasoning like a

lawyer trying to defend a criminal.
 I was getting maddened with every passing minute. “Gosh, how
can you behave so weird? Listen, you can hurt someone if you drink and
drive. Moreover, you are no celebrity with sufficient power and money to
walk out guilt-free every time. Also, our car does not have any feature like
‘no driver yet still drives’, and puh-lease, for God’s sake, I don’t want you
behind the bars charged for murder. That too on MY birthday. Got it? Am I
clear?”

Mr. Husband kept staring at me all this while. “Babe, I said I like
two things, ‘Drinking’ and ‘Driving’. I should have added the disclaimer
‘Separately’.”

I looked at him with a squint, trying to grasp what he said.

“No worries. I will get your soft drinks. You just calm down. OK?”
He patted my shoulder and moved to the nearby counter, to pick up soft
drinks.

Now that’s what happens when you miss even a single word in any
conversation.

The ending note to this story is a message from Mr. Husband.

“Guys. Be careful when you get a chance to open your mouth in

front of your beloved wife. Also, DO enjoy your ‘Drink’ and ‘Drive’.
BUT separately. Cheers! Let’s party! Yoo-hoo!”
 I TOO PMS
Spend a few minutes a day really listening to your spouse. No matter how
stupid his problems sound to you.
– Megan Mullally

My hormones play a big role in my life. They are like subordinate

replicas of Mr. Husband, annoying and unpredictable.

It was the first day of my period and I was all in pain. I took a day
off from work and headed straight home. On the way, I called Mr.
Husband to inform him that I was leaving early. It was an indirect
message for him as well to come home as soon as possible. No, not to
spend a cozy and romantic time but to make hot water bags for me and
massage my back.

As an impact, no doubt, of my hormones, I start craving junk food,

especially Maggi and chocolates during my menstruating days, and I
wanted to make sure Mr. Husband picked them up on his way back
home.

For he was simply not that ‘Oh, I got a surprise for you, baby.
Here are some chocolates and flowers’ type.

Rather he is, ‘Could you please tell me clearly what you need? If
not this, then which brand of chocolate, and how many pieces?’

It has happened so many times that now I am surprised by his

surprises. Correction, I am scared of his surprises.
 About two hours later, Mr. Husband came home and placed a big
bag filled with junk food. I started fetching stuff out of the bag. It was
full of things I hadn’t ordered; I mean I hadn’t asked him to bring.

“What is all this?” I asked, irritated.

“Comfort food,” he responded lazily.

“I don’t see anything that I asked for. Where are my chocolates?” I

questioned.

“They are in there, look properly.”

I dug inside the bag like an anxious cat digging food out of her
feeder box. After emptying 90% of the bag, I found two bars of dark
chocolates and two packs of Maggi noodles.

“Found it?” Mr. Husband asked.

“Yeah,” I said chomping on a bite of the chocolate. “You only

bought two bars of chocolate?”

“That’s what you told me to bring, two. You only get what you ask
for. If you need more you should give me a specific count.” He retorted.

“Whoa! Hold on to your horses. I asked for two chocolates but you
bought many other snacks, wafers, chips, puffcorn.” I said picking up the
packets one by one. “Why did you bring all these?”

“I already said, it’s comfort food.” Pat came Mr. Husband’s instant
reply.

“No, Honey. These are not my comfort food. I like chocolates.” I

gestured, pointing the half-eaten bar to his face.

“Who said it’s for you? It is my comfort food.”

 “Ahha! Ha! Why do you need ‘comfort food’ today? I am on
periods, not you.” I replied, mocking his limitations for not having a
uterus.

“That’s not funny. I bought those for myself as I am PMSing,” he

replied.

I was in disbelief and thought maybe my hormones are affecting

my ears. Maybe he said something else. I asked him again, rubbing my
ears. “You mean I am PMSing.”

“Yes, I am PMSing.” He repeated firmly.

“No, you mean, I. I am PMSing.” I took his hand and pointed to

myself.

“Please stop irritating me, I mean I. As in I am PMSing.” He took

his hand back and rubbed his chest.

I was a bit worried if he was turning imbecile. “Honey, men don’t

PMS.”

