Love in the times of Covid 7

 Every evening at the bar. DSP large with soda. A bowl of monkey nuts on the side. Though he had a repeat every day, the waiter would still ask him.

He had grown up happy. In a big house with a small family. Daddy, Mummy and him. Well to do. Car, T.V., telephone. Daddy was the first to go. He had just finished college. But Mummy requested him not to start working immediately. 

They had to put Daddy’s papers in order. Bank accounts, LIC, UTI. Transfer the telephone to Mummys name. Salcette society share certificate. Even the name for the grave ownership. It was tedious work. And slow. Forms to be filled out in triplicate. The notary called to wish him a happy Christmas . And Easter. And Divali. And Christmas. Then Mummy asked him to get the house repairs done. With a job who would supervise the work ? Then she had a fall. If he left her alone in the house with the servants they’d steal them blind. 

The proposals kept coming. He was never sure if it was or the house or for him. Pretty girls, plain girls, ugly girls. Piano LTCL, ATCL and BEd graduates. Mangloreans, East Indians and Goans. Even one Anglo Indian.  He approved Mummy didn’t. Mummy approved, he didn’t. 

And so it went till Mummy died. That’s when he started going to the gym bar every evening. Keeping a kitchen running for one person was a waste. So after his two large DSP’s he’d study the menu. Came back to Beef chilly fry and dal with chappatis every night. A parcel of fish curry rice for tomorrows lunch. The top woman would make his breakfast tea and porridge. 

The proposals were now issueless widows and innocent divorcees. But Jo boy who sometimes joined him at the bar laughed. Its bad luck to marry a widow. Divorcee. Theres no smoke without a fire.

He finally sold the house. Two flats and more crores than he could spend in three lifetimes. One flat was just full of all the extra furniture from the bungalow.

Lockdown ? Breakfast was marie bisucits and tetra pak milk. Damn. He’d burnt the maggi noodles again.