Rhapsodic

Almost all kids love hearing the story of how their parents met. Even if it’s not a thrilling tale that involves storming castle walls or crossing over a bridge of birds (one of my favorite folk tales; do not judge the sappy romantic that hides inside this tough exterior.) I guess it’s the simple idea of fathers and mothers being separate entities that once existed without the other, and the events that brought about that change.
Or heck, let’s be fair, we want to know because we just can’t imagine them as anything other than the mommy who threatened to feed you to a temple elephant if you got on her nerves or the daddy who puts the remote in the fridge and the leftover soda in the tv cabinet.

One of the sweetest (albeit perhaps only to a med student) I’d heard of was also one that made me a little queasy. A girl I went to high school with recounted it to me during a lull in the school day. Her parents were both doctors who met and fell in love in med school. The classes were segregated, and were scheduled in such a way that the male population of that particular batch was allowed access to the anatomy lab (and its deceased subjects) a little before the female students. As a result, when the entire classroom of female med students opened up their cadavers after the boys had had their class they found little love letters, where the cadaver’s heart was/should have been. I’m imagining that there must have been some hullabaloo, consternation, confrontation, a fair degree of wasted class time, perhaps some relationships, at least one wedding and two kids whose parents met in the oddest of circumstances. And you thought Grey’s Anatomy and Scrubs were making it up.

My best friend in elementary and middle school told me a cute story about how her parents met. It’s a bit Bollywoodish, but it’s almost appropriate considering that her paternal grandfather was an old Hindi film actor, and his penchant for the dramatic was clearly inherited by his son. My friend’s mother and an acquaintance were walking in the rain. Just your typical Hindi movie scene, friends. Being of the fairer and thus, brighter sex (hold your fire) they were each using their umbrellas. While strolling, they notice a man walking past them without so much as a soggy newspaper to protect himself from the dripping onslaught. So auntie casually says, “Look, he didn’t even have the sense to get an umbrella.”
As serendipity would have it, he overheard. He made an about face, walked alongside her, stuck himself under her umbrella and said, “Well, I guess I’ll just have to share yours.” How's that for an unscripted pickup line? Shah Rukh Khan should take pointers.

Then there’s the story of one of my uncles. He went to at least forty potential brides’ houses, and rejected them all with one flimsy excuse or the other. Feet too big, eyes too wide apart, floor to grainy, family too needy etc. But my grandmom had her heart set on a quiet girl who did not “paint her face,” had a college degree and enjoyed the performing arts. My uncle met her, announced to my grandmother that he didn’t want a girl who resembled a dosa*. My grandma, of course didn’t know what he was talking about. He made a face, and explained that he found her acne scars offensive. Wise woman that she is, my grandmom dropped the subject, and instead wore him out with her colossal list of girls. Things reached a deadlock between them, until he started balding prematurely at which point my uncle started to reevaluate his choices. Dosa-girl won. They got married. Moved to the Gelf. 20 years later, they are hair, acne and attitude free. Have a lovely little girl who sings, plays the piano and enjoys classical dance, just like her mother.

My mum’s and dad’s families go back a long way. As a result, my father met my mother (who is eight years his junior, in case you’re wondering) when he was fifteen and my mum was all of seven and a bit of a kook. Odd thing about this is that my father has no memory of this meeting. In my father’s defense: he had no idea he’d be marrying the aforementioned kook in 21 years. Perhaps he’d have opted not to bother her at all, if he had known.
My father always had a soft spot for little kids who babble endlessly.** He somehow pegged my mother for a talker who would need a wee bit of coaxing. So he asks the barely 4 feet tall mass of giggles behind my grandmother’s skirt if he can tell her a story. She seems intrigued. The trap is set. She says yes.

The Storyteller: On my way here, I got lost in the forest.
The Little Girl: [big eyes]
The Storyteller: I screamed and called, but no one heard me. I couldn’t even see where I was going.
The Little Girl: [big eyes]
The Storyteller: So I climbed a tree.
The Little Girl: [seems relieved]
The Storyteller: But then I realized I was too high up and couldn’t get down.
The Little Girl: [bigger eyes]
The Storyteller: So do you know what I did?
The Little Girl: [shakes head from side to side with big eyes]
The Storyteller: Oh, I went and got a ladder and climbed down.
The Little Girl: WHAT?! What kind of stupid story is that?!

And so, it began.

* - A pancake made from fermented dough. Aeration leads to holes while frying. Makes them fluffier on the inside, and crisp on the outside.

**It’s probably why my sister and I said our first words at about 8 months and didn’t quite shut up. If you take issue with my verbal diarrhea, you now know who to blame.