“Why not?” He demanded an explanation.

“Because men just can’t, it’s a gender limitation,” I explained.

“On one hand, you talk about gender equality while on another
you talk about gender limitation. Unfair.” He shook his head.

“It’s not my fault, that is how nature has designed us. Anyway,
how are you P.., I mean why are you PMSing.” I tried to deduce his
uncanny behavior.

“I had a bad day in the office. I made the presentation and it came
back with silly font and color correction comments. I had to spend
another three hours correcting it and then the meeting was cancelled.
There will be no presentation at all. All my efforts are wasted.” He
ranted.

“Hmm. I see.” I tried to pacify.

“I am very upset and frustrated. Right now, I am going through

Poor Mood Syndrome. I am PMSing.” He ripped open a wafer pack and
thrust a handful of wafers in his mouth, chomping loudly.

I burst out in peals of laughter and kept chortling. Mr. Husband,

no, Poor Mr. Husband had no idea what happened to me and stomped out
of the room angrily.

Well, I didn’t know how he would deal with his PMS aka Poor
Mood Syndrome for now but I hoped he does not turn into a Psycho-
Man Syndrome.

One thing is for sure, PMS will be gender-neutral from now on.
 WHO’S YOUR VALENTINE?
When you see a married couple walking down the street, the one that’s a
few steps ahead is the one that’s mad.
– Helen Rowland

Normally we do not celebrate days, but it was just that sometimes

I got carried away with the flooding hearts and cute couple pictures all
over Facebook, Instagram, and WhatsApp statuses.

It was still early morning for me, just 8 am, (that’s early for lazy
bums who prefer lunch as their first meal of the day). Lying on the bed,
half-asleep, Mr. Husband was scrolling up and down on his cell phone,
reading his Twitter feeds. Mind it, he goes to Twitter for being up-to-
date, unlike me, who stalks people on Instagram.

I cozily sneaked in and half-hugged myself with his left arm, with
a sweet peck on his cheek.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, baby. You are the best thing that
happened to me. I love you sooo much.” I said, followed by another
peck.

“I feel the same, baby. I love you too.” He responded with a

sheepish grin.

I was petrified, I got up from the bed and left the room thumping
my feet like an angry elephant.
 “What happened, Honey? I said I love you too.” Mr. Husband
followed me, trying to figure out what he must have done today that
infuriated me.

“Don’t talk to me. I am mad at you right now.” I wondered why he

didn’t get it.

“But why? What did I say wrong?” confused Mr. Husband

demanded to know.

“You said I love you too.”

“So, what’s wrong with that? If anyone says ‘I love you’ the
normal response is ‘I love you too’. Please don’t tell me there is some
new kind of response hashtag trending on Instagram. I am not
enlightened about any such replacements for ‘I love you too’.”

“Stop jabbering. It is not what you responded, it’s how you

responded.” I snapped at him.

“Ok now, this is weird. Please help me. How do I know there are
how many ways to say I love you too? Moreover, how to identify which
type to use when and how to say it and which one were you expecting
how now. I mean right now.”

“You are one weird man. There is the only way to say ‘I love you
too’. That is to the person who said ‘I love you’ looking back into that
person’s eyes. You say ‘I love you too’ if you love that person.” My
pitch rose with every word.

“That’s what I did, Honey. I said ‘I love you too’ to the one I
love.”

“What?” I squinted.

“What?” He was confused.

 “What?” I was vexed.

“What?” His dumbness was now confirmed.

“Let’s go back to my monologue. I said you say ‘I love you too’ to

the person who said ‘I love you’ looking back into that person’s eyes.
You don’t say ‘I love you too’ to a stupid GADGET.” And I stomped
away to another room.

Mr. Husband stood there scratching his head, analyzing all the
Hows, Whats, I love yous and I love you toos we discussed in the last
fifteen minutes.

It was evening now and Mr. Husband was trying hard to set up my
mood. He came near me and said, “Honey, I am sorry. I want to make up
for what happened in the morning. Let’s go out for dinner.”

“OK!” I was jovial inside but hid my excitement.

