Desi Household
The writer, Dr Hasnain Gulamali Walji (Texas, USA) is an entrepreneur, investor, technologist, and community volunteer. Born in Moshi, Tanzania, he is a researcher, speaker, and writer involved in developing professional training and e-learning applications in nutrition and integrative healthcare. He is President of Integrative Quest, Inc which specializes in formulating and marketing probiotics. He has authored 26 books, all written from a naturopathic perspective, endorsed by the Natural Medicine Society of England, and translated into several languages including Spanish, French, German, Turkish, Hungarian, Portuguese, and Chinese. A contributor to several journals on environmental and Third World consumer issues, he was the founder and editor of The Vitamin Connection – an International Journal of Nutrition, Health and Fitness, and Healthy Eating. He has written a script for a six-part television series, The World of Vitamins. His institutional work for the Muslim community spans over 30 years, Since 1976 he has served the World Federation of KSI Muslim Communities, as Secretary-General, Vice-President, and then as President of this august body. He is also a founding director and the Current President of the Mulla Asgher Memorial Library and Resource Center (MARC) in Toronto. He has served as editor of Shia International and Living Islam Magazines and is a regular contributor to a number of Islamic Journals. He has traveled worldwide, lecturing and reciting Majlises in English, Urdu, and Gujarati. He has a special interest in the History of the Khojas and currently working on a Documentary called The Khojas – A journey of faith. He is also a founding director of a Social Justice Institute called Penmanship For Peace focusing on the plight of persecuted minorities including the Shia in Pakistan and part of a team compiling a volume on Shia Genocide in Pakistan. His passion is in increasing interfaith understanding to make this world a better place for his five grandchildren. Dr Walji established MARC. He served as the Secretary-General of WF. Dr Hasnian Walji served as the vice president of WF during Mullah’s leadership in the capacity of the president of the World Federation.
Mulla Nasruddin always said, “In the Desi household, peace arrives uninvited and leaves before the chai is served.” But even he wasn’t prepared for the full-blown opera that awaited him one stormy Sunday afternoon — an afternoon soaked not in rain, but in overboiled daal, suppressed emotions, and the scent of generational guilt wafting through the curtains.
The door opened with theatrical timing. The daughter-in-law stood there — eyes rimmed with eyeliner so fierce it could lead a revolution, holding a coffee mug like a weapon. It read: “Bless this mess, I live with in-laws.”
Behind her, in the living room, the mother-in-law sat perched like a vulture in silk — reciting dua with the same intensity one might summon during a hostage negotiation. Her dupatta was draped just-so — a battle flag of righteousness.
“Ah, Mulla-saab please come in,” the MIL purred, voice soaked in honey and slow venom. “We were just talking about… modern values.”
Mulla paused. He knew that tone. That tone was how the Trojan horse was offered.
The DIL smiled, lips tight. “Would you like chai, Mulla-saab? I made it without cardamom today… thought I’d try something different. Like being left alone.”
He accepted the cup. The chai was lukewarm. The hostility was scalding.
He sat. The atmosphere had the consistency of biryani left out too long — dry, tense, and possibly toxic.
MIL took a sip, winced. “We always use cardamom. That’s what gives it… soul.”
The DIL shot back, “Yes, and I suppose unsolicited advice gives it character?”
Cue the silence.
Not the calm kind — the ominous, pre-earthquake kind.
Mulla looked around. The family photo on the wall seemed to be frowning.
Then came the ritualistic exchange of wounds disguised as conversation.
MIL, with a sigh that could have won an Oscar:
“In our time, daughters-in-law knew their place.”
DIL, eyes gleaming like a soldier with nothing left to lose:
“In your time, doctors prescribed mercury and called it medicine.”
The air throbbed with tension. Even the ceiling fan slowed down, unwilling to be involved.
But the drama truly began when the thermostat clicked.
MIL: “72 degrees? Are we storing corpses?”
DIL: “No, just cooling the atmosphere — too much heat coming from unnecessary commentary.”
Mulla coughed. Not from the chai. From the sheer audacity.
MIL stood now, hands trembling — with righteousness or rage, no one knew. “This house,” she declared, “was built with my sacrifices!”
DIL stood too, voice calm but deadly. “And now it’s furnished with your interference.”
Mulla watched, eyes wide. This wasn’t a disagreement — this was Shakespeare with rotis.
And just when the crescendo was building, Faizan entered. The Son. The Man Caught in the Middle. The human diplomatic crisis.
“Why are you two always fighting?” he asked — like a puppy wandering into a war zone.
The women froze. The music paused. The ancestors in their portraits visibly winced.
Mulla intervened like a prophet in Crocs.
“Beta,” he said, “you are not the United Nations. You are the reason this treaty was never signed.”
He turned to the MIL and DIL.
“You both are magnificent. Theatrical. Historic. If passive aggression were an Olympic sport, you’d be neck-and-neck for gold. But let’s not forget — you’re fighting for a crown in a crumbling kingdom.”
They stared. He continued.
“You argue over Tupperware like it’s state property. You battle over parenting like you’re shaping the next President. But in the end, you both want the same thing — respect. The only difference is, you want it shouted and she wants it silently.”
Just then, the lights went out.
MIL: “In my day, we lit candles in blackouts.”
DIL: “In my day, we charged the power bank… and our boundaries.”
Mulla lit a match.
“In my day,” he said slowly, “we knew when to leave before someone threw the muiko.”
And with that, he stood. The last man to walk out of that warzone with both eyebrows intact.
As he left, the MIL muttered, “My biryani has more soul than her whole generation.”
The DIL responded, “And less salt than your unsolicited advice.”
Mulla smiled to himself.
He once said, “In the Desi household, the kitchen is not where food is made. It’s where power is negotiated, memories are judged, and every spice comes with a side of sarcasm.”
And somewhere in the fridge, the leftover biryani silently absorbed it all.
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