Domesticating my husband, praying for a role reversal
“Come here! Are you listening?” I rushed in a la Bobby, hands full of flour, to my dear husband’s frantic call. “Just hand over my mobile,” says he. “But it is plugged right next to you!” “Yes, it’s difficult to twist to this odd angle.” “Heavens!” I muttered as I handed over the device.
Another time, he would call suddenly to switch on/off a light/fan or hand over a device. If I ask him why he didn’t make the bed, my lord replies, “Relax, nobody will peep in your bedroom to issue a certification. Trivial things give you a lot of tension.”
One fine day, he called me up to enquire how long I would take to reach home. “I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I replied and asked out of curiosity, “But why?” “Actually, Kapoor has come.” “Okay, you serve him water and fruits, I’ll be home by then.” “No, no he’s just had lunch, we’re waiting for you,” came his reply.
Exhausted after his evening jog, he plops down waiting to be served water. When I ask him why he doesn’t help himself, pat comes his defence: “To avoid being court martialled by you; why did you use that glass or why did you pick that bottle.”
One foggy winter morning, we lesser mortals left home at the mercy of His Highness with only a humble submission that the milkman would come. Imagine the sight that awaited our arrival. All doors, windows open and all exhaust fans running full speed. “I wanted to help you,” came his sheepish response. He put the pan on fire and snuggled in the quilt to watch the match. After a while when a stench drifted into his nostrils, he got up grudgingly and muttering abuses on the innocent neighbours for making ghee on a holiday, resumed his viewing. Only when the kids returned home did reality dawn and the ensuing vain attempt to camouflage. Imagine the sight: Pan burnt to cinders, shelf covered with milk, rivulets flowing all over and the messy floor. Need I elaborate on the running commentary accompanying Operation Mop-up?
Domestication perhaps is not his forte would be a plausible alibi. But his cupboard would put even the glossiest advertisement to shame. Spic and span, every item meticulously placed. During the last week of the month, he pesters me for the grocery list and the bag lands on the kitchen shelf. Vegetables and fruits every weekend, without fail. All bills cleared and dues paid on the first. He makes excellent tea, but such fateful days can be counted on the fingers.
Arguments meet a dead end. Heads he wins, tails I lose. A devout Hindu, I believe matrimony is a bond of seven lives and we are into the third or fourth one. We disagree on some aspects and fall in tandem over many. With folded hands, I pray to the Almighty for role reversals in the next birth. “Great,” chipped in dear husband, “May your wish be granted, subsequently in the next birth Vikas Choudhary would do more household chores.” QED.
A DEVOUT HINDU, I BELIEVE MATRIMONY IS A BOND OF SEVEN LIVES AND WE’RE INTO THE THIRD OR FOURTH ONE. WE DISAGREE ON SOME ASPECTS AND FALL IN TANDEM OVER MANY