“Let’s go! I already made an online booking,” he said, caressing

the stupid gadget again and turned to leave, only to find me staring at
him.

“What? Let’s go!” He called out.

I got up and followed him. “Mr. Husband, who is your real

Valentine?” I asked, nudging my elbow into his tummy and we broke
into a boisterous burst of laughter.

I tell you it was one hell of Valentine’s day.

 THAT’S MOM
Once you sign on to be a mother, that’s the only shift they offer.
– Jodi Picoult

Mr. Husband was on a weeklong business trip to Jakarta. Still in

Asia but one and a half hours ahead of me, with early morning meetings
forcing him to sleep earlier (than my time).

Mommy dear had come over to our house as a week’s replacement

for Mr. Husband because her chubby daughter was getting chubbier.
“You are pregnant, and someone must stay by you, right?” she said.

Probably she, too, wanted a break from her Husband or maybe it

was just an excuse for a vacation, away from her monotonous life.

It was the fourth day today, and after an hour-long WhatsApp

video call, Mr. Husband decided to hang up and sleep. Around 11:15 pm,
my time, my phone beeped. It was a message from Mr. Husband.

‘Can’t sleep. Missing you. Can we chat if you not sleeping?’

He could have seen the two blue ticks within two seconds of
hitting send.

I typed back. ‘Yeah, miss you too.’ And then, we continued, blah
blah blah.

About ten minutes later I heard a shriek. “What is it with that

phone? Every time going tick tick tick tick. Is this the time to chat with
someone? It’s so late. Put that phone down and go to sleep.”

Tan da dan. It’s the MOMMA alert.

“But Ma, it’s not that late, it’s not even 12 yet.”

“Why do you need to stay awake till then, when you can sleep
early?” She has a point, for it is bliss if you get to sleep some extra
hours.

“It’s fine Ma, I am not sleepy.”

“Yes, not sleepy now, so play with that phone till late at night and
then wake up by noon tomorrow.”

“Please don’t exaggerate, I will be up before you tomorrow, OK?”

And I continued chatting with Mr. Husband.

“Not OK. Good girls don’t chat with strangers in the middle of the
night.”

“What?” I controlled my laughter, trying not to offend her.

“Let me tell you two things, first I am talking to your son-in-law

who is certainly not a stranger, though he does act strange most of the
time.”

Her face turned pink at losing one argument, but I continued,

“Second, I can’t be a good girl.”

“You can try?” she asked firmly.

“No, I can’t, a female in her early thirties can never be a girl, and
it’s futile to even try.”

There was a mere thirty-second pause. I could feel her pink face
turning blood-red, accompanied by tightly pursed lips. I suppose I had
triggered the wrong button.

“You guys only know how to argue with your parents, it’s
impossible for you to…” and on and on and on, finally ending with “that
phone has spoilt you and your life.”

As her saga tape continued, I felt pushed back in my life by an

entire decade. My head was spinning with nostalgia.

“Ma. Ma stop, I am sleeping. Good night.”

“Okay, good night,” she said with that trophy-winning expression.

I could only type ‘TTYL’ before putting my phone down. Poor Mr.
Husband, unaware of the surgical strike I had just faced, kept messaging
for the next few minutes but I could not dare look at my phone.

Being employed in an MNC, owning a few good assets, and yet

Momma dear still thought a tiny gadget had spoilt my life. That’s the
irony, you grow old, they grow older, but the parent-child age gap
remains the same. Once a parent, always a parent.

As the saying goes, you can never win arguments if the debater on
the other side is a Momma.
 BROKEN GLASS
To keep your marriage brimming, with love in the wedding cup, whenever
you’re wrong, admit it; whenever you’re right, shut up.
– Ogden Nash

I always thought my mom was a drama queen. Then we had our

cute little munchkin and the drama continued. Only here, the drama
queen was ME.

After two hours of coaxing the little monster to sleep, all I needed
was some peace to munch on my cold-by-now dinner. Like a boss, I
asked, rather say ordered, Mr. Husband to lay the table. He had already
half-done it, but that doesn’t matter. I am the home manager and I have
to make sure instructions are passed on well.

