Most wives greet their husbands, back after a long day at work, with a peck on the cheek, which is why friends, colleagues or strangers who’ve sometimes accompanied me home are a little surprised to find me knocking on the bathroom door to say, “Honey, I’m here.” “Is she all right?” some have asked, perhaps concerned that my wife might be in ill health. “No, no,” I hasten to assure them, “She just prefers being in there,” leading them, no doubt, to conclude at the peculiarity of our married life.
Long years ago, I could never understand why my brother liked to have his tea in the bathroom — it was only later I discovered it was to keep his cigarette company as he went about his constitutional business — so, when after our marriage I saw my wife disappear into the loo with her cup of tea, I thought she too was a closet smoker. But my wife’s steamy secret was something else: she liked washing clothes. Despite help hired for the purpose and an industrial load washing machine, not only would she do the laundry, she’d do it over again when stressed, upset or in need of comfort.
I like a cup of coffee, or a drink, at hand when I’m reading, so why shouldn’t my wife have her tea beside her when she was relaxing over the next batch of washing — though it did seem a little bit odd when the mandatory cup was replaced by a full pot on a tray, complete with a tea-cosy. From there, it was only a matter of time before the cookie jar found place on the medicine shelf. I’d return home to find evidence of a half-eaten sandwich, or a plate of pakoras, or a slice of chocolate cake, lying next to the sink, or in the shower cubicle.
The bathroom — rather than the living room — soon became the centre of the house. Books piled up on one side, magazines on another. There was a platform that was house to such wayward objects as egg-beaters and ketchup bottles, wrapping paper, visiting cards and cocktail shakers. Couldn’t find the needle and thread? “Look in the bathroom,” said the servant. Had anyone seen the blender? “In the bathroom, dad, you should know by now,” sighed my daughter. “My laptop?” I’d enquire, to be told, “Mom’s using it to check her emails” — in the bathroom, of course! It was the black hole where everything disappeared – clothes, shoes, car keys, family pictures, pens, income-tax files, bills, forks, spoons, battery chargers.
When she got her mobile phone, I lost the battle of ever hoping to socialise with my wife. She’d disappear into the bathroom with a platter of snacks and her phone, and all one could hear inside was an occasional murmur and giggles. Unable to get through, I’d attempt to call her on her cell phone, only to hear her splashing clothes, or biting into cucumber sticks, or pulling the flush — none of them conducive to the conduct of a romantic conversation. If I’d ask her to share a drink with me in the evening, it was only a matter of time before she’d disappear into the loo with her glass of wine in hand.
She’d read in the toilet (while the clothes were soaking, she said), put falls on her saris (ditto), do her nails (while sorting out a batch for starching) and, wouldn’t you know it, end up having her friends drop in for cake and coffee in — you guessed it — the bathroom. Last evening, I did what was inevitable: I joined my wife in the bathroom for a drink. It’ll take some time getting used to this, but in time we may even come to host our first bathroom party. Get ready, folks!
