Three On The Dance Floor

I had a pleasant surprise on Friday. I was in Mumbai and had planned to meet my old friend Vijay and his wife Y for drinks. We met at the Hawaiian Shack, a great little club. While we were screaming at each other over the hip-hop music, I realized Y was not looking her best.

"You're hair looks terrible", I told her. "I never asked for your opinion", she reminded me. "No, seriously," I said, you need to do something about that hair." She gave me one of her I-am-glaring-at-you-and-therefore-I-expect-you-to-be-scared-of-me looks and offered a plausible explanation. "Maybe it's because I'm pregnant".

After I had picked myself off the floor I asked her if she was serious. She was. I asked her how many months pregnant she was. Seven. I got up off the floor again just in time to hear her ask me incredulously "Do you mean you did not notice? Or did you think I was just getting stupidly fat?"

Even I am smart enough to know that you never answer that question.

So I cleverly went on the counter-offensive. I thought of someone we could both agree to blame. "Why the hell didn't your husband tell me?!?!", I demanded to know. Vijay tried to pretend that he had told me but he knew he was guilty as charged.

My ploy worked. Y was torn. She wanted to protect her husband. But she knows that she owes me for being the first person in the cyberverse to link to her blog. We silently agreed to not argue the issue and instead decided to inspect the dance floor.

Good on you Y, for a woman with a nearly-done bun in the oven you sure shake a mean leg. Just for that, I'll forgive Vijay. But when your baby is born, I advise you not to count on him to text the announcement.