In the meantime, while he was heating the food for us, I sneaked
into the fridge to find something to drink. There it was, my liquid gold, a
wine bottle. I fished in to check the quantity; it was just enough for two
swills. I poured it out to the dregs in two fresh wine glasses.

Post-having Mr. Tots in our lives, all we had spoken about were
vaccination dates and poop timings. Maybe this limited liquid would
calm us for a few moments and we could have a teeny-weeny house-
date.

“Honey, just take the glasses of wine, too; I will quickly check on
the sleeping Mr. Tots and come back,” I said.
 He diligently took all the food and the wine glasses and the water
bottles to the table. I came back and looked for another empty glass to
drink water. It was on the other side of the table so I leaned ahead to pick
it up, but alas, I had tipped the glass.

In a fraction of a second, I saw a waterfall of wine falling from the

table to the floor, converting into a swiftly flowing stream under the
table. My heart broke into a hundred pieces.

Before I could think of anything, Mr. Husband squealed, “Baby,

just be careful.”

He was trying to save the glass, but my elbow had done its job.
The glass went rolling down with a ‘crussshhhh’. Broken pieces of glass
broke my already broken heart into another thousand pieces.

“It’s all your mistake. Who keeps the glass like that?” I screamed.

“But Honey,” he tried to say something, but I shushed him. As the

saying goes, if hubby breaks a glass it’s hubby’s mistake, if wife breaks a
glass it’s still hubby’s mistake.

“Stop, don’t honey me,” my tone got sadder with the realization.
“That was the last glass of wine.”

“Baby you can have from my glass,” he said, running to the

kitchen, returning quickly with a fresh wine glass in one hand and a wipe
cloth in the other.

He smartly handed over the wipe cloth to me as he conducted the

division of wine into two portions. I looked at the wipe cloth and it
stared at me, mocking and singing.

‘Oh, dear, oh dear,

Pick me up, pick me up,
It’s been so long since I bathed in wine.
Ooh, la la Ooh, la la.’
 Since the maid had an off the next day, this mess had to be cleaned
‘properly’ right now. The broken heart broke further into a million
pieces. Huh. I began cleaning with the wipe cloth which smirked at me,
as if saying “Once in fifteen days, we should meet darling.” Grrr.

After all the clean-up, I prayed for no more goof-ups and silently
had my cold-which-was-microwave-heated-but-again-cold food now. I
rechecked on Mr. Tots, and he had changed his position to sleep
horizontally on the bed, leaving marginal spaces for both of us. Never
mind, I thought.

“Thankfully, Mr. Tots did not wake up with all the thusss and
crussshhhh. We’re so lucky he sleeps through all the noise,” I told Mr.
Husband, “I will finish the rest of my wine watching that web series; it’s
Saturday night after all.”

Adjusting myself on the couch I picked up the TV remote but but

but, my heart broke into a billion pieces again. For I’d heard the dreaded
sound – Mr. Tots’ cries.
 COMMENTS UNWELCOME
Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing up is like shoveling
the sidewalk before it stops snowing.
– Phyllis Diller

It was a long, stressed day, for Mr. Tots had just been put to sleep
after a good deal of struggle. I sat quietly on the mat spread in the living
room for Mr. Tots’ play, trying to regain some strength for the next day. I
glanced around the room and could see all the toys lying here and there.

“God, I need strength to clear this mess first,” I muttered to Mr.

Husband who, as usual, was busy playing online Ludo.

Yeah. We were still that digital and Mr. Husband still participated
in online Ludo championships, though he had never brought home even
a single medal. How I wish, only if there were any such awards. The
diligence with which he played would have paid off.

Since I didn’t get any reply from Mr. Husband, I stayed there
meditating for a couple of minutes. “Om” was pronounced in my mind
several times.

Silently, I moved ahead to pick the toys. The first toy that came to
my hand was this battery-operated woof woof doggy, and before I
realized that its button was on, it had started barking. I was too startled to
shut it off. It’s a challenge to put Mr. Tots back to sleep. He has a major
FOMO, that’s the fear of missing out on any party that mamma papa
might have while he is asleep. I didn’t want to be the reason for him to
wake up, I just wanted to lie down once the mess was clear.
 I was struggling with this artificial version of man’s best friend as
it kept going “woof woof woof woof woof.”

