Chapter 2: Lessons from Nagpur

My own nani was a master nitpicker, and my mother a true tigress. The two of them never wasted a moment—they’d start quarrelling the instant they met.

Whenever nani visited us in Nagpur, the entire lane would know. My mother’s voice would sharpen, nani’s retorts grew even sharper. Chai cups trembled in their saucers as arguments ricocheted from kitchen to drawing room. Neighbours whispered, “Arrey, saas-bahu ka dangal shuru ho gaya.”

From them, I learned the rules of saas-bahu combat early. By the age of twelve, I could sense a brewing argument by the way my nani adjusted her saree pallu. I learned to keep my face blank when tempers flared, to slip away quietly when voices rose, and to always side with whoever held the rolling pin.

People tiptoed around me, dogs avoided my path. Cousins whispered ‘mini-dictator’ behind my back. Even the street dogs, whom I bribed with Parle-G, learned to steer clear of my glare. Ma used to sigh, “Beta, you’re too sharp for your own good. Dhamki dena bhi seekh liya hai.”

But fate played a joke—I married into a family of straight-shooters, so all my tricks gathered dust.

My in-laws, bless them, were simple souls. No double talk, no sly digs, just plain words and gentle laughter. At night, I’d lie awake, waiting for some conspiracy, but all I heard was sasur ji’s snores and saasu maa’s soft humming in the kitchen.

Life was smooth and comfortable. I gained six kilos—

—thanks to the food! Parathas, halwa, endless chai. Even my old jeans gave up. My husband teased, “Wife, at this rate, you’ll need two tickets on the Shatabdi.”

At the ayurvedic clinic for weight loss, a pulse check changed everything: I was pregnant.

The vaidya pressed my wrist, smiled mysteriously. “Mubarak ho, beti, khush khabri hai.” I sat stunned, half a diet chart in my hand.

The doctor warned me: the first three months are most important.

“Zyada tension mat lena, beta,” he said, scribbling away. “Kuch bhi ulta seedha mat khana. Aur rest—bahut zaroori hai.”

My in-laws wrapped me in cotton wool, terrified I’d bump into something or catch a cold.

If I so much as sneezed, saasu maa would rush over with a shawl. Sasur ji ferried my tiffin as if it were a gold bar. My husband installed anti-skid mats, bought those funny maternity slippers from Amazon. Every few hours, a glass of badam doodh appeared—like clockwork.

Then, at three months, the old lady arrived at our Pune flat.

She turned up in a noisy autorickshaw, two heavy bags thumping behind her, silver hair pulled so tight it could crack. The lift was out, so she made the watchman drag her luggage up five flights, grumbling, “Aaj kal ke naukar, koi izzat nahi.”

The moment our eyes met, I knew—we were two sides of the same coin.

She scanned me top to toe, nostrils flaring. I could almost hear her weighing me like onions at the mandi. My heart skipped. This was no ordinary dadi—this was a general reporting for duty.

Neighbours craned their necks to glimpse the legendary Shanti Devi as she swept into our living room, walking stick thumping like a judge’s gavel.

Her glare was pure nani, itching for a fight over anything and everything.

It was the same glare that once sent my mother running for cover. Now, it was aimed at me. I remembered Ma’s warning: "Never let a saas know your weakness, beta. That’s the oldest rule in the book." I straightened my back, refusing to show a hint of fear.