And the winner is…

Here is the winning post…re-created for your convenience!

A Gentleman’s guide to your wife’s sari

OK, I accept I iron her clothes. Who doesn’t? Just because I don’t have the courage to take her head-on and fight for my rights, you can’t call me a coward. I am quite a brave guy. The other day, I even helped a cat come down a tree. Not to mention, the Red and White Bravery award I got when I was all of ten years old. It is another thing that I refused to climb the Elephant on which I was to be paraded during the Republic Day parade. Guess, I was scared.

Talking of ladies clothes, I can safely (and unashamedly) say that I am now an expert. I might not have the intricate knowledge required to be become a Ritu Beri (and to top it, she is a lady) but I sure can hold my own in a world of hen-pecked husbands. Wonder why we men are known as hen-pecked. I have never seen a hen peck her husband.

The aim of this guide is to help other fellow husbands like me tackle the issue safely. BTW, I am planning on turning ‘Agony Husband’ and offer solutions to men suffering from the after-effects of marriage. Simply put, I am planning to help men suffering from a sudden bout of identity crisis.

In this post we will discuss only the Sari.

A very sexy attire. Traditionally Indian. Very laborious to wear (According to a AC Nielsen survey done on 10,000 Indian males, more husbands help their wives in wearing a sari, than removing it. I think, I was the 9,675th husband).

Saris are six meters of pure fun (sometimes cotton, sometimes silk). The material doesn’t matter because whatever tips you read now …you are going to forget it…and one fine day feel a Kancheepuram silk between your right thumb and index finger and say: “Nice cotton…it is so good that it doesn’t even feel like cotton.”

If your wife has decided to wear a sari to office…you better be ready to buy a car. Rekha and I have never been serious about buying a car (it is another thing that we never had money serious enough to buy a car). But in the last six months we must have decided to buy a car, the next day, at least four times. That’s the number of times she has worn a sari to office.

“We need to buy a car,” she would tell me early in the morning.

“Yes Rekha, as you say.” I would meekly surrender even as I keep my face in the newspaper.

“Santro or Zen or anything that is small enough for the two of us,” she says. (More recently it has been Getz)

“Yes Rekha.”

I know it is coming. It is only a matter of time before she breaks the news.

“You know what?” an excited Rekha asks.

“What?”

“Today I am wearing that green sari,” she breaks the biggest news of the day.

She has some 15+ saris and I don’t remember the color of any. I pretend to remember the sari and burst out: “Yeah…that’s a neat one. Last time you wore it…you looked like a Goddess.”

“I did?” A blushing Rekha questions me. She is pretty modest. But I can also notice a spark in her eye that means “Dare to say no!”

I have mentioned here that she has 15+ saris. Wonder if that is a good thing…for I believe the more the number of saris a lady has…the more she is respected in the society. What will all her friends think of her now? Only 15 saris? That is…she would be repeating her saris after every two years and four months? Shame…shame…puppy shame.

Once your wife decides to wear a sari…there are certain things that are understood. You are not getting a decent breakfast…neither is she going to pack lunch for you. She doesn’t want you to drop her…instead will be taking an auto rickshaw. You don’t have to pick her up in the evening because she can’t sit on your stupid two-wheeler (this is the same girl who would have loved your Yamaha, while dating because it provided so much intimacy).

Once decided, she will take an early bath (and that is 6 a.m.) and start the process…matching of the blouse takes half an hour because there is always the other blouse (the one that is the color of the sari’s border) that goes better.

When she starts wearing the sari, a helper/assistant is required. This is when, there is a call “Hello! Anybody home? Can somebody come and help me please?”

I know she is referring to me because there is nobody else in the house…for the next 30 minutes I help her decide the angle, the straight lines, the curves, the folds…blah blah…

She is dressed up like a Barbie by 8.30 a.m. and decides to leave. Just because her sari would crumble…I don’t even get that hug that has been my consolation for the last six weeks. Sob…Sob…I hope Rekha reads this…and gives me a good hug. (God…I should have been in Sales).

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Posted by Jamshed V Rajan on Nov 8 2005. Filed under Blogging, Posts on my Wife. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. You can leave a response or trackback to this entry