“Baby, this is not your age to play with such toys.” Thus, came out
a spontaneous comment from Mr. Husband. There was a ten-second
silence where we looked daggers at each other. Ah, only if we could
commit homicide through looks.

What happened next? Did we manage to kill each other?

Well, No. He is alive and cleaning the room.

Mr. Husband got to enter his next Ludo championship only after
the whole house was like I wanted it: organized, spick and span;
sparkling like my diamond ring.

Ting-ting di ding.
 VIDEO CALL?
If you love something, and you set it free, and it doesn’t come back... you’re
a dumbass!
– Beavis & Butt-Head

It was a pleasant evening, Mr. Husband and I were having a good

time as Mr. Tots was out for a sleepover at a friend’s house. We did plan
to make the best use of it.

‘Let’s wine and dine, Let’s enjoy the alone time’, was our
unanimous slogan for the evening.

I poured myself some red wine and Mr. Husband got hold of a
chilled beer. We proceeded towards the couch to make some mad love to
ourselves. We reached the couch, clinked our glasses, said “Cheers”,
stretched our legs, and settled on two corners of the couch with our
respective phones.

“Ah! This is the best alone time I can get after handling Mr. Tots
for the whole day”, blurted Mr. Husband.

“Seriously”, I questioned. “You handle him the whole day? Then

what about me? I only cook the food, wash utensils, and….”

“Shhh”, Mr. Husband hushed me, signalling with his fingers to

slow down. “Let’s not waste this time, please. What you are saying is an
everyday fight but THIS” he pointed towards our glasses “does not
happen every day, so please.”
 I rolled my eyes and shrugged and said, “Whatever”, but he had a
point.

We were back to where we were, our heads shoved in our phones

while we sipped our favorite beverages. In between, Mr. Husband would
do some Ahs and Mms, displaying his contentment with his love potion.

About fifteen minutes had passed when my ‘ME’ time was

interrupted by a friend’s call.

“Hey, how are you?” I answered the call.

“Hi, I am just ok,” came the voice from the other side of the
gadget.

“What happened? You sound upset, is everything fine? Do you

want to talk?” I questioned, not realizing I might be inviting some
hurdles in my alone time.

“I am very upset with my husband. I just can’t bear with it now. I

am coming over to your place, I need some alone time from him.” said
Mrs. Upset.

I was shell-shocked for some seconds and had no idea how to

respond but the good Samaritan in me said, “Yeah Dear, you are
welcome anytime. Come over, anyways we are not busy.” And the call
was hung up with a plain but jovial “OK” from the other end.

Mr. Husband’s eyes had popped out when he heard my invitation

to Mrs. Upset.

“Why? Why? Why? Why did you say we aren’t busy? We are
busy enjoying our ‘ME’ time. At least I was,” he said with a sullen face.

“What could I do? She self-invited herself and she sounded upset.
Something with her husband this time” I responded to pacify him.
 “What did he do now? Did he break another glass or came home at
6:01 PM while he promised to come by 6:00 PM? She is always upset
about some or the other matter.”

“No. No. I feel it’s something serious this time.” I countered.

“Bet me, it would be something even sillier.”

“At least let’s hear her out, with an open and clear mind.”

“OK, I will, but you have to bet a crate of beer if it’s a silly reason
like the last time.”

“Fine.” I acceded.

About twenty minutes later, our doorbell rang, Ding Dong! I

rushed to open it, to find Mrs. Upset standing at the doorstep, fumbling
with a heavy purse hanging on her shoulders. I wondered if she was
planning to sleepover at our place. How I miss Mr. Tots now!

“Hi Anu, I hope I am not disturbing you guys,” said Mrs. Upset.

“Not at all, it’s our pleasure to have you over,” I said turning over
to Mr. Husband to come up and greet her.

He came over, reluctance dripping from his face. “Hello, Come in.
Come in. Come join us, anyway we were just passing our alone time.”
Mr. Husband welcomed her with obvious sarcasm, which she didn’t pay
any heed to.

She was in her world. “You guys are so made for each other; I
always see you stuck beside each other. Lovely couple.”

