In my previous article, I had revealed how men from all over had secretly joined hands against me.
Their problem was simple. For the last few months, I had been writing in support of men, but unfortunately for them, my articles were also being read by their wives. And as a result, the wives had started understanding men better.
Basically, I had become a snitch and the men panicked.
So they formed a secret WhatsApp group called “Men’s Welfare Association” and discussed how to silence me.
They rejected the idea of writing counter articles because men can’t write long articles, rejected debates because I had already accepted defeat in life, rejected sending a masculine man because my wife Rekha may fall for him, and finally came to the most practical male solution — send an assassin.
Anyway, after much discussion, the men finally selected Deepak.
Deepak was married for eighteen years, had survived one kitchen renovation, one four-day wedding in his wife’s family, and had once told his wife “Calm down” and lived to tell the story. So clearly, he was qualified.
His mission was simple – meet me, warn me that I had gone too far, ask me to stop giving women unnecessary confidence, and if I refused, kill me.
Now, before you imagine a dark man in a black coat standing under a streetlight with background music, let me clarify. This was not that kind of assassin.
Deepak was a married Indian man. Which means he came wearing track pants, sports shoes, and the tired expression of someone who had been asked by his wife, “Where are you going at this time?”
He had told her, “Just going for a walk.”
She had looked at him and said, “Since when?”
That one question had almost killed the mission before it started.
But Deepak survived the interrogation and came to the park near my house, where I was sitting on a bench and peacefully eating peanuts.
If something happens to me before this article ends, I want you to remember me as a man who faced death with dignity and peanuts.
Deepak walked towards me slowly. I could see murder in his eyes.
Not actual murder…but the kind of murder that an Indian husband has in his eyes when he is sent to the supermarket for five items, but gets a scolding from his wife because he returned with only three items out of which one was wrong.
He came and stood in front of me and asked, “Are you Rajan?”
I looked up.
“Yes.”
“I am Deepak.”
I said, “Okay.”
Then there was a long silence. The kind of silence that men think is communication.
Finally, I said, “Do you want to sit?”
He sat down next to me on the bench. Now there was a second silence, which I broke by asking, “Peanuts?”
He said, “No.”
Then, after five seconds, he extended his palm and said,
“Actually, give me some.”
That is when I knew that Deepak was more a confused husband than an assassin.
For the next two minutes, both of us sat on the park bench and ate peanuts silently.
Two middle-aged men, one who was sent to assassinate and another a target for the assassination. Both slightly worried about cholesterol and hair loss.
Finally, Deepak cleared his throat and said, “I have come on behalf of men.”
I nodded and said, “Okay. Tell me.”
Deepak took a deep breath, and said, “Rajan, you have gone too far.”
I said, “I agree.”
He looked surprised because assassins don’t expect cooperation.
He continued, “Because of your articles, our wives have started using new words.”
“Like?” I was curious.
“For example, ‘cognitive load,’ ‘emotional labour,’ ‘pressure cooker apology,’ etc.”
I nodded with professional pride.
He said, “Earlier, if I didn’t find something, my wife would get angry but still look for it and give it to me. Now she says, ‘Don’t just scan…use your eyes properly.’”
I said, “That is progress.”
He said, “For whom?”
It was a fair question.
Then he leaned forward and said, “You have made our lives difficult.”
I looked at him and said, “Deepak, I have not made your lives difficult. I have only helped the women understand men better.”
For a while, he didn’t say anything. Maybe because somewhere inside, he knew this was true…or maybe he didn’t believe me.
Then he became even more serious and said, “Rajan, I was sent to stop you.”
“How?” I asked.
“First, by talking.”
“And if that fails?” I was curious to know how far men would go to silence me.
He didn’t reply and I understood why. Because he was a man, and we men don’t plan anything beyond the dramatic part.
We men will say, “I will handle it,” and then reach the venue without knowing what “it” is.
I felt sad for him. Here was a man sent to assassinate me, but he had come with no strategy. In fact, he didn’t even have a water bottle. What if the assassination took a bit long and he felt thirsty?
If it were a woman assassin, she would have definitely packed a water bottle, comb, lipstick, and lip gloss. Imagine coming to kill someone without amplifying the natural look of your lips?
So I asked him, “Deepak, tell me honestly. Are you angry with me or are you tired at home?”
This time he looked at me with a softer expression, which meant that my question had landed.
He said, “Both.”
Maybe because I am a conversationalist almost everybody opens up….and so did Deepak.
His wife had recently read my article on cognitive load. Since then, she had given him three full departments – gas booking, managing the school WhatsApp group, and medicines for the family.
I asked, “So, what is the problem? Isn’t this just like a promotion at work?”
Then Deepak said something that made me feel bad.
He said, “Rajan, the real problem is not that we don’t want to help. The real problem is we don’t know where to start.”
This was honest. And when a man becomes honest, other men must encourage him.
So I replied, “Deepak, that is why I write…to explain men.”
