‘…Because of you, I felt my life would be complete… oh baby I love you,’ this is my favorite Marc Anthony’s number. I’ve always wondered why his life was complete because of her.

I was waiting for her in my car. The parking lot was full and I had to park my car on the road infront of Pantaloons. I couldn’t accompany her into the shop lest my car would be towed away.

Knock knock... she gently tapped at the window. I opened the door and she hopped in.

“I am sorry. I made my cute kid wait for such a long time” Nisha winked, running her fingers through my hair. Girls, if they love a guy, pamper him as a kid, by saying all kinda lamby words.

A peal of kiddy smiles filled the air and she was running behind me. I was a troublesome kid. Never sat at one place and ate. I used to eat one spoonful and then run for sometime till I got exhausted. My mom would be running behind me calling names like, “cuty, sweetie, etc,” if I remember her words properly.

“Here, I got something for you,” Nisha said as she placed few hand bags at the rear. She then opened a cover and pulled out a t-shirt.

“Wow, so colorful?” I asked her.

“You look like a macaw in this,” she giggled, “I hope this fits you and I hope you liked it.”

I placed it against my thorax and turned to her. ‘Beautiful’ she gestured with her hands.

I just opened the trail room door and barged in before some else could displace me. And I slipped into the new pair of denim pants and the milky white t-shirt. Wow, I looked great in this. I couldn’t stop admiring myself looking at my reflection in the life size mirror. I opened the door and walked to Momma.

“How does this look?” I meekly asked her. She smiled and said, “Very nice. The waist and all, it’s perfect for you? This T-shirt seems to be a bit long…” she complained.

“I liked this one,” I said. She smiled which I took it as an affirmation.

I have never shopped with anyone other than my mom. And both of us choose my dress. Of course, she would never say a ‘no’ to whatever I choose. But I still try out these dresses and show her how I look like. She would love to see me come out of the trial room flaunting the new attire. I am still, a kid to her.

“Let’s see what you bought for yourself,” I looked at the rear and Nisha pulled out a pair of Capri’s, a polka dotted-skirt and two t-shirts, one black colored and the other pale pink.

“Wont they look good on me?” she asked.

“Wont this look good one me?” she asked. Momma’s come to buy a sari for herself. I picked one pink designer fancy sari with heavy embroidery. “You will look great on this,” I told her.

Negative. “This would look good on younger people. Not me,” she said and picked up one more pink, but this wasn’t ornately decorated. It looked simple. She’s never had a penchant for fashion.

“I am hungry. Let’s lunch at Tabla or Ohri’s?” she proffered. I blinked my eyes acknowledging her proposal.

Most of the times, I would keep shouting at Momma, ‘My pants aren’t ironed properly, the breakfast is bad’ and so on.

She would simply dismiss it all by saying, ‘your wife who’s gonna come soon would do better than me, I guess’.

For a minute I don’t understand if that’s a satirical reply. Perhaps she meant, I wouldn’t be having the necessity to shout at my wife. Or perhaps, she meant I wouldn’t be shouting at her at all? For reasons not known.

There is a stark difference between my mom and my wife. For more than 25 years, Momma’s taken care of me. She knows my needs, my likes and dislikes and so on. She’s the exempli gratia of an orthodox mother, highly conservative. Once in a while, I felt that she clipped down my wings of freedom.

Nisha’s totally contrasting to Momma. She really wouldn’t bother me partying late night. She’s an ultra modern girl with a broader perspective of the world around her. And she vouched to take care of me for the rest of my life.

We reached our home in a few minutes. Nisha showed the new t-shirt and her attire to Momma. She was more than happy to see her daughter-in-law displaying these new clothes to her. Nisha was happy too, to see Momma, not enforcing any kinda objections regarding these dresses.

“I love you a lot, Nisha, and thanks for being my wife” later that night, I told her. She came close enough to me and kissed me on my forehead, “I love you too, darling!”

“I love you a lot Momma, and thanks for being my momma” I said looking at her. She slowly pulled up the quilt and bent down kissing me on my forehead. “I love you too, baby”

I have been a good son, my mom never complained. Now I am trying to be a good husband too.