Mrs. Upset entered the house, prattling on.

“And there, is my husband, he has no time for me.” Saying this

she settled on the couch and her monologue went on. “Every time he will
call his friends and all they do is watch cricket and drink beers. I told
him so many times, not to drink with his stupid friends but he will never
listen to me. I don’t like this drinking and all.”

“It’s fine, dear. Till it’s just occasional drinking, it’s alright. I am
sure he is not an alcoholic. Partying, fun, and moderate drinking are fine,
I guess.” I tried to reassure her while tactfully trying to hide my wine
glass. “Anyway, first tell me what will you have?”

“Yeah, should I pour you some wine?” asked Mr. Husband with
his beer glass in one hand and holding the wine bottle in another like a
trophy.

Mrs. Upset looked at him in awe while I quickly signalled him to

leave, “Honey, can you make some coffee for all of us.”

“Fine.” He bounced back, gesturing as if I had asked him to

replace his elixir with poison.

“No sugar, please.” Pop came the instruction from Mrs. Upset,
“You know, I am on a diet.”

“Anyhow, what happened today? Why are you upset with your
husband so much?” I asked, dying to know. Not because I was intrigued,
but I didn’t want Mr. Husband to win his bet.

“What should I say? This has become a daily affair now.” She
said, caressing her finger, which was covered in a band-aid.

“Is he hitting you?” I asked with consternation, pointing towards

her finger.

“No, no way. He doesn’t hit me. And this band-aid, it is because I

cut my finger while peeling potatoes today.”

“Oh, OK,” I said with relief. “Then what’s the matter?”

 “His phone.” She blurted with a sad face.

“Oh, did you find anything on his phone, any chat or messages, or
any girls’ pics?” Again, I postulated.

“Oh no! Control your mind horses, it’s nothing like that. I will find
something on the phone, only when he leaves the phone. He is always on
his phone. Even if there are only two of us in the room, all his focus is on
the phone. If I say something, he will just nod like a donkey, still looking
at his phone. Sometimes I don’t understand if he even heard what I said.
I can’t understand how to talk to him,” sighed Mrs. Upset.

“Oh, then why don’t you video call him?” came a voice. We
turned to look around and it was Mr. Husband holding a tray with three
coffee cups.

“What?” Mrs. Upset reverted.

“Yeah, if he is on the phone all the time, then video call him.
That’s the best formula for your issue, you get to talk to him and he gets
to keep looking at his phone. Problem solved.” Mr. Husband’s face was
gleaming with pride. Given an opportunity, he could certify himself as
the best relationship counsellor in town. Or maybe in the world.

There was complete silence in the room for the next half hour, and
the three of us drank our coffees soundlessly. Suddenly, the doorbell
rang. It was Mrs. Upset’s husband, who had come searching for her
frantically.

“I knew you will be here. Come on let’s go home. I left our

daughter at the sleepover, it’s the only alone time we have. Come, let’s
leave quickly.” He motioned to Mrs. Upset.

Within minutes, the heavy purse was back on her shoulders and
she was in her Husband’s arms as if nothing happened. “Yeah honey,
let’s go,” she said. ‘Let’s wine and dine, Let’s enjoy the alone time’. In
the next thirty seconds, both of them were gone. I think the better
description would be ‘vanished in thin air’.

I looked at Mr. Husband, who was flashing his phone at my face.

“Order Placed for One Crate Beer,” he said triumphantly.

 BLOO SHAR
Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they
have never failed to imitate them.
– James Baldwin

My book draft was almost ready and I had started pitching it to the
traditional publishers. I was very confident about my book but nervous at
the same time.

‘What if the publishers do not like my book?’ I would repeatedly

say to myself and chew Mr. Husband’s ear, ventilating my fears onto
him.

Still, I selected a publisher and as per their guidelines, I selected

three of my best chapters to send. I drafted a nice email, attached my
synopsis and the selected sample chapter. I kept the mail in my draft
folder for two days. I was hesitant to send the mail, as every time I
thought about clicking send, I feared the rejection email in return.