He looked at me suspiciously.
So I continued.
“See, women already know we are useless in many areas. My articles are not giving them new information. You agree?”
He nodded slowly but enquired further, “Then what are you doing?”
“I am making our uselessness funny.”
“Why?”
“So they laugh before they get angry at us.”
This was the first time Deepak looked impressed. Finally, he had also fallen for the charm of the Rajans.
I said, “Deepak, I am not against men. I am trying to save men by making women laugh at our defects.”
He thought about it. Then he said, “But after laughing, they still ask us to change.”
I said, “Yes. That part I cannot help.”
He looked disappointed.
I said, “I am a writer, not God.”
Deepak then asked, “So what should we do?”
I thought this was a sweet moment…an assassin had come to silence me, but now he was asking for marital advice.
I said, “Start small.”
He said, “How small?”
I said, “Very small. Don’t try to become the perfect husband.
That is impossible and suspicious.”
“I don’t understand. Why go slow?” he asked.
“If you become the perfect husband overnight, she may think you have started having an affair, and you don’t want that. Especially if you are having an affair.”
“Hmm…so we must improve only slightly?”
“Yes. That is the sweet spot for men. Women don’t expect a miracle. They just want evidence of attempt.”
Deepak was quiet for some time. Then he said, “This is difficult.”
I said, “Yes.”
“But our fathers were not doing all this. Right?”
“No, they weren’t.”
“Then why should we?”
“Because our wives can read, and they go to work, and they are independent.”
He looked at me like a lamb, but slowly I could see his expression change – modern marriage had become clear to him.
He was even more curious now. “So if I do all these things, what do I become?”
I said, “You won’t become a hero or a feminist…and definitely not the husband of the year.”
“Then, is it even worth it?” he asked.
I said, “You would become a green flag.”
He sat up. “Me? A green flag?” And then he smiled at the possibility of the good life ahead.
But then, self-doubt crept in and he asked, “Are you sure I can be a green flag one day?”
I said, “Deepak, green flag does not mean a perfect man. Green flag means a man who is trying, listening, learning, and not making his girlfriend or wife feel like she has adopted a full-grown child.”
I could see he was all emotional inside, but he didn’t show it.
Indian men don’t become openly emotional unless India wins the World Cup, a luxury car gets launched in the country, or petrol prices breach a milestone figure.
But I could see something change.
But then, as we Rajans always do – we mess up when everything is going well – I asked the wrong thing.
I asked, “What exactly were you planning to do if I refused to stop writing?”
Deepak looked embarrassed.
And then he said, “I thought I would threaten you.”
“With what?” I was curious yet again.
He looked at his shoes, as if he wanted to avoid this conversation, but eventually said, “With strong words.”
“Strong words like what?” I asked.
He said, “Don’t push it.”
I started laughing. Deepak also smiled. Even though I didn’t say it out in the open, I was amused at the choice of assassin the Men’s Welfare Association had sent.
I told him, “Deepak, do you know my wife has said ‘Don’t push it’ twice this week alone?”
“Ohh…why did she say that?”
I explained to him that she had said it once when I tried to get too cosy with her when the kids were away, and the next time when I was trying to explain why she should extend her visit to her mom by a few more days.
He sat up and said, “Then what do you do?”
“When she says that, I stop pushing it. Simple.”
He looked impressed.
I added, “And that is also one green flag behaviour. Listening to warning signs and changing course.”
Deepak was taking mental notes like a student preparing for a board exam. By now, Deepak had forgotten why he came.
That’s when I got a little bolder and suggested that he share these tips in the “Men’s Welfare Association” group.
He panicked.
I said, “Deepak, relax. I already know.”
He looked shocked.
“How?”
I said, “I am a writer. I have sources.”
He whispered, “Who snitched?”
I said, “I cannot reveal.”
But in every men’s group, there is always one man who forwards screenshots to his wife. And through every wife’s group,
screenshots eventually reach the writer. This is the natural flow of information in society.
After nearly one hour, Deepak stood up. He looked different now…he had come as an assassin and was going back as a potential green flag.
I said, “What will you tell the men?”
He said, “Truth.”
“What truth?”
“That killing you will not solve the problem.”
—-X—-X—-
Later that evening, I received a message from an unknown number.
“Rajan, this is Deepak. I reached home.”
I replied, “Good. It was nice meeting today!”
He said, “I asked my wife how her day was.”
I waited. Then he sent another message.
“She spoke for 18 minutes.”
I replied, “Excellent.”
He said, “I asked one follow-up question.”
I replied, “Very good.”
He said, “Now she is looking at me suspiciously.”
I replied, “It is normal. Please continue.”
After ten minutes, he messaged again: “She asked what I wanted for dinner…she has never asked this before.”
I replied, “See…didn’t I tell you?”
Then he sent one final message: “Hmm. Let’s see.”
Poor fellow. He thinks his mission is over. No…his real mission has only started now.