Shorts: An IPKKND Collection

Baby Corn

"Ee lo babua." [Here you go, babua.]

Khushi's Bua-ji placed a chipped ceramic plate in front of him, heaped with pasta in a creamy sauce. Arnav eyed the concoction of fettuccine, broccoli, baby corn, zucchini and shallots. His stomach growled.

"Bua-ji, what's all this?" Khushi, sitting across from him at the antiquated dining table, frowned at his plate.

He found himself mimicking her, frowning as he muttered, "Bua-ji ... you didn't have ..."

Madhumati-ji waved a hand in his direction, silencing the beginnings of his protest, "It was nothing, babua. Eat, eat!"

Garima-Aunty smiled encouragingly.

He wondered if he should eat with his hands.

"Honestly, you lot," Khushi stood, rounding the table as she spoke, "I know he's your damaad, but this is all unnecessary. Arnav-ji is perfectly happy eating daal."

Her mother started to protest, following her into the kitchen to exchange hushed words, and they emerged together a few seconds later. Khushi held a fork.

"Be quiet, Sanka Devi," grumbled her Bua-ji, "I know you were behind that farce earlier. Forcingbabua to fix everyone's things as if he's a mechanic, not the owner of so many stores and factories. And then your stunt with the hose, shaming him in public like that."

Khushi handed him the fork, her fingers brushing over his and sending electricity shooting through his body. His hand tightened into a fist, wishing more than anything that he could halt her progress, wrap an arm about her waist and pull her down to sit next to him. Hold her hand under the table.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts as Khushi resumed her seat and frowned - again - at his plate.

"Bua-ji, did you only make this pasta-vasta for your damaad, or is there some aloo for me?"

Realising why she was miffed, Arnav smirked at his wife as he wound the fork around some pasta.

"Bua-ji forgot to make you your aloo," he drawled, "busy as she was with my food."

He glanced over at her mother and her aunt, where they fussed over her father, and leaned across the table to murmur, "She likes me better."

Khushi released a frustrated growl. The sound threatened to ignite him.

You're pretty when you're angry, he'd told her in the first week of their marriage, and it had never seemed truer.

Arnav watched his wife seethe as he forked the pasta into his mouth. Flavours melted on his tongue. It was tasty, a basic alfredo sauce spiced with something he couldn't identity. He speared some baby corn.

"Arnav-bitwa," Garima-Aunty spooned some paneer onto her own thaal, "did you like that ... baby korrrun?"

"Yes Aunty, it's ... everything is wonderful," he smiled at his mother-in-law, "Thank you."

"Oo ka hai, babua," Bua-ji patted his hand as she came to sit beside him, "your kind of food is so confusing. Makkai ka bachcha. Bayybbeee kooorrruunn."

Khushi giggled as she reached for a puri, her eyes flicking briefly to his before lowering. He smiled.

"Bua-ji, you really didn't have to. Khushi is right, I'm fine eating as you do."

But I can't tell you how much it means to me that you did.

Nani tended to sneer at his preference for soups, sandwiches and Italian cuisine, and although Di had tried to make him the things he liked when she'd first returned to Shantivan, she'd quickly given up. He'd indulged in his taste for outside food over lunch, but that had stopped when Khushi started her dabba service. Though he wouldn't admit it, even on pain of death, he looked forward to his wife's cooking every day.