13
Pammi aunty lived in Pitampura, a hardcore Punjabi neighbourhood. Each lane in
this area has more marble than the Taj Mahal. Every street smells of tomatoes
cooking with paneer. We took an auto as my father never allowed us to take the
car. My mother told the auto driver to stop a few houses away. We couldn’t tell
Pammi aunty we hadn’t come by car.
‘He had a meeting, he dropped us outside and left,’ my mother said as Pammi
aunty came to greet us at the door.
‘He should have come for a cold drink at least,’ Pammi aunty said and
escorted us in. Pammi aunty’s weight roughly matched the decade she lived in,
and that correlation had continued into the current nineties. Pammi aunty had
been Ms Chandigarh thirty-seven years ago. A rich businessman snapped her
soon after the title and gave her a life of extra luxury and extra calories. Now, she
weighed more than the three finalists put together.
We walked to five steps to get to their living room. Pammi aunty had difficulty
climbing them. ‘My knees,’ she mumbled as she took the last step.
‘You are going for morning walk nowadays?’ my mother asked.
‘Where Kavita-ji, it is so hot. Plus, I have satsang in the morning. Sit,’ Pammi
aunty said as she told her maid to get khus sharbat.
We sank into a red velvet sofa with a two-feet deep sponge base.
‘Actually, even if you walk to satsang, it can be good exercise,’ my mother
said.
‘Six cars, Kavita-ji. Drivers sitting useless. How to walk?’ Pammi aunty asked.
She had demonstrated a fine Punjabi skill – of showing off her wealth as part of
an innocent conversation.
My mother turned to me to repeat her comment. ‘Six cars? Krish, you heard,
they have six cars.’
I didn’t know how to respond. Maybe I was supposed to applaud. ‘Which
ones?’ I said, only because they kept staring at me.