Cheap thrills

I suppose you could call it a date even though it didn’t feel like one.

For the second time since they became parents, the humans went out without the kids, but they didn’t hold hands, look deep into each other’s eyes or even make polite conversation. In fact, the only intimacy they shared in the darkened theater was eating from the same tub of popcorn.

And, yet, mom was as happy as a college coed. She was sitting next to her man, who had accompanied her to the movies after much arm-twisting. Even though he preferred holding a cold drink and popcorn to her warm hand, at least he was within nudging distance for the next 120 minutes.

It didn't really matter that the evening had started off on a sour note.

“Now look here, stop arguing with him over Rs.10,” said dad, as they hailed an auto rickshaw and asked him the fare to Sathyam Cinema.

“But it’s supposed to be around Rs.40,” protested mom, as the autowalla patiently watched husband and wife argue with each other instead of with him.

“I don’t understand why you’re so cheap,” said dad through gritted teeth. “You really need to change your attitude. I’ve put up with this behavior for 15 years now.”

Mom frowned. She wasn’t sure whether to correct dad on the cheapness accusation or the fact that they had only known each other the last 13 years.

Perhaps the situation could’ve been avoided had the humans taken the car, but mom would’ve observed that no matter the country or continent, dad still likes to park the car as far away from the entrance as possible, a quirk she still doesn't understand after more than a dozen years of marriage.

Fighting off a splitting headache caused by a sinus infection, mom followed dad into the theater for what she knew would be a mediocre movie, certainly not befitting 10 Oscar nominations.

“Do you have tea?” she asked hopefully at the concession stand, only to be met with the standard, “Sorry, madam, coffee only,” response.

Mom has observed that Chennai city is as friendly to tea drinkers as the Western world is to vegetarians. In fact, it’s far easier to find Camembert cheese in the metro than it is to find a cup of tea with the right amount of milk and sugar added.

Settling for bland popcorn instead, mom sat through Slumdog Millionaire, wondering what the Golden Globe committee had seen in the film or its music to bestow so many awards on it. It wasn’t the stark images of the slums or the abuse of little children that bothered her so much as did Anil Kapoor’s orange mustache contrasting with his jet-black hair.

The humans’ return journey by auto was as eventful as their arrival.

“Rs.60? What nonsense! We only paid Rs.50 to get here,” exclaimed mom, dismissing hovering autos outside the theater.

“Let me handle this,” said dad, pushing her aside.

“Rs.70 only, saar,” said a khaki-clad driver, beckoning the humans to get in.

“I won’t give a naya paisa above Rs.40,” hollered mom, pulling dad by the sleeve and raising her fist at the driver.

“Why are you doing this?” dad turned to mom, confronting her in front of the auto rickshaw driver. “I thought we had discussed this already. Stop being so cheap!”

“Cheap? I’m not cheap,” retorted mom. “That’s the standard fare. This guy's taking us for a ride.”

“You think I’m an idiot?” countered dad. “Really, I’ve been tolerating this attitude of yours for over 15 years now …”

“Seri, saar, give me Rs.60. OK vaa?” interrupted the driver, putting an end to further discussion between a peeved husband and his peevish wife.

The pair rode silently home, making sure they sat in the auto without body parts touching. Mom looked pointedly to the right, dad looked to his left. As the auto bumped along over potholes and the humans were thrown against each other, mom let out a deep sigh.

"One of these days," she thought, "when this episode is behind us, I need to gently remind the man that we’ve only known each other the last 13 years, not 15!"