Rodevra Republic

Some conversations never really end

There is a certain way in which conversations travel through buildings — from one floor to another, gathering colour as they go.

Recently, a grand wedding in the news had found its way into ours.

Ever since my friend on the 61st floor happened to receive an invitation, my wife had been unusually quiet and distant.

“What is the matter, darling?” I asked.

“Nothing,” came the prompt and expected reply.

I tried again, a little more directly this time. “Something seems to be bothering you ever since you met Mrs. Chopra from the 61st floor. Did she say something?”

I should have been more cautious. The signs were all there.

“I tell you, I am not going to talk to her again,” she said. “And you too, please stop running behind your friend every time he calls you for a drink. The way she was showing off — who all she met at the wedding! She even showed me her picture with Amitabh Bachchan.”

I attempted to be sympathetic. “I know how it must be feeling.”

“You know nothing,” she shot back. “Your contacts are of no use. You don’t get invited to any celebrity weddings.”

“I have no interest in such weddings,” I replied. “It is all a waste of money and time. Look at this one — such a vulgar display of wealth.”

“Tell me something new,” she said. “You are only repeating what everyone is saying. No one talks about the opportunities such events create — for artists, decorators, caterers, and so many others.”

“Don’t tell me about these artists,” I countered. “Your Justin Bieber was dressed in a vest and boxers. It looked like a mockery of the whole thing.”

“Mrs. Chopra was saying how beautifully everyone was dressed,” she continued, unfazed. “The jewellery, Nita’s diamonds… where else would one get to see such things?”

“I agree,” I said cautiously, “but if we were to go, we would have to upgrade our wardrobe. That itself would cost a small fortune. Nothing really goes from the Ambanis — they recover it all in other ways.”

“Just because you are not invited, you are making excuses,” she replied. “Tell me honestly — if we had been invited, would you have refused?”

I paused for a moment before answering.

“No… I would have gone.”

She walked away, victorious.

“Tell your friend on the 61st floor,” she called out, “that next time he gets such invitations, he should arrange one for us as well. Otherwise, what use is he?”

I could only respond, “Of course, my darling.”