In an intriguing discovery, it’s revealed that there isn’t any particular name for the husband of your wife’s sister in English, which is unusual considering they are generally regarded as part of the family. Some common pairs might be May and John or Susanna and Bob, but technically, you and John or Bob are unfamiliar.
In India, this particular family relation isn’t so obscured. They often use the term co-brother-in-law or shaddaka to describe your sister-in-law’s husband. In this context, when my shaddaka was away, my sister-in-law invited my wife and our youngest girl to have a girls’ night at her place. Her daughter was thrilled to spend time with her cousins, and the sisters relished their chance to drink a little more than they probably should.
There’s something about siblings reverting to an almost exclusive, disconcerting silliness when they get together, particularly when alcohol is added to the mix. Their particular brand of humour is an avalanche of peculiar expressions and non-sequiturs, which they find uproariously funny but can appear quite odd, intimidating and overwhelmingly loud to an outsider. In their fun, there is always a hint of mischief. They have many stories that could be shared, but our snoring incident from a few weeks ago is still a fresh memory in our minds where I forgot to mention that my wife, irrespective of her snoring that one incident, is otherwise incredible and cooks amazing roast chicken.
The picture of them on the trampoline in our backyard at 3 am was the kind of text I was anticipating from them. On the other hand, I was bestowed with an unusual treat – an entire night to myself. My wife and I make sure each one of us gets enough alone time, which usually happens within the household boundaries. Either my wife enjoys it in the bedroom for a few hours or I do the same in my office. But on this occasion, I had the entire house to my disposal. I was all set to savour it by grabbing a takeaway, listening to some funky music at an ear-splitting volume, and then settling down to watch a senseless, loud, space-themed movie, the kind where there’s no emotional drama or discussions of feelings.
The actions I undertook, or at least attempted to, felt peculiarly uncomfortable. The music did not provide the usual joy it should, and when I tried to sit and watch a film, I couldn’t decide on the choice. Ultimately, even when I managed to choose, I found myself unable to concentrate. My thoughts kept wandering off. Returning my focus to the film, I found I had lost track of the narrative – who was attacking whom and what was the reason? I realised it didn’t matter to me anymore. Eventually, I halted it and went off to bed.
This took place within the busy schedule of my fourth daughter’s customary extracurricular weekend activities. She had singing and dancing lessons and swimming on the day of the girls’ get-together. The next morning, we hurried her back home to get ready for an Irish dancing feis.
My fourth daughter had participated in these several times, and each instance never fails to marvel me at the evident joy the children found in performing traditional Irish dance – the reels and the jigs; it was also a multicultural affair. Migrants are not here to water down our culture, they’re here to earn the Irish dancing medals.
My partner – as well as several other parents, I presume – and I applauded the dancers whilst surviving our hangovers, listening to the same set of musical pieces on repeat for an extended period of time.
It was only then it dawned on me why I did not savour the time I spent alone the previous night. I felt isolated, an emotion which I seldom experience; so rare that I didn’t even realise it on that night. On sharing my revelation with my partner, she provided a slow nod of understanding, still nursing a headache, and conceded that this was not necessarily a negative situation. It’s healthy to occasionally yearn for the loved ones in your life.