In Time, I Will

*Note: The chapters from here on are the flashbacks.
*Ammi- Mother
*Abbu- Father(usually used by muslims to address their parents )
* beta - Child (in hindi)

When I came home from work, I found Ammi perched on the old tiger-print single sofa, which was as flat as a wafer. After ten years of use—and Ammi’s ample weight—the sponge had nearly given up. Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she sifted through a stack of photos, each one briefly catching her attention before she tossed it onto the tea table. Abbu, seated cross-legged on the floor, was picking up the rejected photos, mimicking her look of exasperation, and then tossing them to the other side of the table with a sigh of his own. Meanwhile, my teenage cousin Armaan, who’d been living with us since he was little, sat across from her, inspecting each discarded photo with great focus.

I caught on immediately: they were on a groom hunt for me. With a half-hearted shrug, I said in the most bored voice I could muster, "Keep looking, but my answer will always be no," and I retreated to my room with a sigh that expressed my tiredness more than words ever could.

At dinner, Ammi brought out the usual spread, showcasing chicken kebabs, fish curry, dal, all in neat, savory succession. But when it was time to serve me, all I got was rice and dal. The rest of them were happily chomping through juicy kebabs and tearing into the fish with merciless enthusiasm, while I slurped up my rice and dal soup, resigned to my fate, consoling myself that it was still better than the ordeal of getting married.

The next morning, the sink was piled high with dirty dishes, and a sticky note attached read, “At least give us a break if you can’t give us a son-in-law.” I rolled my eyes and began scrubbing, each dish a reminder of their relentless mission. Armaan eventually joined to help, silently picking up a towel to help dry, his quiet presence a small solace.

At work, I walked into my classroom only to find it empty. This wasn’t exactly new; my students, now in their second year of college, still indulged in childish antics like this. Yes, I had these kinds of students. Sitting down on the front bench, I muttered to myself, "What a thoughtful birthday present indeed". Opening my laptop, I dived into writing my research thesis, the silence in the empty classroom a rare but welcome gift. Thirty minutes passed in peace until the class representative, Charun, called me.

“Ma’am, we’re really sorry. We were in the middle of a basketball match and… completely forgot about class. Can we still come?” His voice held not a trace of remorse.

“Sure, I’m in the classroom,” I replied, rolling my eyes.

A minute later, with the sounds of footsteps approaching, I stood up, moving toward the podium as they filed in, one by one, trying to hide sheepish grins. Charun was the last to enter, holding a cake with an exaggerated air of importance. Then, as if on cue, the whole class stood and launched into an off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.” Charun took the lead, walking painfully slow toward me, a grin spreading across his face as if he were a lovestruck teenager. By the time he finally reached the podium, Ritika burst through the door, candles in one hand, a plastic knife in the other, panting like she’d run a marathon.

She handed me the knife, switching it from her left hand to her right in a frantic shuffle, while Charun planted the candles into the cake with the same dopey smile. I watched all this, arms crossed, with an expression that screamed 'used to this nonsense'. Charun gave Ritika a quick nudge, and she started rummaging through her cargo pants pockets, all six of them, realizing too late that she hadn’t brought anything to light the candles.

As the “Happy Birthday” chorus began to die down, everyone’s gaze fell on Ritika, who flashed me a helpless smile. The disappointed silence was almost as loud as their singing.