Now that my wife is coming back after a 10-day sabbatical, I guess I will be able to pick up the threads and start socialising again. Before going away, she left strict instructions with the staff: “If anyone wants to meet sahib, please say he is not at home.” “But I like meeting people,” I protested, “besides, friends will probably call directly on my mobile to say they’d like to come over.” “Then you must say you are busy,” my wife said, “I do not want my house becoming an adda for every hobo in town.” “I suppose I will have to go out instead,” I sighed, for I prefer to spend my evenings at home. “And abandon our daughter,” my wife exploded, “perhaps I should cancel my trip” — which, I knew, was an empty threat, but it served the purpose of getting me to comply with her demand that I spend the next 10 days as though serving a sentence. “You can,” she said, “rearrange the rooms and spring-clean the house,” to which I did not agree, insisting I would watch television or read late into the night, every night, causing some small bit of friction at the airport at the time of her departure.
By the next morning it had grown into a full feud. “You broke your word,” she shouted angrily from Bangalore, “I can never trust you again.” “But it was not even a party,” I explained, “all I did was agree to have pot-luck with our friends who thought I might be thankful for their company.” We agreed to disagree, but her mandate now included the elimination, in her absence, of any overtures from even colleagues or neighbours. I was to be house-bound, with absolutely no exceptions.
There were official functions that I now said I could not attend because I was working late, openings and launches that I stayed away from hoping no one would notice anyway, a former boss’ at-home and an acquaintance’s dinner that became victims of a mysterious fever, a sangeet night that I was forbidden to attend because my wife said she would be back in time to be part of the wedding and “we shouldn’t attend two functions anyway”. If I was hoping to spend quality time with my daughter, though, it wasn’t likely to happen just now. “Perhaps we can watch a movie together,” I suggested. “Get a life, dad,” she sighed, “I’m chilling with my friends.”
For the record, she was out every evening — if it wasn’t practising for the university festival, she was out at a hookah bar, or spending the night with the girls, even sleeping over with them, or simply, yes, “chilling”. “How come she’s allowed to have a social life and I’m not?” I asked my wife. “She says she’s bored at home with only you around,” said my wife, “can you blame her?”
On the last evening before she was to return, there was an invitation from a fashion designer who claimed to be breaking new ground with his new venture. Should I go? “If you do,” my wife screamed, “I’ll never speak to you again,” which didn’t seem like such a bad thing. “We have to go,” said my daughter, espying the card, “or I’ll never speak to you again,” which she could hardly be accused of in the first place since she only ever seemed to speak to machines — but go we did. “You’re right,” I said to my wife after, “I would have preferred being home, I’ve got so used to staying in.” “Then you’d better get unused fast, buster,” she snarled, changing into her party clothes. So for those of you who wondered where we were hibernating, I’m back to escorting my wife around town, guys.
