Kishore Singh: Meeting a suitable boy

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It isn't often these days that we're called to be on our best behaviour, so when my cousin said she would like to bring her boyfriend home for approval, my wife immediately went into a tizzy.

"What does she mean by approval?" she demanded to know. "Is he going to approve us, or are we to approve him?" "It's just an expression," I said to her, "she probably just wants us to meet him, so we should all pretend to be casual and not embarrass her "" or him."

"Oh-oh," said my son, "then you'll have to dress for the part, and you don't even have the clothes for it." "I'm not wearing a suit just because my cousin sis is bringing a friend over," I protested. "But you can't wear kurtas," said my son, "that'll scare him off. You need to look cool.

I guess I'll just have to loan you some of my clothes." "I'm not wearing any of your jeans that come halfway down the hips," I shuddered, "besides, why are you making such a big deal of it?"

But like it or not, it seemed to be a big deal. My cousin called to confirm the meeting again, and yet again, so we knew it was important for her.

In the end, we decided we'd meet at our club for lunch, instead of at home, and I was persuaded to wear one of my oldest pair of jeans because it was fraying and so, according to my son, it passed muster.

My wife remained indecisive between a saree ("Too formal," said my daughter) and a salwar-kameez (Ohmegod, behenji!" said my son) so she wore the tracks she usually sleeps in as revenge, but no one noticed, so it was all right, I guess.

We were at the club when my cousin arrived accompanied by not one but two friends. We introduced ourselves, ordered beers, and promptly ran out of conversation.

I cleared my throat and asked the lad on my right what he did; we agreed the weather was tricky; I checked with him if he'd like another beer.

"You're talking to the wrong boy," hissed my wife in my ears, accompanied by a poke in the ribs, "that isn't her boyfriend; this one is." So I turned to the chap on my left and asked him what he did, and whether he'd like another beer too. "Gosh, can't you be more subtle," said my son, "questioning him like that "" what's he going to think?"

So, seeing I wasn't allowed to speak to either the friend or the boyfriend, I decided I should speak to my cousin instead, who whispered: "Why aren't you speaking with my friends?" "Because they have nothing to say," I whispered back. "Are you saying my friends aren't good enough for you?" my cousin asked.

"No, but perhaps we aren't good enough for them," I retaliated. "How dare her friends think they're better than us," my wife was offended. "Listen," said my son, thumping the table around which a strange silence had fallen, "why don't we go play pool?"

The children and the friends and my cousin all went off, so we were able to order lunch, and soon after we'd eaten, we all shook hands and said how nice it had been, and promised we'd meet again, and thankfully went off in our cars. "Phew," said my wife, "I don't think I'd like to do that again."

My cousin called last evening. "Did you approve of him?" she asked. "Did he approve of us?" I asked back. "I don't ask, but did you," she said. "I don't know either," I confessed. "Oh dear," said my cousin, "we'll just have to meet again, so we can decide if you approve of each other."