"Dei." I stopped in my tracks as my mother walked towards me from the kitchen. "What's wrong with your hair?"

"I tried some new hair-gel, ma," I said, trying to conceal the fact that I had been shampooed with rose milk only an hour or so ago. An entire roll of tissues hadn't helped in getting the blighted drink off my hair. I wasn't sure if my hair would ever again smell like hair usually does. I had walks to go on, a girl to woo and a gaffe to set right. And so, I didn't want to come face to face with her, with my head informing her of my arrival before I could.

"Smells like Comfort," my mother pointed to the fabric conditioner. "I don't know what's wrong with you all."

"Amma," I snapped. "Leave me alone, no? I don't smear my head with fabric conditioner."

"What is that pinkish tinge?" My father came along, newspaper in one hand. He lowered his reading glasses, ran his hand over my head, pinched his fingers and ran them along his nostrils. "Smells like... wait.... like..."

"Hmmm. GD Naidu here will tell us what it exactly is," my mother said sardonically. "Dei, will you have some..." She started, only for my father to interrupt.

"Anything I say is likely to be better than Comfort. What do you know about hair cream?"

"A lot more than you do," my mother retorted. In all these years, if there was one lesson that my father had not learnt, it was that my mother had none to learn. She would always win any argument on any subject hands down. "Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? What would you know about hair cream?"

"If only I had looked at myself in the mirror all those years ago, I wouldn't have agreed to marry you, with my looks and all." My father ran a hand through his once-prosperous-now-only-in-memories hair. His hairline had receded to the point where his eyelashes were his only hope of convincing people that his was a human head on a human body. That it didn't matter to either of us is another thing altogether.

"Blame your father for not buying any mirrors. The first mirror in this house came with the armoire my father gave us," my mother beamed with pride.

"I didn't need one. And even if there were mirrors, you wouldn't be able to see anything without your third and fourth eyes," my father was unrelenting.

"Amma," I cut in to see what she had for me to eat. After the fiasco at the restaurant, I needed something to fill the remainder of my stomach.

"Dei, wait. Narmada came here and asked me to give you this," she said in sudden recollection and handed me a twenty rupee note . "She asked you not to forget to return the change." My father, surprised at her indifference, sank into a chair and responded by reading the paper.

"Two rupees?" I scowled. My day as it appeared, wasn't about to get any better.

"Yes. Why did you ask her to lend you money when you could have asked me?"

"Or me," My father tried to assert he was still around.

"You tell me," my mother said, ignoring him as usual. "Why did you ask Narmada?"

"Do you want us to know she is a nice girl who doesn't mind sharing your troubles?" My father said, his head still buried in the newspaper.

"What? What are you implying?" I said, annoyed at my father's insinuation.

"Not my son. You ignore him. He thinks everyone is like him." my mother's jibe sedated me.

"Hrmph!" my father snorted. "Dream on. That's what every mother believes until such time the son saunters in with a girl in tow."

"Appa! Narmada is my friend. I didn't have my wallet when we met yesterday at office and had asked her for some money. I couldn't meet her after that. So, she must have come to give it to me here," I tried my best to conceal everything else and spin a normal tale.

"At home?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't have your wallet at work."

"Yes..."

"And that too, one day later?"

"Yes."

"Because she thinks you still don't have your wallet?"

"Maybe!"

"And she knows how much you need and how much you don't? She asked amma to tell you how much you should return."

Now this, I didn't have an answer to. As if giving up on me at work wasn't enough, she had come home to make my predicament worse. I'll deal with her tomorrow. For now, I need to ward off this doubting Thomas, I put my priorities in order. There was only one way out of this.

"Amma, I have a headache."

"Or you have another girl," my father went on, "that you are not telling us about. Narmada may only be helping. She is a good child. I am sure she isn't the one. If she were, she wouldn't have given you any money." Narmada had now gone from suspect to accomplice to good-child.

Helping you maybe. What maybe? She is helping you trap me, I grumbled within. And what 'another?' There wasn't even one, although there were more than one that could be. The one at work, the one I met at dinner and possibly would meet during my upcoming morning walks. Or someone else. The only criteria would be that that someone mustn't dump me over rose milk or dump rose milk over me.

"Why are you talking as though you were right next to him when all of that happened?" My mother sprang to my defence.

"What all happened, amma?" I wasn't sure.

"Right of age, son," my father said in a sprightly tone. "Many things usually happen."

"Appa, please." I pleaded with him to spare me. I wasn't sure if he was really egging me on or if he was simply setting the stage for my mother to become suspicious and eventually wallop me.

"You don't worry. I will handle him. He can't remember where his clothes are when all he has is one cupboard and he is now speaking as though he is a sage who can see it all. How do you know my son is running behind women at random?"

"Why is his hair pinkish then? And why hasn't he told us why it is so?"

"He is not like you to try and strike conversations with every woman that crosses his path. Even last week you were speaking to that Kalpana as though there was no tomorrow."

My father got up, placed the paper on the table in front of him and did what he always did when he was really angry and had had enough of my mother's nonsense.

"You know what is best for your son. I trust you," he said, smiled at her and went out for a stroll. He had his friends to seek refuge in at the tea-stall nearby when the weather at home wasn't favourable.

"Amma," I said, trying to grab her attention. Her ember-eyes were fixated on my father.

"See how he sneaks away when things get uncomfortable?"

"Amma. I have a headache. Please. Give me something to drink." I said and thankfully my mother paid heed. The enquiry was over for good.

"Dei," she called out to me from the kitchen. I walked into find the entire stove covered in a blanket of white froth.

"All thanks to your father," my mother slammed a plate against the counter. "If only he had not held me up for so long, I would've turned the stove off in time. Now there is not a drop of milk and I have to clean up this mess."

"My coffee?" I said, resigned to the fact that it wasn't to be my day.

"Just like your father," my mother shot back. "If you want coffee, go and buy a packet of milk. Or go join your father. He will teach you how to talk to girls. Who do you think I am? Your servant? Neither of you move a muscle at home and where will everything come from?"

"Is there no milk in the fridge?"

"Good you reminded me," my mother said. "If all you really need is something to drink, there is some rose milk in the fridge. Narmada brought some when she came."

I am sure she must have wondered how unlike ever before, I grabbed a bag and asked if there is anything else she wanted from the store.