Mr. Husband was wary about this and convinced me to be

confident of my content and to at least send it at first. Selection or
rejection could be dealt with only when we had one.

“I am still the same epitome of God,” Mr. Husband started his

monologue, gesturing with his fingers, exaggerating everything he said.
“Yes, I am still the same God who asked you to write and I am
requesting you to please, please send it. Your anxiety is killing my spark.
I am unable to focus on Ludo.”
 “What?” I asked, smiling.

“Yes, please for the sake of Ludo, hit send,” he said, tapping the
send icon on the laptop screen with his index finger.

Before I could do or say or react, he had already hit send. He did

not realize that my laptop had a dual touchscreen feature and his tapping
had led to the sending of the email.

“Congratulations, this epitome of God has made your work easy,”

Mr. Husband said and fled the room at lightning speed.

Now, this was the worst time for any writer anticipating a response
from a publisher. It’d been three weeks but no response yet. “Anu, the
guidelines say three months of a waiting period, it’s only three weeks.”
Mr. Husband pacified me.

Around a week later, I did get the response. Nervously excited, I

clicked open the email to read. To my dismay, my draft had been
rejected. I was heartbroken and tears started flowing down my eyes.

“I don’t think it’s worth trying. I feel like a fool.” I started ranting
in front of Mr. Husband who was busy with some office work.

“Calm down. What happened?” he asked.

“My draft is rejected, I told you not to send but you never listen.”

“It’s fine, Honey. This was just one publisher and your first try.
There are many others, someone would like your content. Don’t give up.
Let’s try again.” He tried to convince me.

“It’s easier said than done,” I yelled. At the same time, I saw Mr.
Tots entering the room. To avoid giving him any trauma from my drama,
I left the room saying, “You will never understand.”
 After a few minutes, Mr. Tots came and hugged me tightly. In his
baby language he said, “Mamma, Papa says you get Bloo Sharr.”

“Baby, please go and tell papa, I have many and don’t need
anymore. Go.” I saw Mr. Tots leave the room and trot back to his father.

I faintly overheard a conversation and it did not take much time

while Mr. Husband came back and quietly sat next to me. A few
moments later, he spoke. “Honey, I know you are angry. No, I mean you
are sad but it’s not good to lie to our son. He will also learn to lie.”

“Are you out of your mind? When did I lie?” I rebelled.

“Just now, you said you already have many whereas in the real-
world you have not got even a single one.” He tried to advocate.

“OK. This is not the right time but if you want me to, I will give it
to you. First of all, I don’t like to wear shirts, and second, blue is a
generic color. There are many shades of blue like Baby blue, Light blue,
Powder blue, Ice blue, Morning blue, Midnight blue, Electric blue...”

“OK! OK! I am trying to understand what you are saying. But blue
is your favorite color, isn’t it?” He looked puzzled.

“No, it’s not, I like lavender blue and that’s not blue. It’s a shade of
blue. And for God’s sake please stop chewing my brain.”

“OK, Honey. I will remember these shades of blue but why are we
discussing this now?” He again quizzed me.

“Coz you said you will get me a blue shirt. I don’t want a blue
shirt. I have lots of stuff in multiple shades of blue. All the ‘blue’ things
that you have brought in the name of surprise. I don’t want any more.”

“But I am not getting you any blue shirt,” he retorted.

 “Then why did you send Mr. Tots with a message that Papa gets
you Bloo Shar.” I said the last five words in an exaggerated baby voice.

“What Bloo Shar? I told him.” Mr. Husband got up from his seat
revising his statement that he gave, “Go hug Mamma and say, Mamma,
you will get Booker prize one day.”

We stared at each other, bewildered, and then together turned our

gaze to Mr. Tots who had entered the room, trying to fit into his father’s
blue jeans and holding his blue toy phone. Aha, correction Denim Blue
jeans and Light Blue toy phone.

I don’t know if I will get a Booker or not but I am not using Mr.
Tots as my messenger anytime in the future.
 HATCHBACK
My husband and I have never considered divorce… murder sometimes, but
never divorce.
– Joyce Brothers

Our lives changed immensely after Mr. Tots joined us but Mr.
Husband’s knack for cracking the worst ever jokes did not end.

