The cousins are coming. In less than seven days I’ve already done what I always do when relatives come a knocking. I’ve ordered lots of painkillers, but combiflam can only do so much. My three-year-old Maya was the one to ask all the pertinent questions. “What is a cousin?” she asked adoringly. I immediately responded with the... contained in the Encyclopaedia Britannica answer: “A cousin is a person who may look like you but isn’t really you, mostly probably”. Her next question floored

me. “Describe them and don’t be stingy on detailing.” I responded as best I could: “There were three of them on last count, one male and two females.”
Then it was time for the preparations. As you know, Mumbai flats are exactly the size of Mexican shoeboxes and three more occupants was going to be more than a challenge. A typical American child would be roughly the size of your middle aged Indian male, i.e. five-feet-six-inches and 75 kilos.
We had few options: A) get rid of two of our old cupboards which had been in our family for over two generations. B) Get rid of father’s huge double bed which was another family heirloom. C) Put my father and the double bed in the two afore mentioned cupboards. However, this suggestion was met with strong objections from both the cupboard and my father.
The next option was to rearrange the hall. The hall furniture consists of four large armchairs, one black piece of wood that used to be a table and a piano which no longer could be considered upright. One clear suggestion was to put the piano out of her misery by propelling her through the balcony. However, a resolution okaying this could only be passed if there was a guarantee given that the piano would land on old Mr Nehra, the ground floor occupant, who was the singularly most disliked member of all plants and animal species combined in the building. Unfortunately, Mr Nehra was hardly likely to cooperate in the highly sociably-acceptable endeavour.
Next choice for removal was the dining table. To be completely honest, it is a dining table. I mean it is a dining table today but its origins are a bit mystifying. Legend has it that many, many years ago it used to be a village situated in a thick wooden shrubbery. Thanks to the process of evolution and the occasional strong gust of wind it metamorphosed itself as a huge long table. Again no one was willing to part with this table. We all had such happy memories associated with it. For my wife it was the memory of first meal together after her marriage. And although she left the table within seconds due to a violent uncontrollable stomach upset, the memory has got sweeter over the years. On my part, I couldn’t help reminiscing about the time I failed in mathematics, and my nice mom then threw her slipper at me and as I ducked it hit a set of glasses placed on the table like nine pins. That led to my mother not speaking to me for one month. And my dad not speaking to mom for nine months as well. Ah! Sweet, sweet memories.
Finally Maya had a suggestion: “Why can’t dad and Mikhaail bhaiya sleep on a mattress under the piano? In the hall I’ll move with momma and we’ll give the kids’ room to our cousins”. It was exactly like I was drowning. I saw a sea of faces, all swaying happily to a mysterious beat, agreeing to everything. My last hope now rested on my first-born Mikhaail.
“Dada, I think it’s a great idea. The two of us under the piano”, said Mikhaail as he delivered the coup de grace. I had forgotten the golden rule: All seven-year-olds love sleeping under something. The important word here being “under”.
So that is it. The cousins are coming. And for the next three weeks I, the provider, bread winner, alfa male, patriarch, regal commander of the troops, have to vacate the comfort of my room and instead be confined under the belly of a highly collapsible piano. My nesting place.
So in effect, as my three-year-old reminded me, “Dada don’t worry. You’ll be sleeping safely and bhaiya will look after you”.