Three's a crowd .......

When Mithila Iyer married Raghav Subramanian, she thought marriage would be like an Ilaiyaraaja song-gentle violins, soft emotions and a happy fade-out. Instead, it turned out to be more like an AR Rahman remix full of surprise beats and the occasional background voice of her mother-in-law, Padma Mami, asking, “Why is there garlic in this sambhar?”

Padma Mami had announced at the wedding, “I’ll just stay for a few days. Newlyweds shouldn’t be left alone. Who will tell you when the gas is leaking?” Eight months later, both the gas and Mami were still very much around. Every morning, Mithila woke to the familiar sound of Mami’s slippers going thap-thap-thap and the smell of overboiled filter coffee.

“Mithu, don’t add salt before the dal boils!”
“Raghava kannaa, don’t wear black on Tuesdays!”
“Why are you both quiet in the morning? Fight over already?”

Privacy, Mithila realized, was not an Indian cultural value. Raghav, ever the peacekeeper, said, “Amma is just trying to help.” Mithila smiled sweetly. “Yes, she’s helping like WhatsApp forwards nobody asks but they keep coming.”

One Sunday, Mithila decided to reclaim the weekend. She made pancakes, poured maple syrup and even played jazz music from spotify. Raghav was halfway through saying, “Wow, this is—” when Padma Mami entered, armed with a tawa and a look of cultural disapproval. “Adappaavi! Pancake ah? You’ve become too Western, kannaa. I made adai aviyal. Its dal also, protein also, tradition also.” Raghav tried to be neutral, chewing both simultaneously like a diplomat at a food summit. Mithila watched him in disbelief. “Pick a side, Raghav.” He mumbled, “I pick peace.”

The next crisis arrived on a Thursday when Mami helped with laundry. Mithila’s beautiful silk kurta - a wedding gift came out looking like it belonged to a small child. “Mami! That was dry-clean only!” 

Padma gasped. “Dry-clean? Waste of money, pa! I have been washing silks by hand since I remember. All my sarees are still alive!” Raghav appeared, holding his office bag like a peace flag.                                             “Amma, Mithu didn’t mean—” “Don’t defend her, Raghava! In my days, we respected fabric!”                     Mithila muttered, “In your days, fabric was cotton and trauma-resistant.”

The next week, the battle moved to coffee territory. Mithila loved her strong decoction with only one spoon sugar. Padma Mami preferred hers light, sweet and filled to the brim like her opinions. One morning, Mithila found Mami making a ‘joint decoction’ a horrifying blend meant to suit both.

“Compromise, pa. Marriage means compromise.” “True,” Mithila said, “but this tastes like sadness.”

The final straw came one evening when Mithila couldn’t find the red chillies. She turned the kitchen upside down. Then Mami appeared, serene as the Himalayas. “I hid them, pa. Too spicy. Raghava gets acidity.”              

Mithila stared. “So now even my spices need parental permission?” Mami sighed dramatically, “A mother only thinks of her son’s stomach.” Raghav quietly took a biscuit and pretended to chew thoughtfully, hoping invisibility would kick in.

One weekend, Raghav finally gathered courage. “Amma, why don’t you go visit Chithappa in Coimbatore for a change? They miss you.” Padma smiled mysteriously. “No need, kannaa. I already called them. They’re coming here next week. We’ll all stay together - so much fun!” Mithila froze. “Four’s a festival now?”

But that night, when she came home late from work, tired and hungry, she found Padma waiting with a tumbler of steaming filter coffee. “You skipped lunch, no? I made lemon rice your favourite.” Mithila was too surprised to speak. Padma added softly, “First year of marriage is tough, pa. I was worse when I was young. My mother-in-law used to check my sambhar with a ruler.” They both laughed and something shifted.

Months later, at a friend’s party, someone asked Mithila, “So, how’s married life?” She grinned. “It’s a sitcom. I live with my husband and his live-in fact-checker.” “Doesn’t it drive you mad?” the friend asked. “Oh, absolutely. But now, when Mami corrects my rasam recipe, I just add extra chilli and call it ‘fusion’. Everyone’s happy.”

That night as she, Raghav and Padma Mami sat watching an old Rajinikanth movie, Mami suddenly said, “See, Mithu, three people can share a sofa comfortably if they sit properly. It’s all about adjusting.” Mithila smiled. “Exactly, Mami. Three people, one sofa and a lot of adjusting. That’s our story.”

Now, whenever someone says “Three’s a crowd,” Mithila just laughs. In her world, three isn’t a crowd it’s a full orchestra, complete with background commentary, emotional violins and one overenthusiastic mridangam. And truth be told she wouldn’t have it any other way.