My son's clean

People Like Us

I was in a therapy room at a spa in Goa when my wife called on the cell. "Are you sitting down?" she asked by way of greeting.

"As a matter of fact, I'm lying down," I said, "and can hear the sea in the distance, while a masseuse is giving me an exfoliating body scrub, but don't let that stop you from having a long and intimate chat."

There was a moment's silence, before my wife said, "I presume you aren't wearing anything either." "That's right," I said, "though I do have a towel covering my, er, modesty."

"How could I expect anything better from our son when his father is so decadent," snapped my wife at me.

"What's wrong with our son?" I asked, presuming they had exchanged words, as happens often these days.

"What's wrong," said my wife, "is that our son is a drug addict, and it's all your fault."

This was serious, and I sat up while neglecting to see how the towel had slipped off my back.

"I do hope you aren't making this up," I said to her, "simply because I'm having a massage, and you aren't."

"Oh, you go ahead and have your massage," said my wife sharply, "while I remove the offending drugs from his room." "You're joking," I said in alarm.

"That's me, the family clown," she retorted, "who has nothing better to do that track down where our son hides his drugs, while his father is away on an indulgent holiday."

I could have pointed out that I was actually on work, but realised my wife needed placating. "What exactly have you found?" I asked her.

"Some crystals in his drawer which looked suspicious, so I put one in my mouth, and it tastes foul, and has made my head swim. There's also a pouch with mishri next to it, which he must be taking to disguise the taste."

Instead of sitting down, I stood up, unmindful of the towel which lay on the mat. "This is bad," I said, "but are you sure it is his stuff, and not someone else's?"

"The only guests who have used the room recently have been your father and aunt," pointed out my wife.

It was difficult to think of my 77-year-old father on drugs, and though my aunts have been known to do worse things, I couldn't think of any of them being a substance abuser, no matter how tempting the image.

"I think I would like to speak to our son," I said to my wife who, it seemed had neglected to confront him so far.

My son was duly summoned to the phone, while I paced the breadth of the therapy room, even as the masseuse waited for me to put my clothes back on.

After I had given my son the gist of his mother's conversation with me, I asked him if there was anything he would like to say. "Yes," said my son, "I would like the two of you to stop policing me."

This was hardly what I was expecting. "Do you have no comments about the drugs in your room?" I asked him curtly.

"I do," he said, "for starters, the so-called drugs in my room are nothing but potash alum salts for a chemistry experiment."

And the sugar crystals?" I asked in disbelief. "They belong to your father, who always carries them when travelling," said my son, a point that, I must admit, my wife and I had both neglected to remember.

"You mean," I said faintly, "you aren't on drugs?" "Not that I know, no," said my son. "That makes me doubly angry," I snapped at him, "because here I am with no clothes on, and it's all your fault."