“Why do you have to do it?” she asked, pushing a cup of cardamom tea in front of me, displacing my magic trackpad, so that the Facebook icon that I was adding to the following Facebook header got scaled up a thousand times, and covered the whole image.
Wifey Speaks her Mind!
It irked me, but displaying my irk would’ve made the cardamom tea disappear; so instead I smiled at her and asked her the obvious question.
“All this Facebook-shacebook,” she said, pointing to the blue blot on my computer screen.
“I am trying to promote the QSM magazine,” I replied, “what’s wrong with it?”
“You aren’t made for it,” she said with an air of finality, as she turned, then marched out of the room.
For a moment, I sat there stuck to my seat, flabbergasted.
What made her say that?
Suddenly, the need to find an answer to that question superseded my need to get that damn Facebook sticker right. So I followed her out of the room and into the kitchen.
I Look for Answers!
“Why did you say that?” I queried.
“What did I say?” she parried.
“That I am not made for Facebook,” I asked, the dam of my patience on the verge of breaking. She knew what I was talking about, but she wanted me to spell it out. Was I seeing some streaks of sadism shine through her otherwise amicable temperament?
But I needed the answer. So I prodded her again.
“You aren’t made for it because you are an introvert, and to make matters worse you don’t want the world to know who you are,” she said, tossing the rolled chapati upon the pan.
“You know that I have six dozen family members, who’d be baying for my blood if they read my blog or the QSM magazine, and still you question my need to stay anonymous,” I asked, angst filling my heart. Of all people, she should understand it.
“And also because you visit your Facebook page once a week and Twitter once a fortnight,” she said, rolling a new chapati. I have no idea how she manages to roll it into such a perfect circle, but then I am clueless about most of the things she does, including why she harasses me with her harsh judgments of my character.
“So according to you, I shouldn’t have a Facebook page or even a Twitter account?” I enquired, tentatively.
“And,” she paused and stopped rolling the chapati, then turned and looked into my eyes, “you should stop publishing that silly magazine!”
And the Answer Tumbles out!
“What? Why?” I asked, trying to figure out what set her off against the magazine.
“Because Sajjan Chacha has called four times since morning. He wants you to swear that it wasn’t you who had written Live Decor ka Vaada (The Promise of Live Decor) article in the QSM magazine, and he also wants you to participate in a QSM burning event this afternoon, after which you’ll swear the solemn oath that you’d never publish that nefarious magazine again.”
My Last Lucid Memory:
That was my last lucid memory.
When I woke up, I remembered only bits and pieces of what had transpired.
Wifey tells me that when she told me of Sajjan Chacha’s ultimatum, my mouth fell open, a couple of copulating mosquitoes flew in and set me coughing; in that fit, I stumbled, hit my head on the corner of the kitchen table and lost consciousness.
I shall be attending the swearing-my-innocence ceremony this afternoon.
I don’t intend to keep the words I speak at the QSM burning ceremony, because if I stopped publishing the QSM magazine, Anandhotep will bury me in his tomb beside him – but I must rely on my dear readers for promoting the QSM magazine – I cannot, repeat, cannot let any of my myriad uncles, aunts, and cousins learn about it. I also intend to use the Obliviate spell to obliterate Sajjan Chacha’s memories of the QSM magazine.
But Who is the Mole?
Hey, wait a minute!
Who told Sajjan Chacha?
What’s your theory?