Chapter 1: The great honeymoon scam

Imagine my disappointment when my otherwise besura partner didn't suddenly spout soulful melodies in haseen samahs and khula aasmaans. Or my irritation with my otherwise creative brain's inability to spout great romantic lyrics. Are you telling me all this only happens in the movies? That I'm a fool for believing that post-wedding vacations are always cinematographically and musically perfect? That neither of us will reveal our superhero/ine alter-egos? (waise, I can't imagine my lazy husband getting off his bum to go save the world - so that was a goner in any case) There aren't supposed to be many surprises in a relationship anyway, after knowing someone for a very long time. So having been denied what I thought was a standard honeymoon ritual, I decided to wear my sunscreen and head to the beach. The mai tais did help put things in perspective, as did gorging on grilled fish, prawns and the like; and just when you thought you were gaining some colour, it ended. Just like that.

No matter how much annoying aunties and even more irritating peers would tell you, "the great honeymoon period" is just quite ordinary. Or even hectic. You get back to work almost immediately and get to see each other for a few hours every evening. You live nomadically, your car bearing the brunt of its constancy to you, shuttling the materials of your existence between home and not-home. Radcliffe would probably prefer to draw the Indo-Pak line again than witness portioning off of pillow-space, blankets and cupboards. The TV remote often disappears, hiding from the punching and snatching of violent fingers. Your bowels too launch an offensive in the struggle of who gets  to the pot first.

The only honey that remains, therefore, is on your pancakes, and the occasional moon you see is through the sun-roof of your beloved's new car.