Men are incorrigible!

Men are incorrigible!


It is easy to do that as both our husbands are correct in their demeanour. They neither smoke nor drink. They go to the office in the morning and come back in the evening and spend some time at the club. So, we are anxious to find chinks in their armour of goodness.

I go to my friend’s house or vice versa.  Usually, the friend starts with the preamble, “My husband is the limit. Whether it is hot or cold he always wants the fan on. I simply cannot stand it. It makes me cough.” I secretly sympathise with the husband for I too long for the fan breeze. Our place is situated at the foot of Nilgiris. Naturally, it has all the concentrated radiation of the surrounding hills. Yet, I cannot lag behind in my condemnation of my husband.

So, I hasten to add, “My husband’s addiction to the fan is to be seen to be believed. The moment he enters the house, he switches on the fan. Coming from a cold place, I cannot stand the fan breeze. It makes me cough.” To signal our concurrence, both of us cough simultaneously. We feel a bit embarrassed. If we can cough at the very remembrance of it, what kind of yarn are we weaving?

To cover our embarrassment, we pounce on other short comings of our husbands. Their tempers come under fire. I tell my friend, “My husband is very short-tempered. He gives vent to his feelings the moment he finds fault in the house. This is too much for me. I start a tirade at him and that calms him down.”

My friend immediately says, “It is worse with my husband. He goes on and on until I can stand it no longer. I let loose a string of hot words. That immediately cools him down. He calmly says, ‘I give you five minutes to let your steam off’. This irks me more. I go on and on, until my common sense tells me to stop for an intake of breath.”

We lapse into a brief silence mulling over our husbands’ faults. Suddenly, I remember my birthday. I tell my friend, “My husband has promised me a gift for my birthday. He is apt to forget. I have to remind him.” My friend very politely asks, “If you do not think me too curious, may I know your age?”

I consider this downright inquisitiveness. But I calmly say, “I will be 30 this November.” I purposefully brush aside the remembrance, I am celebrating my thirtieth birthday for the last three years. My friend nonchalantly says, “I am 29.” This chagrins me a bit. I am sure she is older to me by one year at least. But, this is not the time to be chagrined at each other. There is too much at stake. Better to concentrate on our husband’s faults.

Suddenly, my friend remembers the saree her eldest sister has given her for her daughter’s wedding. She brings it and shows it to me. A beautiful saree. A designer saree. I quickly make an inventory of my wardrobe. No such luck. No new saree, let alone a designer saree. Time to take leave.

I look at the clock and tell my friend sadly, “I have to go. I have to get my husband’s lunch ready.” We part as best of friends. She comes out and sees me off until I am safely inside the house — barely three minutes walk. I busy myself with my husband’s lunch mulling over God‘s blessing in giving me such a wonderful friend!