21 May 2012. 19:16 PM. "The Lunch"

You're probably not sleeping now, seeing it's a little after seven in the evening. In all probability, you've just returned from your little round in the park in your pram, thanks to my mom-in-law, your dida.

I had a bad lunch today. Daal, roti and bhindi.
Nothing quite like the lunch I had in your mom's house - when I went there for the first time.
And there's where our story begins here my love.

You would, if I've managed to put you in school by now, have heard of the Last Supper. In today's world, it's man's last glorious meal before he is sent, unceremoniously to his death.

I don't remember the date, the month, the year. Sometime in 2008 I would imagine.
I was informed by my girlfriend that her father wanted to invite me over for lunch. Now Mimi, you must know by now - I'm a man who likes my lunches. I like them at restaurants, at houses, at hotels, at the clients' offices. I appreciate good food.

Plus, it was a chance to show off to a girlfriend's parent - something which I have been known to be prolific at ever since my college days. So without prolonging the conversation any further with the woman who was known to make a mountain of a mole hill, I readily accepted the invitation.

Her parents were most cordial.
They asked about what I did for a living, where my parents stayed, what my hobbies are - all the questions parents generally ask kids I suppose.

On the table neatly laid out, was lunch. For starters - saambar, rice, papadam, fried fish and toran. And then, for main course, rice, mutton curry and raita. I couldn't wait to dig into the food.

Her dad [your dadu] retired from the Armed Forces at Colonel. His specialty - intelligence. This, I found out soon after.
Once lunch was served, everyone started eating at a healthy pace. Everyone that is, expect me.

I started packing things into my mouth like there was no tomorrow. I had just wolfed down the sambar and rice and had a big chunk of mutton in my mouth all ready for the tearing apart when the gentleman who was to be addressed as 'dad' soon, asked me in a tone that was neither friendly nor bum-chumy,

"So, are you planning to marry my daughter?"

I did what any self respecting bengali with his mouth full of food would do.
I nodded like a life buoy, floating on a sea.

Little else I could do really in hindsight. There was no way out of it. Your smart dadu had lured me into a friendly area [his house], showed me a bait [mutton] and ambushed me [the question] when I least expected it [my mouth was full]

Typical guerrilla tactics, I later learnt.
So kiddo, that was how it all started. That is how your mother and me decided we had to get married.
Over a spot of lunch.

Your mother may not agree to a few parts of this story. I'm not saying they're wrong. I'm not saying they're right. But you tell me after you hear their version: which one is the one worth remembering and writing about?

Till I write to you again baby
Lots and lots and lots of love

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One Response to 21 May 2012. 19:16 PM. "The Lunch"

  1. :) I'm so glad things turned out the way they did.



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