The boy who never grew up
And that wasn't really cute.
How would you feel if this sight greets you when you come home after a day at work?
A lanky 25-year-old boy/man, who thinks he's still fifteen, sprawled out on your sofa, in a pair of shorts that exposes three-quarters of his scraggly, hairy legs, in full control of your remote control – and of your life... well, almost.
Boy-man: "Hey, how was work?"
Me: "Hmmm... The boss thinks I'm not doing enough. She's a real..."
Boy-man: Had already turned away and was laughing at a disgustingly moronic Hindi sitcom.
WHICH 25-YEAR-OLD MAN WATCHES HINDI SITCOMS??? Apparently some do. At least this guy, who'd parked himself at our place, does. He, some junior from the husband’s college, had written, or should I say FBed the husband one night that he was coming to town. And would like to stay for a few days. Only a few, till his visa gets sorted. Visa? Oh, did he not say? His girlfriend's gone to Portugal and he wants to follow and it's much easier to get visas from here rather than from his city and hence the arrival. Also, it would be SO cool to catch up after ALL these years.
Now, let me tell you, the husband and I... us... we are pretty used to, and good to, guests. The guest room's ever ready for anyone to come and crash. And I! I am the most tolerant and amiable hostess ever. I make sure there's food on the table and water in the loos. A guest doesn't, couldn’t need anything more to subsist.
The problem in this case was that the stranger-to-me, junior-to-the-husband was the quintessence of a Bangali babu. I immediately became his boudi (as the husband was already a dada). And the moment you are designated a boudi, the brother-in-law weirdly gets a preordained right to act like a kid and demand undue pampering.
Boy/man: "Boudi, let's make a continental spread tonight. Please. Please please! Dada was saying how good you are with it. Maybe a quiche, and a meatloaf. Baked veggies, yum! Maybe a cheesecake to end with!" He went off into an orgasmic relish of imaginary food. I chose to glare at the husband, the silence meaning and even imploring, "do not ever dare tell him, or ANYONE, that I cook well. That I cook AT ALL". “Let’s make” obviously implied “you make, we all eat”. I let that pass. Just a night, god, just one night.
Not quite that easy. Bangali babu was used to being served a grand meal breakfast, lunch, dinner. Dal, something to go with the dal, sabzi, fish, and meat. And it being the remnant of the winter season, he needed his coffee, at 6, in bed.
Milk, bread, chocolates, cookies vanished from my food store. (For a lean fellow, he had a ravenous appetite.) His clothes piled in my laundry basket. The television rights gradually went to him. The laptop turned into a gaming machine. He read books halfway through, got bored and let them lie anywhere – I must define anywhere. The ledge on the balcony railing. Rim of the washbasin, precariously balanced. Kitchen cabinet. Under the sofa. In his dirty clothes pile inside the laundry basket.
The husband silently slunk away and spent hours at work. That was the most tortuous part for me. I had nothing to say to boy-man. I was not interested in boy-man's juvenile tales. "When I was 10, we went to Bombay. Oops, must say Mumbai now, no? [Giggle giggle]... yap yap yap..." Dude, what's funny about that??
After an arduous three weeks, he told us he’d got the visa. His work in the city was done. (My) Inference: He’d be leaving the next day. I was so thrilled that I really did cook a huge Bengali meal to celebrate my liberation. He let out a nasty burp, and smiled at me indulgently as if at a cute but errant puppy, “It was all very well, boudi. Thank you. I just thought the ilish could’ve done with a little more salt. And of course, instead of the mishti doi from a shop, you could’ve easily made payesh yourself. No worries. Maybe tomorrow night, huh?”
