Day’s forecast from a ‘devoted’ wife

Aradhika  Sharma

10.00 pm, the night prior to Karvachauth: I’m waiting in queue in the Sector 15 market for my turn with the mehendiwala. I’ve been here for two hours.

11.30 pm: I ask the mehendiwala to design the motif of a pair of beautiful birds — one on each hand — and when I would put my hands together, the birds would rub beaks. So romantic! He draws a lotus on one hand and what looks like a camel, on the other. Well, something is better than nothing and it’s for a good cause — hubby’s long life.

1.00 am: I’m finally in bed and the overpowering smell of henna is making me a bit nauseous. My hands are in plastic polybags, held at the wrist with rubber bands, to save the bed-linen from getting stained.

5.00 am: Alarm goes off. I stagger out of bed to have a bath. Darn! I should have put the geyser on before sleeping. I let out a little scream when the water touches my just-out-of-bed body. Hubby sleeps peacefully. I suffer!

5.30 am: My mom-in-law has sent sargi of ghee-saturated fenis that I must cook in milk, fruit and dry fruits, mathis and barfi — all to be consumed before the day breaks. I gag and choke, but stuff myself with masses of food. All to fortify myself for the day of hunger and deprivation! Husband sleeps through the chomping and gulping noises that pierce the pre-dawn silence.

8.30 am: Hai! I’m longing for chai.

9.00 am: Bhai who is makingparanthas in the neighbourhood? Chalo, achcha hai! The aroma made me salivate.

11.00 am: I’m getting cappuccino withdrawal symptoms.

12.00 pm: The sisterhood of the Karvachauth hara-kiri club went to watch Badhaai Ho. We laugh a lot. That makes us terribly thirsty.

1.30 pm: Interval. The divine perfumes of freshly made popcorn, coffee and fries waft in. There’s a thunderclap caused by the collective rumble from the tummies of the women in the hall.

3.30 pm: I’m getting dolled up for the pooja in my new brocade suit. I drape the tilla-work dupatta cunningly to show off my diamond set.

4.00 pm: At the temple for the ceremonies, we admire each other’s outfits, listen to the katha, pass our thalis around and chant our hymn.

5.30 pm: I’m home. I feel a migraine looming. Rabba, Rabba, Chai barsa.

6.00 pm: Hubby comes home after a good round of golf and calls out “paani aur phir chai”, casually ruffles my hair and turns on the TV. I glower at him. How long for the moon?

7.00 pm: I’m dying! Where’s the darned moon?

8.00pm: Pammi calls to say the moon is visible. Galvanised, I grab hubby and drag him out, chappal-less. The pooja thali is strategically laid out on the terrace. As I look at him through the channi, he smiles sweetly and lovingly offers me water and mithai. I smile back.

Seriously yaar, this must be the only diet where the health benefits go to someone else.