he's married. i am bent down, taking my shoes off,when i hear him say, "i would like you to meet my wife."i look up and there beside him is… mrs. patel. "hello," shesays, extending her hand and smiling. "piscine has beentelling me lots about you." i can't say the same of her. ihad no idea. she's on her way out, so we talk only a fewminutes. she's also indian but has a more typicallycanadian accent. she must be second generation. she's alittle younger than him, skin slightly darker, long black hairwoven in a tress. bright dark eyes and lovely white teeth.

she has in her arms a dry-cleaned white lab coat in aprotective plastic film. she's a pharmacist. when i say,"nice meeting you, mrs. patel," she replies, "please, make itmeena." after a quick kiss between husband and wife, she'soff on a working saturday.

this house is more than a box full of icons. i startnoticing small signs of conjugal existence. they were thereall along, but i hadn't seen them because i wasn't lookingfor them.

he's a shy man. life has taught him not to show offwhat is most precious to him.

is she the nemesis of my digestive tract?

"i've made a special chutney for you," he says. he'ssmiling.

no, he is.