Once upon a time, there was a boy band called, 'Boys II Men.' Their 'once upon a time' status is sinisterly linked to a song they unfortunately sang. It is called, 'Mama, you are the queen of my heart.'

Post this historical error, they found themselves dropping from the charts like a sack of wet sand. The queens and princesses of earth, which makes for the fan following of boy bands, decided that four lads singing odes to their old hags are not worth their time, money or sexually-aroused adoration. Boom! End of Story. 'Boys II Men' ended up 'Cradle To Grave.'

Now, this particular transgression is not unique. Throughout history, mama's boys have always existed. Emperors, Aristocrats, Diplomats, Poets to Playwrights, they have come in all shapes, colors and diaper sizes. Eventually to be disgorged and eaten alive by their girl-friends, wives, or mistresses.

You'd think 'Mother's Day' is instituted to celebrate the wonderful woman in our life. No! It is the day when mothers everywhere unitedly declare,“We are no lesser than his wife! If there can be a Valentine's Day, there has to be a Holy Mother Day!”

You can ask them, 'Why Holy? Can't Mother's Day do?” Pat would come the reply, “Do they celebrate a Wife Day or Valentine's Day?”
Not that I understand the logic.

Last Mother's Day, while visiting my parents, my better-half asked me, “Do you believe in honesty in a relationship?”

Of course, I am all for honesty in a relationship. Which man is not. Especially when his wife wants to know that. But honestly, as long it doesn't hurt me or is difficult to tell, I like to be honest at all times. So when she asked, “Tell me who makes better Biryani? Me or your mother?,” I was speechless for a little too long.

You'd think it is an easy question. Just put on the most charming smile and say, “Of course, you make the best Biryani in the world, my love! I never knew Biryani tasted like heaven till we got married.” Right. You would insist that I lie. Not necessarily blatantly, just enough to escape with the skin on back intact. Flattery, no matter how old fashioned, does work wonders with women. Any veteran husband can tell you that.

But I have a problem. I cannot lie. Not because I am a Gandhian. But because that very afternoon, I had sat for 'the Mother's Day' family lunch where I found myself sandwiched between my mother who presided over the elaborate function with the gusto of an arrogant, matronly mother-hen and a sniggering better-half whose obvious displeasure at being present was visible for some strange reason only to my naked eyes.

Under extreme duress some people twiddle their fingers. Some scribble or doodle. Others sweat profusely. Some others even scratch their private parts. Me, I just blabber uncontrollably. It was in such a state of diminished awareness that I blurted out praises for my mother's special Biryani. I sang in as many different ragas as I knew. Then I made a life threatening mistake. I said her Biryani was the ultimate dish and tasted like heaven!

Dear reader, you should know that women really don't care about cooking. Their cooking or someone else's cooking. Not since they burned bras and were certified as liberated. From her man's shadow and kitchens worldwide. Today they would care more about stock market, if you ask me. But yet a fundamental principle is still in operation among them. It is always in comparison that women find satisfaction. No woman wants to know she is a good cook. Tow that line and you'll get nowhere with her heart-strings, purse-strings or g-string. But tell her that she's the best in the business and voila! All doors magically open up for you. You will have won her confidence, trust and unconditional admiration for being a connoisseur of fine dining. Just a piece of friendly advice before we go back to the story.

So when my wife applied the laws of honesty to her Biryani, I was flabbergasted. I might have done a double-take without moving from the bed. I am not sure. But I was sure of one thing. I sure could not re-run the lunch tape again without getting in to serious trouble with her. And that is something I like to avoid like small pox or plague. Not her, I mean, but trouble.

This is one of those moments when tact is of utmost importance. So I look deeply into her eyes, a ploy that I use generously when I am trying to find something appropriate to say and one which usually works well, and coo gently into her ears, “Honey, Heaven is a myth. A fairy tale I tell stupid children and old hags to keep them off my back.”

I smile my most dashing smile, pleased at my own diplomatic answer. “You son of a bitch! Not only did you lie to me, but now you are mean enough to call me an old hag!” She screams while letting the hair brush in her delicate hand fly directly towards my face. The woman can make a good pace bowler in Indian cricket team, I must say. Good line and length.

I forget I had said her Biryani tasted like heaven, and Biryani was never Biryani till I married her. That was on the last Valentine's Day. A costly mistake, I admit. For a whole year now, I don't remember a day when she has not reminded me how dishonest and untrustworthy I am while looking at me as if I was some third-rate pick-pocket in a railway station.

Another Mother's Day is upon me now. Biryani could be served.

Who would have thought life would come a full circle without notice. I have the most difficult job of letting the two most important women in my life know how blessed I am to have them. On the same day. You see, I got married on May 11th as well. This would be my third wedding anniversary. I am hoping all will go well till one of them asks me, “Tell me who makes your life more blessed?”

With the kind of luck I have, I like to think next year on May 11^th, I could end up having another woman to confront – a daughter. Let me not think of that impossible situation now. Wish me luck, good friend! And Happy Mother's Day to you in advance!