Last week, my wife rolled towards me in bed and reached for my hand.
After 20+ years of marriage, I knew this was a dangerous move.
As a weapon, her hand ranks just below Schwarzenegger’s AMT Hardballer in Terminator, and well above whatever Sylvester Stallone was waving around in Rambo.
I closed my eyes and played dead.
“Rajan, you awake?”
I did not move.
“Rajan, you just adjusted your pillow. You can’t be asleep so soon?”
The problem with my wife is that she can never decide whether her sentence is a statement or a question. It’s been 25 years of knowing her, and I still can’t tell the difference. So I kept playing dead. Better to die in your sleep than get into a fight you are bound to lose.
That’s when she changed her tone and said, “Rajan, I’m feeling romantic. Come on….get up.”
If you’re married, you know wives never feel romantic, let alone in bed. So when she does, you don’t let the chance pass.
And then I made the mistake of opening one eye.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “You were saying?”
“What is it with you men? You force me to play dirty. I’m not romantic. I just wanted you to respond.”
“Shit…,” I muttered under my breath.
“We are going to Mahabalipuram on Saturday,” she continued.
“Mahabalipuram?” I sat up.
“Yes. This Saturday.”
“But why? Can’t we just chill at home?”
“I’ve already agreed to bring you along.”
“Agreed to bring me along? So there are others?”
“Yes. My girlfriends are coming too.”
“But Rekha, I barely know them.”
“Rajan, I barely know any of your colleagues. When they come home, don’t I behave?”
Behaving is a very subjective word. But who am I to question my wife, so I enquired further: “How many ladies are coming?”
“Besides me, four others.” She ran her hand through my hair.
“Five women and just me? Rekha, that’s scary.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. They’re all coming with their husbands.”
“No way. Your girlfriends, I could’ve managed. But their husbands? Men? No way!”
And then she did her thing – the “hand over my chest” move in the dark. She always does this when she needs something, and I always fold. Twenty-five years, and I still haven’t built a defense for it.
Fifteen minutes later, I was lying in the dark doing the math.
Six hours in a car. With four software engineers I’ve never met. Pretending to care about their projects, EMIs, their kids’ IIT coaching, and which builder cheated them on the carpet area.
All for fifteen minutes of romance.
I should’ve stayed dead. Wives know exactly how to screw their husbands.