I have,” I said to my wife, “a confession to make.” “What did you do,” my wife’s tone was mocking, “pinch the office stationery?” “Oh no,” I was shocked that she could imagine such a thing, “all I did was proposition some women I didn’t know.” “Good for you lad,” she responded, “though you don’t look like you’ve been beaten black and blue.”
“It isn’t like you think,” I explained to her. That afternoon, I had been waiting for my driver at the entrance to the city’s toniest shopping arcade along with a group of women who were also waiting for their cars. Security being tighter than usual, there was a long queue of vehicles being checked by a squad of personnel in spit-and-polish uniforms. Having enjoyed an excellent cappuccino, and the day being pleasant, I didn’t mind the wait, eavesdropping on the group of four as I whiled away my time.
Checking out a showroom window, the most expensively dressed among the women said, “Oh, I like that dress, my daughter-in-law would love it.” “Our daughters-in-law are so lucky,” sighed the one with the unsuitably short hair, “they have so many shopping choices, not like when we were daughters-in-law and would have to go to London for our shopping.” “Not that they’re grateful,” said the only one among them in Indian clothes, “I gave mine an Hermes bag, but she said she didn’t want it because she didn’t use old things.”
“Not that it was used,” she clarified, it’s just that I bought so many bags as Diwali gifts two years ago, there are heaps left over.” “You think they’ll ever use anything from the last season,” hrrumphed the one with short hair, “not like when our mothers-in-law gave us pashminas they’d been hoarding for years, and we had to pretend to be happy with them — though I always gave mine away to my sister’s maids!”
Their cars having arrived, they mwah-ed and promised to do lunch the following week, when the aunty in Indian clothes ordered, “Wait, I’ve got bhuttas for all of you from my farm.” At this, the waiter opened the car and out came an array of bags – leftover Diwali gifts, no doubt – in which the corn-on-the-cob was presumably packed. “Choose whichever bag you want,” said the lady with a wave of her hand. “No, really,” demurred the one with short hair. “It’s just bhuttas,” said auntyji, “enjoy.” “I love bhuttas from your farm, they’re so good,” simpered one of them, adding in an aside, “I’m sure that’s the bag her daughter-in-law didn’t want, and I’m not taking it either.”
While other guests waited to get into their cars, the foursome demurred about the inappropriateness of accepting the gift of corn-cobs, while Hermes and Versace, Louis Vuitton and Chanel bags were tossed back and forth between them like beach volleyballs. “That’s when,” I said to my wife, “I spoke up to say that if nobody wanted the lady’s farm-grown bhuttas, I’d be happy to have them.”
Finally, my wife showed some interest. “And?” she asked. “The bhutta lady wanted to know if we’d met before. I said no, while all the others quickly accepted a bag each from the driver.” “So you didn’t get anything,” said my wife. “By now,” I continued, “lots of people were watching, so feeling embarrassed perhaps, the lady told the driver to give me a bundle of bhuttas too.” “Why didn’t you say so before,” smiled my wife, “so, where’s the bag you got me?” “Bag, no,” I grinned at her, “but here are the bhuttas anyway.”