Kishore Singh: A hard day's night

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On the evening before I was to go to Mumbai on work, my wife said, "You must clear up the living room as I am expecting some guests in the morning, and they cannot come to this mess."

"I agree that the house is in no state to entertain visitors," I said, "but why did you invite your friends when the renovations are still not over?" "Well," said my wife, "you are going off to Mumbai, and since I will be alone, I thought it might be nice to have somebody to talk to."

"In that case, why didn't you go across to their house, or meet at a restaurant?" I asked. "You ask too many questions," said my wife, "but all I know is that the house must look okay before you leave for the airport in the morning."

It was unfortunate that my flight was early in the morning, but since I did not want to disappoint my wife, I agreed to do whatever I could to make the house look presentable. First of all, I had to bring the furniture from a flat in the next block where it had gone for upholstering and polishing.

But because no help was available at night, it took a lot of sweating (and swearing) and going back and forth lugging sofas and armchairs and tables before it was all in, and it was almost midnight, and I thought I should catch up on my sleep if I was to make it to the airport in time.

"No, no," said my wife, who had occupied a sofa and was lying down on it reading a bestseller, "I want everything rearranged or else the room will look the same, and our friends will wonder what the fuss was about."

And so I moved chairs "a little more to the left" and tables "no, not there "" right in the centre; no, I don't think that's looking nice, put it back where you got it from" and sideboards "up against that wall" till I could hardly see for the sweat dripping down my forehead.

"Do be careful, you'll dirty the cushions," said my wife. "I'll go take a shower and hit the bed," I said. "And who do you think is going to put up the pictures?" asked my wife. Reconciling myself to some more work, I got out the hammer and nails and proceeded to make a mess of the freshly painted walls, but that was just the start of the task at hand.

There were the books that needed to be dusted and put back into the shelves, the silver that needed polishing before it could be placed on the occasional tables, the carpet that needed to be pounded free of the accumulation of millions of footsteps before it could be laid.

Excusing herself while I was lining up the glassware in the crockery sideboard, my wife said, "I'm so tired, I must catch up on my sleep, else I'll have bags under my eyes in the morning. But don't forget to wash your hands before you hang up the curtains, and do air out the linen cupboard, and take out the vases so that I can do the flowers after you've gone."

By the time I'd laid out the cutlery in the drawers and plumped up the cushions and wound the clocks, and cleaned out the lamps and replaced fused bulbs, it was dawn, and there was no time to rest any more, so I had a shower, packed my bags, and made a pot of tea before waking up my wife.

"Oh dear," said my wife as she yawned, "I do hope my friends will appreciate everything I've had to do to make them feel at home."