It all boils down to protocol
to her, which is useful if it has rained outside, or if the gardener hosed them accidentally, but not much else.
It all boils down to protocol, which in our home consists of a pecking order at the bottom of which I frequently find myself. When our son leaves for work, a retinue of staff carries everything from his bags and files to his gym clothes and water bottle to the car. Another minion carries my daughter’s shoes when she chooses to self-drive, since she likes to wear flats for the purpose, but wants heels for her office. My wife never steps out of home without a spare set of shoes because a stiletto strap once snapped at a party, leaving her lurching barefoot and embarrassed. She also likes to carry her walking shoes along for when the need to perambulate might take her. This is a woman who does yoga in the middle of the airport, insists on demonstrating how five-star chefs should prepare their specialties, and snaps at her in-laws on any pretext. When she lays down the protocol, you don’t mess with her.
That protocol dictates that my wife decides who is to be invited home, and when, while I must appeal to her if I want anyone over for a drink. She has the privilege of using our common dressing room for her wardrobe, my daughter has use of four cupboards strictly for herself, my son will not accommodate anything that is not specifically his in his capacious storage, while I get to share shelf space with the linen and the groceries, and must store my shoes under the bar. This when my daughter has an entire closet for her footwear, my son has a separate fridge as his prerogative, and my wife has the run of the rest of the house.
I understand protocol in other ways too, such as not being allowed to sport casuals to the Gymkhana, even though it’s a club, or being allowed to wear ‘Indian’ clothes when invited to defence institutes, which follow archaic regulations laid down by the British — and have discourteously shown me the door because my idea of formals doesn’t square with theirs. Which is why my heart bleeds for the babus in Dantewada who earned opprobrium for wearing neatly ironed shirts and trousers to meet the PM instead of a bundgulla. They might have preferred the kurta-pyjama that the prime minister – and most politicians – have appropriated for themselves, but protocol is discriminatory. So, what’s fitting for the politician isn’t par for the bureaucrat. In other words, the king may look at the cat but the civil servant daren’t sneak a peek from behind his tinted shades.