The wife and I have reached a healthy point in our marriage. We still have a healthy social life. This we do by going out thrice a week. Me on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, and she on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.

Also, after 22, years of marriage (ok let me just google that to be sure) yup, like I said, 22 years of marriage, mutual understandings are coded into the contract indirectly. Simple rules, conventions, if you like. For instance, we can both criticize my family to our hearts content. But for her family? We have to observe omertà, the code of silence. Her family can never be mentioned. In fact, if you’ve just read that sentence, promise me, you will erase it from your memory forever. Of course, why would you commit to memory, anything that I write? That would be preposterous beyond ridiculous.

Now, let’s come to the present issue. In earlier columns, the gifted reader would note that I come to the exact topic of the column only in the last four lines of the piece. This kind of lazy writing is what got Art Buchwald a Pulitzer. To be absolutely honest, at this point, I can’t afford a Pulitzer. This is because I have so many Lions Club, Rotary and Rotaract awards, that the cabinet has no space to accommodate a Pulitzer.

Enough talk about Pulitzer. Let’s just say it’s a matter of time, and leave it at that. Here’s the issue, the conundrum (all right, I don’t really know what conundrum means but I felt the use of it would be empowering). The wife, recently met a colleague of mine, who happens to be one of those people who migrated. Sorry, I apologise, migrated is not the correct word. The word is transitioned, and no, I am not able to find a suitable synonym in Hindi, although parivartan comes close.

My colleague, who shall appear nameless, is called ‘Bella’. This is because he presently is a ‘she’. Give me a second, its time to put my gloves on, so I handle this whole thing real sensitively, otherwise, no Pulitzer.

Bella, whose identity must be hidden, was born a male. He was named Bhavesh, but, unfortunately, he didn’t feel he was a Bhavesh. At first, his parents, though inconvenienced, offered him options. He turned down Paresh, Jignesh, Sailesh, and thought for a minute before rejecting Kamlesh. Long story medium, he started identifying himself as a lady.

Finally, after some material success, (his father died and left him some money and a dish washer) he decided to take the plunge and change his gender. To make this long story even less medium, after two years, Bhavesh made way for Bella.

Since I have known both Bhavesh and Bella for 20 years, I was neither surprised nor rattled. Besides, I fear giving any judgements. Judgements lead to conversation, and if the idea is to get out of conversation, the use of a ‘judgement’ will have the opposite effect.

My wife, on the other hand, is different. She has not yet accepted that people can identify as anything they like. Having said that she doesn’t mind me identifying as a coward. Since I work in the entertainment business, ever so often I bump into people who consider themselves chairs or refrigerators. One dancer friend of mine identifies herself as a pillow. My standards are very low — as long as they don’t actually spit on me while talking, all is fine. But here’s the conundrum …er whatever.

Next week, Bella is coming for lunch. The wife says, she may call him Bhavesh, which would be an act of war, and I think we all know who will be crucified in the middle. So, now I have to find a nice excuse to cancel this rendezvous. If not, there goes the damn Pulitzer. 

The writer has dedicated his life to communism. Though only on weekends.