Happy Birthday darling husband…

For some backgrounder on this phenomenon. The husband is the youngest in a family of five siblings. Can just hear you going, ‘Aww spoilt brat!” You guessed right. He is. No two ways about it. He is so used to being hero worshipped by the rest of the family, he actually expects the rest of the world to do the same. Cant blame him too. Handsome charming dude that he is, and this is not just me blinded by my love for him. Being obscenely goodlooking does mean that the rest of the clan tends to hero worship him a bit. In fact, to the extent that he presumes that his entire clan should shelve their jobs, lives and irate spouses and land up to celebrate his birthday. The best part of this presumption is that they actually all do. Fuming husbands of sis in laws are left to fend for themselves for the entire time they vamoose off to celebrate their kid bro’s birthday. And I see the trend continuing with the brat’s birthday. What helps of course, is the fact that his birthday comes bang in the midst of the school summer vacations which makes it easy to drag school going kids away. Therefore, every May is a huge celebration time, with three sisters, their kids and the brother down for an extended blast. This time round, we had a short trip to Daman. The original plan was to go down to Goa which was shelved at the last minute, thanks to yours truly chickening out, remembering the last time we drove down in January during the extended Republic Day weekend which saw the brat bringing up nonstop all the way there, making us hotfoot it to the hospital the moment we touched Panjim. So we opted for unexplored Daman. Which, in retrospect, would have been better left unexplored since there was absolutely nothing there to explore. Dry parched landscape. Fumes of chemicals and oil in the air. Apart from oil slicked rocky beaches and a really bad counterfeit market that even an inveterate shopper like me turned away from in sheer revulsion. And boy was it hot. A trip to check out the market saw us wrung out like sponges and making a bee line back for the hotel rooms and the comfort of air conditioners with chilled beers. The adults that is. The kids settled for chilled Pepsi. We spent the rest of our minibreak in beer induced stupor venturing out only to the hotel restaurant to feed ourselves or sitting around the edges of the swimming pool, smirking at obese ladies clad in tights and lycra spandex enhanced full sleeved tshirts for modest swimming. Like the full sleeves and the full length tights do anything to conceal the size of the individuals bursting within their nylon thread reinforced seams. Or maybe one was just envious of their courage in venturing out in swimwear while one couldnt dare even show milk bottle ankles. And anyway, one snorted in derision, the pool was just about two feet deep and four feet wide. A glorified kiddy pool. Not worthy of us getting in. Trying to kid the world that one actually didnt care to swim in such an unworthy pool, trying hard to conceal the fact that one would probably sink like a stone had one tried to get in, keeping aside the fact that me in a swimsuit would have the rest of guests run away retching in disgust at this horrifying vision. The husband and the bro in law, Asiad level swimming and diving champions decided to get into the water and give the kids some training. This saw the rest of the guests lolling around on the deck chairs perk their ears up and start listening with such rapt attention, that they shovelled their brats in line to take instruction. A long line gradually built up for diving instruction. A woman asked me if I knew who the coach was, and didnt he come in some television serial. No, I replied, distractedly. Of course, he comes in a television serial, she persisted assertively, whats his name. No, I snapped back, I should know. He’s my husband. She slunk away after giving me a head to toe look that was all sympathy for this Greek God being tied down to this Geek Goddess. The husband suddenly realised that he had begun coaching the entire slew of kids present in the resort rather than the four kids from the family, who had slunk into the kiddy pool section for general lazing around rather than active training, having gallantly vacated pool space for the eager learners. Ah, the sloth of this generation. They sat around in the baby pool discussing French manicures and cute basketball coaches until their mothers physically threatened to throw them out of the pool if they didnt want to get the full benefit of benevolent uncle turned coach’s wisdom. The brat conquered his fear of water and wanted to be in the pool morning, afternoon, evening. And paddled around like a little dog with his arm floats and only a moue of a face visible in that flurry of activity. The brat’s birthday comes around in October. No doubt the family will be down again, this time round because the brat is the youngest of the lot. Do I see a pattern being repeated here? Happy birthday my darling husband. All my love isnt enough for all the love I wish to give you.

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About Kiran Manral

Author of The Face At The Window, ( 2016), Karmic Kids, All Aboard (2015) , Once Upon A Crush (2014) and The Reluctant Detective (2011).
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One Response to Happy Birthday darling husband…

  1. childwoman says:

    Belated, Happy Birthday and best wishes to Mr. Manral!!!

    Like

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