Having a Brother-in-law is not something worth tom tomming

Ladies and gentlemen, I have a problem in the shape of a brother-in-law (BIL). Many of you may be afflicted similarly. BILs after all, come free with the spouse, like that small plastic pizza stool/table that comes with a pizza box.

The reason I bring this up though is that my BIL is like, as Javed Jaffrey would say ‘hot and sweet tomato sauce – it’s different’. Take for example, the determination with which he misunderstands the concept of time.

It so happened that both he and we were living in Mumbai a few years back. We were in Colaba and he in Andheri, which is halfway to Ajmer. And since traffic in/around Andheri moves at about 0.67 kmph (on those rare occasions when there is no jam), it takes between two and a half to four hours to drive from Andheri to Colaba. Now picture this oft repeated scene:-

BIL – I will be coming over for lunch.

Me – Fine, what time do we expect to see you?

BIL – Around 1 PM.

At 1 pm…

Me – Where are you?

BIL – Just starting, will be there in 30 minutes.

At 1:30 PM…

Me – Where are you?

BIL – About to reach.

Me (Surprised) – Where are you currently?

BIL – Bandra. (Still closer to Ajmer.)

We finally have lunch at dinner time.

On our shifting to Hyderabad post my retirement, the brother-in-law, by a strange combination of circumstances relocated to Hyderabad too. Not just Hyderabad, but into the same community, a few houses apart. Silver lining? This pleased a good 50% of my family of two, no end. The other 50% wanted to shift to Vijayawada.

One would think that this proximity would help in him being more accurate with time. But no, no, no! His punctuality continues to be that of a guest at a North Indian Wedding mahurat –  who doesn’t want to be mistaken for the decorators (and asked to move tables) by being on time.

On another occasion, the BIL directed me to drop him at the airport at 0500 hrs. Dutifully, I wake up at 0415 and after shampooing and scenting self, stand near the door, car keys in hand by said 0500 hrs.

He steps out of his room at 0530 hrs still groggy, still in his parrot green and yellow night suit and announces, ‘Anyone for some coffee?’ I had to do some Baba Ramdev type of deep breathing to maintain my calm.

Then, the brother-in-law likes unpredictability. It is common for example that, when I have my head and torso buried deep into the bottom shelf of a cupboard looking for something that The Wife thinks she has safely kept there, he will announce his presence with an overly hearty ‘Hi’. Naturally, when I hear a foreign voice close to my rear in MY bedroom, a foreign voice completely lacking in marital familiarity, it gives me quite a start and a painful lump on the nut.  I’ve started triple locking the front door.

The ‘Hi’ is equally prone to make an appearance during those peak tense moments of an India -Pak match. He being one of those who cannot distinguish between Rohit Sharma and Mamata Banerjee, will choose just those critical moments to advise Kuldeep Yadav, ‘Just bowl a bouncer man’.  

‘How did you get in?’ I growl.

‘Your kitchen window was open.’

Why can’t you just kick him out you ask? Well, I would love to do so. However, there is a major impediment to putting this sensible idea into motion, something that sociologists have termed the Sibling Protective Shield (SPS).

My brother-in-law has been brought up as the youngest of four siblings, all three of the others being sisters. He thus is (though I fail to notice the allure), the apple of the eye for all of them. They dote, they pamper, they mollycoddle – as one would a seven year old kid. (Except that he is 51.)  The SPS can be pierced only at the risk of some marital friction.

Hence, I put on an amiable visage.

And cuss under my breath.

Most Indians at 51 of course, do tend to add a little bit to the waist. My BIL is no different. Though otherwise presentable (I’ve heard him called handsome by some people – well, mainly his sisters), he too has developed what can be called a ‘cute paunch’, courtesy his proclivity for Burgers and Tres Leche.

I drop in a few hints once in a while (mainly when the sisters are not in earshot) that he needs to lose 25 kilos by telling him diplomatically – ‘You are fat’. Periodically therefore, he gets into those ‘I’ve got to flatten my spinnaker sail shaped

anterior’ phases, most of which last up to, even a week.

This week will see him get active. First, by making a trip to the nearest Mall and acquiring a new set of jogging shoes, head band, breathable compression T shirts, etc. Unfortunately, and with a view to compensate for the rigours of a scorching 4.2 kmph, 2.5 km walk, he will end up having three helpings of Rasmalai at Haldirams, which fortuitously falls enroute.

Fitness experts say that avoiding alcohol is another essential step towards a flat tummy. The BIL, who always believes anything on Insta, accordingly swears off drinks. And since for him, to swear is to act, he will collect all his bottles of Glenlivet, Lagavulin and Macallan, and much to my delight, deposit them in my house. Win win for all.

However, 24 hours later, I hear the same ‘Hi’ at our now locked kitchen window, a two kg bag of chips in hand, for ‘one small one’. I guess you win some and you lose some.

Then take his beauty treatment. My beauty parlour comprises, a soap, a shampoo and an aftershave. He on the other hand, and I am being conservative here, has about a thousand jars and tubes of unguents, creams and lotions.  He knows his moisturisers, his SPF 50s, and whether tyrian purple shirts go better with turquoise trousers or aubergine ones.

Buoyed by the oohs and aahs of his sisters, he lives under the impression that the puffed pompadour coupled with his rosy cheeks – dimpled chin – eyes are blue – and teeth within, more than compensates for the extra adipose layers and golgi bodies. Moreover, his speciality being VFX, his frequent interactions with the dandy people of the film world encourage him to dress like the fluorescent Mr Ranvir Singh. (My views on dressing can be a bit conservative and can be read about here and here.) Wearisome.

As can his elephantine memory for the inconsequential. He has this habit of suddenly bringing out some obscure incident from the past during family gatherings, especially if it is an embarrassing one for me. Like, ‘Remember that party at the US Club in 1994 when you got sozzled and did the tango with Ramu  the waiter, mistaking him for the missus?’

Notwithstanding all of the above, I must confess that the youngster has his heart in the right place. He is generous to a fault and for all the nephews and nieces in the extended family, he is their favourite ‘metrosexual jazz uncle’. He is an expert scuba diver and an even better exponent of the Salsa and Bachata. (I had to look the latter up. It is a romantic, sensual dance from the Dominican Republic apparently.) Put a sash around his waist and with a single ‘jhatka’, he can make Madhuri put her ‘dhak dhak’ into cold storage. Plus, if you have the patience, you can wait for the credits to roll after some famous movies to see his name under the VFX Producer heading.

Overall however, The Brother-in-law is my pizza stool – always present, always dependable. Nevertheless, I have installed extra locks on the windows.

PS – If this made you smile, please share with two friends who take life (or brothers in law), too seriously,