To get over the heart-breaking rejection debacle, I wanted to

refresh my mind and start sending proposals to publishers again. As a
refresher activity, I watched some videos on Instagram and stumbled
upon a celebrity planting tomatoes in a big pot on her balcony. I thought
why not! I could also do this experiment and try to grow organic
tomatoes and chilies at home.

Anyway, nowadays it is a popular trend and I see everyone is

clicking pictures and posting about their home-grown food on Instagram.
I did not want to be left behind in this trending trend.

I started cleaning up the balcony to plant new seeds and moved

some flower pots here and there. I saw something between the pots. I
quickly wiped my hands with a rag cloth and fetched my phone, tapped
open the camera with the shortcut button on the home screen. While
clicking pictures, I put out a frenzied call to Mr. Husband.

“Come here quick!”

“What is it?” asked Mr. Husband lazily. “Oh! Not again,” He

pointed towards the open camera app on my phone. “From now onwards,
I will not click any of your pictures. You make me take hundreds of them
and appreciate none.”

“Yes, because you click absurd pictures. I look fat and weird in
most of them.” I revolted, momentarily distracted by his accusation.

“That’s not my mistake. The pictures will be just like you, the way
you are. They are your real images.” Mr. Husband said snobbishly,
gesturing his arms to portray me as a hundred-pound mass.

I gave him a disgusted look, “There is something called a camera

angle, weirdo.”

“OK! OK!” He said. “Do you need anything or just want to rant
about your fat pictures.”

“No, I have something to show you.”

“Be quick, I have another Ludo match,” said he like a champion

waiting to take his winning trophy.

“Whatever.” I took a long, deep breath and continued. “Look here.

A pigeon has laid three eggs on our balcony.”

He peeked in without an expression. “Oh yes, Wonderful. Hmm

Hmm”

“Yup, she’s going to hatch the egg soon.”

Mr. Husband, looking at me innocently, said, “Why don’t you back

her during her delivery? You will become a hatchback then.”

If only there was an option to kill a person, I would not have

thought twice. I did not understand what should I say or do. A face-palm
or my palm on his face, I am still deciding.
 Such an automobile-obsessed man; every topic has to boil down to
a car.
 THE URBAN DUPLET
I love you more than I hate everything else.
– Rainbow Rowell

Anu said, “I have problems in my life. I am depressed.”

Mr. Husband pacified her, “Don’t worry, we will sort it out.”

Anu found her antidepressant dose in the two words “We will” and
Mr. Husband expressed his love for her without saying “I love you”.

The most beautiful relationship is where “I” becomes “WE” and

“MY” expands into “OUR”.

Ah, well! This chapter was not a humorous story but I wanted to
add a clichéd romantic dialogue.

Please note, it was forcefully added by Mr. Husband as he felt he

had not contributed enough to the book. It’s his attempt at writing an
absurd nano tale. I am still searching for the whimsical element in it.

Having said that, if you are on this page then it’s the end of the
book but not the end of the hilarious quotient of our happy life.

I am glad you survived all the absurdities and stayed up till here
with us. Thank you for reading. Hope you enjoyed it and I am gratified if
Mr. Husband and I could bring a smile to your face. Oh! And yeah, Mr.
Tots has something to say, too.
 “I would love to play with Mamma’s Bloo Shar glass trophy. I am
gonna send you all my cute pictures posed with it as soon as she gets it
for me. Thank you so much for your support, you all lovely readers,
Muaahh. Happy Reading and Keep Smiling.”
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Namita loves writing stories that are straight from the heart. For her,
the key element to live a happy life is smiling through whatsoever comes
her way.

She is an engineer who wandered into writing codes, but her heart was
always set on writing creatively. She is a frequent blogger who centers
around humor.

For all the latest releases and post updates, subscribe to her blog website,
https://penitratherkeyit.com/. It is a real stress buster and keeps readers
abreast with the latest happenings.

Namita can also be found on the following platforms:

Instagram - @pen_it_rather_key_it
Twitter - @namitadas21
Facebook - @PenItRatherKeyIt
LinkedIn - @namita-das-7a490917
Email - namita@penitratherkeyit.com