them

he thought coconut oil was the only thing that could be done to his hair. she thought elvis presley was the last word when it came to styling. and of course elvis WAS the mark of god on earth, with that voice, that charm, and everything else.

he could speak for an eternity on the inricacies of indian classical music, and the closest brush he had with music of her choice, was when he heard janice joplin (much, much later in both their lives) and said she sounds like gangubai hangal.

she thinks elvis could still be alive somehwere, he could not sleep and spent the night walking on the streets the evening amir khan sahib died. she waited up for him.

she had been a heartbreaker, with her own share of heartaches. he didn't believe in love, not even when he was knocked out cold by it and couldn't recover from it in this lifetime. he still claims that there is no such thing as love, with a cocky grin. she just smiles at him and lifts her eyebrows.

she was silk, he was khadi ( he later had some khadi bell bottoms made to strike a compromise, which needless to say, didn't score quite as much as he expected).

she used to laugh at him, he used to laugh with her. they still laugh a lot. they share a passion for finding humour in the strangest situation.

he had one steel trunk in his newly rented apartment. she cut up her best sari to make a table cloth for it, so they won't have to eat on the floor, till they saved money enough to buy a proper dining-table. they didn't quite manage to save it, because they were perpetually broke buying books and flowers and book-cases and flower-vases. a disgusted friend took a hundred bucks from him and had a table with its own set of four weird chairs delivered to the flat.


she will not let the remote go and would sit through an unwatchable malayali movie, just so he doesn't get to watch tv. he will go the extent of tampering with the cords, so she doesn't get to hog the computers. all he does is play solitaires, all she does is watch news on tv. they also get extremely competitive with each other when it comes to exercise, morning walk, low-cal diet and page three trivia. and long-distance telephone calls.


he hates almost every shirt she has ever bought for him, she loved every sari he remembered to get. before every anniversary he is handed a list of things he should buy. she believes that exchanging gifts is silly, its all give and take - he gives, she takes. but she loves surprising him with gifts, her anticipation of his delight is a delight in itself.

he thinks she is the world's best cook ( she is NOT and they have a page in the telephone book devoted to the take-aways) and she thinks he is the best dish-washer she could ever get ( he is NOT, any maid or a small haier dishwasher could work miracles).

his body fails him, in small ways and large, each passing day, yet he finds himself picking up flowers for her after a ten-hour work day. her spirit just won't take a beating after all that she's been through, simply because he is with her, and there is nothing that quite counts as much.

they are old and tired and see friends and family dying. they see and sometimes welcome a growing seclusion. yet they seldom feel lonely. they have a cup of tea to sigh over, politics to fight over, scraggy tired old plants in a scrap garden that still spring flowers to wonder over, and each other to feel happy over.

they sometimes get very bemused and wonder how anyone could ever settle for anything less. i get very confused watching them and wonder, how can i ever make myself settle for anything less. but i have to, don't i?