When I told my wife I wanted to declare bankruptcy, she wasn’t overly concerned. “Do it after Diwali,” she said, “We don’t want our friends pitying you during the festival.” And then added, “Of course, when you’re bankrupt, I hope you won’t want to borrow funds from me, because I don’t like loaning money to losers.” “I was hoping for an advance,” I conceded, but my wife said she had her own plans, and should I abdicate my responsibility about caring for the family, well, I should know better than to count on her.
My wife does not subscribe to feudal patriarchy, so in alluding to it she was playing hokey with the truth. In reality, all domestic power was vested in her capable person. But now, she was demanding assurance that any fiscal constraints would not get in the way of her creature comforts. She set to making a list of things she wanted from me. “I’ll need the car and driver,” she said, “or Sarla will never cease chuckling at my fall.” I guaranteed her the services of the staff and that the luxuries she was accustomed to would not be denied her. I also told her that she could continue to avail of her vacations (two overseas, one domestic) while eliminating the visit home to my parents “so they don’t laugh at me” — even though failing to understand why that might happen.
By now the children had heard there might be a monetary tightening of the belt and were quick to react. “I could move out on my own,” my son said. “Or you could contribute to the household,” I pointed out. “That’s not going to happen,” he insisted, asking for the loan of my credit card so he could order his various protein shakes and other body building powders and potions before I went broke. He also had his sports bikes parked at a friend’s house in case I decided the hobby was too much of an indulgence and required paring down. My daughter said we would hardly notice if she stayed away, which was true given that she was always sleeping over at her friends’ homes every time there was a party —which was several times a week.
Word seemed to have leaked to the servants that sahib might be in some kind of trouble. Two of them immediately asked for advances on their salary, the cook wanted to know if bonuses would still be paid, the gardener absented himself with immediate effect, the driver was relieved there would be no forfeiture on the substantial loan that he had not been paying back in any case, and the part-timer insisted on an immediate raise. “Sarla memsahib will give me a job,” said Mary, our old cook, to my wife, who said I must pay her a year’s advance to stop such calamity at any cost. At short notice, I found myself under urgent pressure to hike remunerations and add gratuities to domestic salaries that were already well above the average.
Having seen what might happen should I run into debt, I called a family conference to tell them that it was intellectual, not fiscal, bankruptcy I had been troubled by. “Not that I’d noticed,” said my wife ungraciously, “you’ve never been particularly bright.” The children, calmed at the news, immediately called for a party to spread the good news. And the staff said I must share my good fortune with them — leaving me financially aggrieved, if not bereft.