Short Story: Pet Names, Pakoras & Perfect Nonsense

Dr Goutam Bhattacharyya shares a hilarious tale of confusion and chaos featuring a hilariously clueless husband and his sharp-tongued spouse.

Editor’s Pick of the Week

(As the Editor’s Pick, this piece will be available for free reading this week)

If you ask my wife, she will assure you with no hesitation that I possess the observational skills of a mildly concussed frog. I personally feel this is a gross exaggeration; ‘frogs’, after all, notice quite a lot, but she maintains her opinion with the determination of a tax collector.

But I digress.

What I really wish to relate is a curious incident. Well, there were actually two incidents, connected by a pair of newlyweds, a plate of chicken pakoras, and the astonishing evolution of the pet names in modern married life in the metropolis.

It began three winters ago at a wedding where my wife and I were present more out of social compulsion than gastronomic zeal. The menu, let me assure you, was not the sort that makes one break into a spontaneous waltz out of sheer delight. Still, weddings serve an important purpose: they remind you to prepare your stomach for incoming attacks of biryani, pulao, paneer tikka, and mutton by warming it up with preliminary skirmishes in the pakora sector.

I approached the pakora stall with the solemnity of a seasoned general surveying a battlefield. Beside me, there stood a newly married young fellow, all glowing cheeks and marital enthusiasm, accompanied by his dainty, fair wife. She looked as though she had been airlifted from some premium cosmetics advertisement.

“Sweetie, shall I bring one more plate of pakoras?” he asked her tenderly.

“No, Sweetie,” she replied, waving a slim hand. “I’ve already overeaten. And the main course is still to come.”

I froze.

Not because of the pakoras, which were quite average, but due to sheer amazement.

Two people having the same name? Sweetie and Sweetie? How was the household ever to function? If someone shouted “Sweetie”, would they both sprint towards the caller? Or would they stand still, hoping the other one was being addressed? The possibilities were baffling.

I tugged discreetly at my wife’s sleeve. “Look,” I whispered. “What a remarkable coincidence! How on earth are husband and wife both having identical names?”

My wife turned to me with the expression of one who has just found a slug in her salad.

“If someone cracked open your head,” she murmured, “they would find enough compost inside to grow pumpkins for two seasons.”

“Why? Why pumpkins?” I asked, genuinely eager to learn.

“Because ‘Sweetie’ is not a name, you genius. It is an endearment. I mean a pet name. Terms of affection, my dear. Something you wouldn’t recognise even if it danced the tango in front of you.”

And with that, she marched off with her plate, leaving me standing with the newlyweds, who were busy in a mush-exchange that could induce diabetes in a stone.

“Sweetie, there’s a bit of pakora stuck on your lip.”

“Oh! Hand me the napkin, Sweetie.”

“Here you are, Sweetie.”

“Shall we go and sit, Sweetie?”

“Yes, Sweetie.”

I watched them with anthropological curiosity while delicately consuming a mutton biryani later. “Give them one year,” I declared to my wife with the confidence of a seasoned philosopher. “The endearments will evolve. Sweetie will eventually become Monkey, then Donkey, and finally, silence.”

“Stop judging people like you’re appointed by the Supreme Court,” she snapped.

Thus ended Act I.

*-*-*

A year later, on a wintry evening, destiny, who has a rather impish sense of humour, arranged our reunion with this couple.

My wife and I had gone to attend another wedding party. There, in the row in front of us, sat that very same young man. His features were unmistakable; he possessed the kind of square face with pretty thick eyebrows that stands out even in a crowd, much like a misplaced pineapple in a basket of apples.

He sat with a lady by his side.

A familiar lady.

Or so I thought.

The play began, and at some suitably tragic moment involving a doomed queen, I heard him whisper, “Honey, how’s the biryani? Enjoying?”

“Not really, Honey,” she replied.

I stiffened.

Honey?

Where, pray, had Sweetie gone?

Had Sweetie metamorphosed into Honey? If so, by what scientific formula? Which poetic metre? How did one graduate from Sweetie to Honey? Was there a course? A syllabus? Entrance exams?

Emotion overpowered my delicate senses. Perhaps, I thought, names were ephemeral, mere bubbles on the surface of the ocean of love. Romance, like old wine, must deepen, and along with it the quality of pet names. Who was I to judge? Here was a couple still drenched in matrimonial affection after all this time.

But the lady, even from behind, looked… altered.

Slimmer.

Noticeably so.

Her complexion, earlier glowing like freshly polished marble, now appeared a tad muted.

Curious, I whispered to my wife, “Most wives put on weight after marriage. But here, it seems the laws of nature have reversed themselves.”

My wife did not reply. She merely exhaled in a manner that suggested severe emotional restraint.

Outside, after the party, I bravely attempted conversation again. “You know,” I said, “my prediction the other day was absolutely wrong. Their love seems to have not only endured but also evolved. Although, I must say, the lady appears a little… er… diminished. Love has eroded her like a riverbank.”

That was the moment my wife exploded like a faulty pressure cooker.

“Oh, enough with your nonsense! Do you have even the faintest idea what you’re talking about?”

“Not a clue,” I admitted honestly.

She glared at me as if I were an improperly cooked potato.

“That lady”, she said in a low, dramatic tone, “is not the same wife.”

My eyelids performed an involuntary double-blink worthy of a stage melodrama.

“What? Not the same wife? Do you mean to say he has changed her like a calendar? Year by year?”

“Divorce,” she said tersely. “They separated.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.” Which, coming from a spouse, is an answer one does not challenge unless one desires immediate annihilation.

“But… but… how? And why didn’t I recognise her?” I asked, bewildered.

“Because your observational skills”, she said, “are inferior to a sleepy tortoise. You recognised the man but not the woman. Honestly, what am I living with?”

I scratched my head intellectually. “Actually, I was blinded by the aura of love. My worldly judgement deserted me. I thought…”

“Stop thinking,” she advised, and we went home with a silence heavy enough to press dents into the car seats.

*-*-*

That night, lying in bed, I reflected upon the curious case of Sweetie, Honey, and the wife who wasn’t the wife.

Life, I decided, was full of astonishing transformations.

People changed spouses.

People changed names.

People changed colours, weights, temperaments, and seating preferences at theatres. Oh, what a sort of juggling!

But the one thing that never changed, absolutely never, was my wife’s unshakeable belief that I understood nothing.

And, as I drifted into sleep, I realised that in the grand theatre of life, she was probably right.

After all, anyone who can mistake a new wife for an old one and confuse endearments for legal names deserves to remain permanently in the ‘Remedial Class’ of human comprehension.

But between us, dear readers, let me admit: I still honestly think ‘Sweety’ turning into ‘Honey’ requires further research.

Author’s Bio

Dr Goutam Bhattacharyya is a researcher of Plant Sciences, teacher, poet and writer based in Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India, passionate about capturing the essence of Indian culture, history, and everyday life through verse. He started his career as Resource-Teacher with the Ministry of Education, Royal Govt. of Bhutan in April 1990. His works explore regional pride, heritage, and nature with an accessible lyrical style. His creative writings are published in different Anthology books and magazines, the latest being a short story, ‘A Rare Reunion’, published in ‘Kitaab’ a Singapore-based South Asian literary magazine having excellent literary quotient.