Kishore Singh: Desperate housewives

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Now that Karan Johar's not having Koffee with the stars on his chat show any more, he's no longer the flavour of our desi housewives. "Some cheek," snarls Sarla, my wife's sometimes best friend, "telling us there's a desperate housewife in all of us."

"What I say," thumps Sarla's bete noire, Padmaja, "is that it's the men who're desperate. We," she thumps the table again, "have very fulfilled lives." "I think," I venture on Karan Johar's behalf, even though he's no friend of mine, "he's just promoting a serial on television and doesn't mean anything personally."

"As for that Simi Garewal," says Sarla ignoring me completely, "she's the one who's desperate, dressing up in white at all times." "That," points out my wife helpfully, "is obsession, not desperation." "Obsession, desperation!" says Padma, "same thing, matching-matching."

"If you'll get up for just a moment," says Garima to me, "there;" she plumps up a cushion, "you can sit down again." "Stop the petty housekeeping," Mahima shouts at her, "you're always polishing, and cleaning, and straightening things out." "Uh-huh," says Garima, lining up the ashtray next to the coasters, "better than policing my children all the time. You don't even let them speak to their friends on the phone."

"You should speak," retorts Sarla, "your children are never at home. Do you know where they are, or even the classes they're in?" "They breathe the fresh air of freedom," says Garima, dusting the table cloth, "they're free as winged birds to, to...." "Fall," says Padmaja. "Girls, girls," says my wife, "why are we fighting?" "True," sighs Mahima, "we're behaving like those Desperate Housewives that we aren't."

"Listen," says Sarla, "I have an idea. Why don't we all confess to our worst, most desperate trait, and then we can all pledge to get rid of the habit, so we aren't like those disgusting housewives?" "Good idea," says Padmaja, "let's start with you." "Well," says Sarla, "I sneak into my husband's pockets and his papers...." "To steal money?" asks Padmaja in a shocked whisper. "No, to make sure he isn't having an affair." "That's a sneaky thing to do," says Mahima admiringly, "maybe we should all do it too."

Padmaja's up next. "I", she hesitates, "may be a kleptomaniac." "Does that mean you steal things?" ask my wife. Padmaja nods: "Small things," she says, "from friends's homes." "My perfume?" Mahima asks her. Padmaja hangs her head. "The silver candlestand?" Garima looks up accusingly. She nods. "My alarm clock?" Sarla accuses her. "No, I never took that," Padmaja flares up, "I have better taste."

After an uneasy silence, Mahima speaks up. "I don't think I have any desperate traits," she says. "Oh sure," says Garima, "what about the time you lied to your husband about going out of town to meet your mother, when all along you'd gone to Singapore on a shopping trip?" "You're a great one to say that," shouts Mahima, "seeing as how you got Sarla's maid a job with the Mehras on the sly, just so you could bribe away their cook." "You," screams Sarla at Garima, "did that? Why, I'll never speak to you again."

Seeing as it is late at night, I remind my wife that I've come to fetch her. "Not before you share some secret," rules Sarla, "no way you can go." "Who me?" feigns my wife; "I've nothing to share, so if you'll excuse me now, I must go home where, just so you know, I have to wash clothes." "Now?" asks Sarla.

"Is the washing machine broken," chorus the rest. "Oh dear," confesses my wife, "it's just that I'm a compulsive washer, so any time, day or night, washed clothes or not, I must wash, which is why," she gets up, "I must leave now."