For the last seven days, I have been away from Rekha.
That’s 168 hours of not touching her short, curly hair. Or 112 hours of not being scolded by her.
You are probably wondering why there are two different numbers. That’s because she doesn’t scold me in her sleep, so I had to deduct eight hours from every day.
I must be honest…touching her curly hair is my favourite pastime.
And since I have already said that I must be honest… you must also know that it is 9 pm and I am on my second peg of Old Monk.
On 30th April, as early as 4 am, we left our home in Chennai so that we could be with my mother and sisters – yes, mine is a joint family in Madurai – in time for lunch.
I stayed there for three days, saw Chithirai Thiruvizha, and then came back on Sunday.
Rekha, however, continued to stay there for one more week because we wanted our kids to spend more time with their cousins (my sister’s kids).
Yes, you understood that right. My wife stayed in her in-laws’ house for a week when her husband wasn’t even there. Real respect.
Not once in the last week did I have to become a diplomatic translator between two countries. Also, not once did my sisters (I have two!) behave like they were on a reality show called ‘Who Owns This House’?
Or maybe I am just feeling proud unnecessarily. Maybe they all get along better when I am not around.
That possibility hurts. But since I am on my second peg of Old Monk, I am willing to accept it.
Like I said, today is the seventh day I am alone in my house.
Rekha is coming back tomorrow afternoon. Around 2.30 pm, she and my two kids will enter the house and hug me, and I am excited.
And let me tell you… being alone is not fun.
During this last week, I have also found out that watching reels doesn’t tire you as much. On Day One, that’s what I did. But I just didn’t tire enough to sleep off.
So now I tire myself out by playing badminton.
Of course, I can drink whenever I want. Step out for badminton with my friends whenever I want. But how many times can one do that?
There is only so much freedom a married man can handle. After that, freedom starts looking like unemployment.
The first day was fun. I ate when I wanted. I slept when I wanted. I kept the coffee cup wherever I wanted. It felt as if India was finally a free country.
Nobody said, “Rajan, how many times have I told you?”
Nobody gave that look. And that’s when I realized something important. A wife’s scolding is not criticism. It is background music.
When Rekha is home, the house has a rhythm. There is her sound…in different tones…triggering differing levels of cortisol in me.
The pressure cooker whistles. The washing machine beeps. The kids fight.
Rekha shouts, “Rajan!” from some corner of the house.
And I immediately respond like a soldier who has heard gunfire.
“Yes?” I ask.
After that, it is just machine gun fire in all directions. You know that something is wrong, and you have to lie low and not catch a bullet in your stomach.
In the last seven days, our sofa has become my dining table, workstation, and laundry zone.
After living like a bachelor for so many days, I now understand why the bachelors are always looking for love.
It is definitely not for romance. They just need someone to tell them where the nail cutter is. Or where they put the Disprin after taking one last time, when they had a headache. Or that there is no point looking for the Amrutanjan under the pillow because it has rolled under the bed.
Two days back, I opened the fridge to figure out what to eat. There was curd, dosa batter, one lonely tomato, and something in a steel dabba.
Steel dabbas inside the fridge are like government files…you don’t want to open them. Because there will definitely be some complications.
So I closed the fridge and ordered dinner.
Zomato now knows me better than my own relatives. The delivery boy looked at me and asked, “Sir, madam not at home?”
Finally, there was someone who understood my pain. I asked him, “Want to come in and have a beer?”
If he were a teetotaller or if he had refused, it would have been fine. But I guess I was running low on luck that day. He said,
“Sorry sir…I have friends waiting. If you can give me the beer, I will have it with them.”
Now, those who follow my life closely already know that Rekha and I don’t sleep in the same bed anymore. Not because we are fighting.
Rekha sleeps with the AC at 18 degrees, and I, being a fragile tropical animal from Chennai, shifted to the kids’ room to preserve my lungs, bladder, and remaining self-respect.
So technically, Rekha being away should not have affected my sleep. After all, I sleep in the kids’ room.
But marriage doesn’t work on technicalities. This week, the kids’ room didn’t feel like my escape room. But it felt like exile.
Usually, when I sleep there, I know Rekha is in the next room, freezing peacefully, probably dreaming of lowering the AC to 16.
I know that if I cough too loudly, Rekha may shout from the other room, “Drink water and sleep!”
That sentence has no medical value. But emotionally, it works.
Damn…I just took a sip of Old Monk, and even that tastes different when the house is empty. Or maybe I poured too much water. One can never be sure with a drunkard.
When Rekha is around, I drink like a responsible married man. When she is not around, I can drink freely.
But what is the fun in drinking freely if nobody is there to ask, “Second peg, ah?”
That question adds flavour. In fact, that question IS the side dish.
Tomorrow, around 2.30 pm, the doorbell will ring.
I will open the door casually, as if I have managed everything beautifully.
The kids will rush in, hug me, throw their bags somewhere, and ask, “Appa, did you miss us?”
Then Rekha will enter. She will look at me first…obviously…but immediately use her x-ray vision to scan the house.
When it comes to scanning, she is better than a CAT scan – in five seconds, she will know everything.
She will know I ordered food. She will know I used the good towel to wipe my badminton racket. She will know I almost opened the steel dabba.
And then, as she sits down on the sofa, she will say, “You were alone for a week. What exactly did you do?”
I will smile, sit next to her, touch her short curly hair, and say, “I missed you.”
She will try not to smile. But she will fail. She always fails to hide that smile.
Then she will push my hand away and say, “First go and clean the dining table – I can see that everything from your laptop bag is scattered on the table.”
And I will happily go. Because after 168 hours of silence, even being scolded feels like romance.