Prakash Kumar is a close friend of mine who is sandwiched between his wife and mother.
For reasons I don’t fully understand, he believes I am an expert in relationships. So he narrated the group dynamics in his house and asked for my advice.
Here is his narration, in his words:
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If my mother and wife have fought, I will know by 6 p.m. Both of them will call me at the office and casually ask, “When will you be home?”
That’s when I know…tonight is not going to be easy. It is a survival mission.
Armed with this information, I enter the house at 8 p.m…mentally prepared, emotionally unavailable for both.
If my mother opens the door, my wife will be standing right behind her to take my laptop bag. If my mother arranges my shoes inside the shoe rack, my wife will bring me a towel.
Basically, I am not a husband. I am a ‘trophy’ being fought over.
I look at my father for support. With the Economic Times in one hand and the TV in front of him, he shrugs. I recognize that shrug. He doesn’t want to get involved: “Son… I fought this war. Now it’s your turn.”
I retreat to the washroom, which is the safest place in the house. But only for short bursts at a time.
If my wife gives me a T-shirt outside, my mother will loudly announce, “Dinner is served!”
At the dining table, silences are long… and sentences are short.
I can hear the utensils much louder than usual. In fact, I can judge the intensity of the fight by the decibel level with which the ladle hits the pan.
On normal days, I can notice gentle serving. But today, it’s a “percussion performance” using steel utensils.
“So, how was your day?” my wife asks. This is a dangerous question. One wrong answer… and the United Nations will need to get involved (it already has a lot of time…having shied away from the US-Iran war).
So I say, “It was fine.”
If I say “great,” I will create emotional damage. If I say “bad,” I will get investigative questions.
“So, what did you do the whole day?” my mother asks.
I have to be careful not to give a detailed answer. My wife won’t like it. So I say, “Nothing much.”
Since my wife doesn’t understand Tamil, my mother starts speaking in Tamil.
I respond in a neutral language…like Switzerland. I don’t want my wife to think I am conspiring with my mother.
I look at my father again. This time, he doesn’t even shrug. He just looks deeper into his plate… as if the answers to life’s problems are hidden in the sambar.
Dinner is a disaster because both forgot to bring two dishes to the table. Thankfully, both of them made one dish each…so one person can’t be blamed for the disaster.
After dinner, my mother tries to keep me outside the bedroom. She offers ice cream, fruits, Dabur Chyawanprash, etc.
Meanwhile, my wife starts sending signals from the bedroom. She says, “I’m sleepy…do you want to come in?”
I know that these are not questions. These are summons. So I take one spoon of Dabur Chyawanprash and rush to the bedroom.
Inside, I stare at the TV…strategizing. My wife sits in front of the mirror and sulks.
Eventually, I make the mistake every husband makes: “Why? What happened?”
The moment I say this, I realise…I have opened the dam.
She starts crying and explains how my mother is actually a witch…that my father and I have failed to identify for 30 years. I instantly agree….I do one better, actually – I upgrade her to a senior-level witch.
After some time, my wife is convinced I am on her side. She sleeps peacefully. And because she sleeps peacefully, I also sleep peacefully.
Next morning, while wearing my shoes, I wink at my wife and ask, “Which is bad?”
She glances at my mother and says, “Yes… the witch is bad.”
I then turn to my mother and ask, “Which is bad?” She says, “The blue one.” I immediately remove the blue socks and wear the black ones.
As I leave, I whisper to my mother, “I know you both fought… but I trust you. See, even for my socks, I still ask you.”
As I start the car, I hear noises from the balcony. In the rear-view mirror, I see them holding each other… by their unkempt hair. They really can’t stay away from each other.
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I didn’t know what advice to give him. Honestly…he doesn’t need advice. He needs a Padma Sri.