But I love Sam, Papaji!

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The wedding season has been good for one. It kept Mishraji quiet busy and the patriarch could not find much time for our regular let's-bash-the-media (read me) sessions. But then, everything that has a beginning, has an end...

The knock was a soft one and given that it was 11.30 pm, one was duly alarmed. A furtive, behind-the-curtains peep further upped the alarm levels. Miss Mishraji (aka Pinkiji) was standing at the front door, in her nightclothes. She had a pillow in one hand and a stuffed duffel bag in the other.

Even as one opened the door and before one could say a word, Pinkiji blurted, "I have run away from home. I can't live there anymore. Please help me." Under normal circumstances, one would have gladly helped a damsel in distress. However, the idea of dealing with Mishraji - especially when his daughter had run away (even though it was next door) - was not a normal circumstance under any circumstance.

As various visions of Mishraji brandishing his rolled newspapers flashed before one's eyes, Pinkiji's eyes dangerously brimmed over. If that weren't enough, she pulled the final guilt-trip act, "They won't understand, please help DIDI." (Didi = older sister) Now when one lives away from family, such familial terms do something. Two cups of ginger-tea and a hot bowl of Maggi later, one asked if she wanted to talk about it: It would help her and help one prepare for the next morning.

"You know how Papaji is," she asked and stated at the same time. One firmly bit one's tongue. Experience has taught that criticizing a woman's boyfriend/ father always backfires: Women will agree with the criticism for the moment and hate you for a lifetime. Since Pinkiji was waiting for an answer, one safely ventured that Mishraji was a good father.

"Yes, yes, I know that; but Papaji has his rigid ideas about..." She suddenly clutched one's arm and said, "Didi, I love a boy and Papaji won't approve."

After confirming whether the guy had a job, was not part of any mafia and was not the son of one of the many neighbours Mishraji detested, one pointed out the positive's of positive thinking.

"Oh, I know Papaji," she said, eyes brimming again, "But didi, I really love him... and Mummyji just found out and she read my diary and she didn't even ask me anything and said we would discuss it in the morning and that she was sure Papaji won't be pleased."

One knew the Mishra family was seeking a groom for Pinkiji; and given those circumstances, her falling in love without consulting her parents wouldn't be taken kindly. Yet one could understand young love.

Even before one's alarm could go off, Mrs Mishraji was ringing the doorbell insistently.

"Tell Pinki she should come home before her father wakes up. He won't like it," was all Mrs Mishraji said. A night's sleep seemed to have cooled down some of Pinkiji's ardour as she meekly followed her mother outside. One followed too, courtesy demanded one see off guests.

Two steps outside the door and one wished one wasn't as courteous: There was Mishraji standing with arms akimbo. The newspaper was late and so was his morning chai. He didn't react when he saw his wife walk out my gate, but his eyebrows nearly left his forehead when he saw his daughter follow in her night suit.

"Why are you up so early? You don't have college today," he said, while looking pointedly at yours truly.

Pinkiji stammered, "I... I came to consult didi on something." Uh-oh.

"What ideas are you putting into my daugther's head?" he asked one vehemently even as one silently, vigorously denied all charges.

"Let's go inside na..." said Mrs Mishraji softly, uncertainly.

"What needed you to go to HER and not ask your parents?" Mishraji asked, relentlessly, still looking at yours truly.

"I... I..." stuttered Pinkiji, eyes-brimmingly.

"What are you hiding?" Mishraji asked, softly, "Out with it," he added, sinisterly, still looking at one.

As one cursed one's good Samaritan-ness that had lead to this, Pinkiji blurted, "I love someone Papaji..." Mrs Mishraji breathed in sharply. Mishraji noticed.

Finally looking at his daughter he asked, "What's his name?"

"Sam," Pinkiji muttered.

Mishraji was suddenly deep breathing. "I have always supported you in whatever you have wanted to do," he told his daughter, "I just want to clear one thing... I didn't get his name right. What was it again?" He was smiling.

"Sam," Pinkiji answered somewhat louder, bolstered by her father's smile perhaps. She had not noticed his cold eyes.

"Sam or Shyam? Is it Sam or Shyam?" asked Mishraji hopefully.

And one knew that this story had just begun...