Apulki Chapter 3 - The Proposal, the Pan, and the Fish Curry Plan

Recap Chapter 2: Yamini was floating on cloud nine after Sunil Waghmare replied to her message, while Neerav’s grand public proposal had Isha wishing the ground would swallow her whole.

From Popping the Question to Cotton Saris and Snot

Isha barged into the bedroom, handbag flying onto the bed, sandals kicked off in disgust. She plonked herself down with a thump.

“What was he thinking?” she burst out.

“Who? What? Where?” Yamini asked, eyes widening in confusion.

“Neer proposed.”

Yamini sat up straight. “Well, you two have been going steady for months now.”

“There’s no way I’m saying yes.”

“Seriously? You want to stay girlfriend–boyfriend forever?”

“Do you even know what marriage is?” Isha snapped. “It’s smashing your dreams and your career into a thousand pieces. Like chucking your mobile out the window onto the road below.”

Yamini instinctively glanced out of the window, gasped in horror, and hugged her phone like a long-lost lover, as though Isha might lob it out any second.

“Most girls would jump at the chance to marry Neer,” she said.

She switched into her Amitabh Bachchan voice from Deewar. “He’s good-looking, he can cook up a dream in minutes, he’s madly in love with you. Kya nahin hai uske paas?”

Isha shot back instantly, her tone pure Shashi Kapoor. “Uske paas... bache nahin hain.”

“What???”

“Neer has already decided how many children we’re going to have. He even knows what he’s going to call them. Wait and watch — the moment we’re married, my in-laws will start demanding a grandchild.”

Yamini got a glazed faraway look in her eyes...

There was Isha in a cotton sari, juggling a crying, snotty baby on her hip while two toddlers pulled at her from both sides, howling.

“Mum, I’m hungry... starving... Mum... Mum...”

Yamini clapped her hands to her ears. “NOOO! Ishu, you’re right. You mustn’t marry.”

Isha gave her a puzzled look, picked up her night suit, and walked into the bathroom.

The next morning, Yamini was in the balcony, when the doorbell rang. She glanced at Isha, who was happily sketching furniture designs in her drawing book. No help there. Yamini sighed, went to the door, and returned with a packet of milk, holding it aloft like a prize.

“Ta da!” she announced grandly. “From today we’re going to have milk every morning like good little girls. I’ll go boil it, okay?”

Isha nodded absently, pencil still moving across the page.

Later, while Isha was drilling away at her work table, Yamini rushed past, all dressed up. She glanced at the clock.

“Gosh, I better hurry. Bye, Ishu. I might be late tonight — rehearsals!”

“Bye,” Isha said without looking up.

Minutes later, Isha wrinkled her nose. Something smelled… odd. She sniffed, followed the trail to the kitchen, and froze.

On the gas hob sat an aluminium pan, now thoroughly black and tragic.

“Yammu!” she groaned. “No way I’m cleaning that. I’ll just pretend I haven’t seen it.”

Tiptoeing out, she left the disaster zone behind.

Neerav Cooks, Baba Fumes, Ma Serves more Fish

Meanwhile, at the Banerjee household, Mr. Banerjee sat at the dining table, watching his son clatter about in the kitchen.

“The whole day you’re in there like a girl,” he grumbled. “Is this what you left your studies for?”

Neerav appeared at the door in full culinary regalia — apron, chef’s hat, ladle in hand. “Baba, I need to practice for MasterChef. It’s just nine months away. The competition is really tough.”

“Out of a zillion careers, my son picks cooking,” his father muttered.

“It’s not that bad. Look at Sanjeev Kapoor — he’s a legend.”

“And how many Sanjeev Kapoors has this country produced in forty years?”

“Well, there's also Vikas Khanna... Ranveer Brar...”

Mrs. Banerjee glided in with a bowl of rice, rolling her eyes at her husband. “You’re always after my son.”

Neerav followed with a steaming bowl of fish curry, set it down, and joined them.

“How are your friends, Neeru?” his mother asked while serving rice.

“They’re good. Busy with their jobs.”

“See?” his father pounced. “They all have jobs. Only our son is useless and sitting at home.”

They ate in silence until Mrs. Banerjee spoke again. “And your girlfriend? How’s she?”

“I proposed to her yesterday,” said Neerav, trying to sound nonchalant.

Mr. Banerjee almost choked. He stared at his son, then at his wife. “Did you hear that? He doesn’t have a job, but that doesn’t stop his excellency from proposing. Where will you get money to keep her?”

Neerav grinned. “I don’t need money for her. Remember, she’s a furniture designer?”

“If he doesn’t make it as a chef,” Mrs. Banerjee said, spooning more fish onto her husband’s plate, “can’t you get him a job in your company?”

“Yeah, as a peon. And only after paying a fat bribe.”

Neerav watched his father lick his fingers, amused. “So, how’s my doi maach, Baba?”

“It’s okay.”

“You’ve had three helpings and just okay?”

Ignoring him, Mr. Banerjee chewed on. “Does your girlfriend know how to cook fish?”

“Your wife cooks fish, your son cooks fish,” Mrs. Banerjee retorted. “Why must your daughter-in-law also cook fish?”

“It’s my dream,” he declared, “that when I visit my son’s house, I should be greeted with the smell of fish frying on one hob and fish curry bubbling on the other.”

“And mishti doi in the fridge,” mother and son chorused, giving each other a triumphant high five.

The Day Milk Turned Villain in Chimboli

That night, Yamini returned home, switched on the light, and was instantly assaulted by the stench from the kitchen. She peeked in, grimaced.

“Damn, damn, damn!” she muttered, shutting the door like a crime scene investigator sealing off evidence, and tiptoed to the bedroom.

The following night, she and Isha entered the apartment together.

“Yammu, please make that awesome pulao of yours,” Isha begged. “I’m starving.”

Yamini glanced nervously at the closed kitchen door. “Err... actually, I feel like pizza tonight.”

Isha followed her gaze, nodded briskly. “Yes, let’s have pizza.”

The next evening, the two of them sat with Chinese takeaway cartons, waving hands in front of their faces every few minutes.

“That horrible burnt milk smell is pervading the living room now,” Isha complained. “We have to do something about it.”

“My nails will get ruined cleaning that yucky pan,” Yamini wailed.

“Let’s just chuck it.”

Yamini’s face lit up. “Brilliant idea! You’re a genius, Ishu.”

With a hanky tied across her nose, Isha marched towards the kitchen like a soldier on duty.

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The Story So Far:

Chapter 1 - https://www.hansawriter.com/post/apulki-chapter-1

Chapter 2 - https://www.hansawriter.com/post/apulki-chapter-2

Keep smiling friends. Life is beautiful. Cherish each moment. 

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