Kishore Singh: Wifely woes helpline

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In recent months, I have seen billboards on the way to work, exhorting men with "domestic" or "marital" or "wifely" woes to call on the numbers listed there. There are usually mailing addresses too, but personal visits, for reasons I cannot fathom, are discouraged.

It must have been this that made me scribble down the number and, in a rare moment of idleness, call one such "helpline". "Do you want to complain about your wife harassing you?" said the voice that picked up the phone at the other end.

"May I?" I was amazed at the possibilities. "Yes, of course," the voice assured me, "but first, have you ever tried to set her on fire?" "Not that I can remember," I said. "Or demanded a dowry?" "Definitely no," I confirmed. "Just checking," the voice droned on, "don't want a police case."

"Nor do I," I told the voice. "Good, good" the voice was congratulatory in tone. "So, tell me, what has your wife done to harm you?" "Harm," I mused, "might be too harsh a word, but she does have this habit of walking out of our apartment to visit the neighbours, so I never know where she is."

"Boyfriend," surmised the voice. "You don't understand," I protested, "it's just a thing she does, such as when we're having our morning tea, or before dinner, on a Sunday afternoon...."

"Has she complained about you?" the voice butted into my grievances about a constantly-disappearing wife. "Frequently, to my mother-in-law," I assured him. "That doesn't count," the voice said. "It does," I insisted, "and you're only saying that because you haven't met my mother-in-law."

The voice, I could make out, was no longer friendly. "What has your wife accused you of?" it demanded to know. "Strange that you should ask," I marvelled, "but she insists she paid for her saree at the exhibition at Aga Khan Hall, whereas I distinctively remember buying it as a gift for her." "Huh?" said the voice; "I need to know how she's upset you."

"Now that I think of it," I told him, "I can definitely say she deliberately invited Sarla home that evening I had a headache, and then I had to make them coffee, then cocktails, and eventually she had dinner with us too."

"Who's Sarla?" the voice asked. "Sarla," I told him, "is my wife's best friend, though sometimes she's not a friend at all." "Is she your girlfriend?" the disembodied voice enquired. "Don't be silly," I said, "I told you I'm married."

"Yes," the voice agreed, "but hopefully not for long." "You sound just like my sister-in-law," I said; "do you know her?" "We do not encourage mingling with our cases," the voice admonished me.

"Of course," I said, "but why am I a case?" "Because you've called to complain about your wife," it explained to me. "Oh, I'd never do that," I was shocked, "besides, it would hurt my wife." "Scared of her?" the voice mocked me. "That too," I agreed.

"Well, get on with it," the voice coaxed me, "let me write down your complaint?" "Why," I finally put words to it, "don't you like people to meet you personally."

"Because we aren't a marriage counselling centre," I was informed, "besides, if complainants' wives were to accompany them, they might create trouble for us. And now, one last time, why is your wife harassing you?" "Oh, but she isn't," I assured him. "But you called," it pleaded. "That's right," I said, "but don't let that bother you."

"I know how you're feeling," sympathised the voice, "but if you don't want to end up being miserable for the rest of your life, all you have to do is complain, and we can assure your divorce without any alimony." Now that's a thought!