I've been off the blogosphere for a while now, on the grounds that I have nothing worthwhile to write about. I think up something, write a few lines about it and then, since it sounds stupid, let dare not wait upon I would, like the poor cat i' the adage.
I have been rethinking this policy, however. You see, with the amount of grey matter that I have been blessed, it is well nigh impossible for me say or write anything that is not stupid. And Okie Dokie just threatened to wring my neck if I don't write something instanter. Not that I am unduly worried about that threat, neck-wringing rights vesting currently with Mrs. Shenoy, but it is an important indication about the way the public is thinking. The public is thinking, show us again what an ass you are.
I have several topics on which I can display my ass-ness. The oil crisis, for one. The state of the economy, perhaps. Or what our foriegn policy towards China should be. But I'm going to settle for my favorite topic - Life with the Missus.
Today's anecdote comes from our courtship days. Those of you who have been following the story of my drab little life will recall how I was unceremoniously hauled by the scruff of my neck and flung into the maelstrom of matrimony. Well, there was a brief period where I was sailing at the edge of this whirlpool, in the little sliver of brightness called courtship, right between the dull sunlessness of celibate bachelorhood and the dark, rain-clouded thunderstorm of married life.
I had made the trip to Mysore and was accorded the treatment reserved for royalty. Eat this beta, drink this, beta, are you comfortable, can I get you another quilt. And there were any number of people who wanted to meet me. I thought at the time that they sought my views on world affairs but all that they were doing were getting a good look at the yahoo who would take away their beloved princess. And in those early days, I managed to create the impression that I was a total bone-head, an impression the missus carries to this day and which forms the basis of all our interpersonal transactions. One of the defining moments was this one.
One of her uncles had come down to meet me. He had quite a reputation for pulling people's legs, though I didn't have a clue at the time. He started off innocuously enough, with a general discussion on the state of affairs in the nation. Sheela was there too. And soon, his mother, that is, Sheela's grandmother, walked in. I promptly touched feet. She was a sweet old soul, semi-invalid because of arthritis, but cheerful nonetheless.
"Mother," said Uncle, "Naren is from Bombay."
" Yes I heard. Bombay must be a nice place. I've been there many years ago", said grandma.
" Sheela's just back from Bombay. She went there to visit Naren," added Uncle.
"Did you like Bombay?" asked grandma.
Sheela reminded her that she had visited Bombay quite frequently.
"She knows Bombay better than I do" I addded, graciously.
"She saw the Kutub Minar in Bombay" said Uncle to grandma.
Grandma's brow furrowed in thought. "Kutub minar? That's in Delhi, isn't it?"
"There's one in Bombay too, according to Sheela". Uncle. Sheela is blushing prettily.
"No, no, grandma's right, uncle, the Kutub minar is in Delhi". Me, the fathead.
"Really? I could have sworn Sheela saw one in Bombay."
"Must be some other minaret. The Kutub Minar is definitely in Delhi". I carried on, oblivious. Sheela was the color of beetroot by now.
"Shut up you rascal" giggled grandma, and ambled away to the kitchen. I had still not got it. Uncle, who had suddenly developed a fit of coughing, ran away from the room. It was only when we were married and some act of goofiness reminded this incident to Sheela did she explain the imagery to me. THEN I got what they meant! It was too late of course. The letters B U F F O O N are firmly emblazoned against my name in the book of Sheela's mind and defines all her readings of my actions.