This is part 2 of how my wife fooled me into going on a trip by running her hand over my chest. It’s best enjoyed if you have read part 1 – visit my profile.
Last Saturday, I went to Mahabalipuram with my wife, her four girlfriends, and their husbands.
I know what you’re thinking. “Rajan, how bad could it be?”
That is exactly the kind of question unmarried people ask before ruining their own lives.
The day began at 6:30 a.m., which itself should have been a warning, because no good marriage-related activity begins before 10 a.m., unless your mother-in-law is leaving the house.
By 7:15, we were in the car, Rekha fully ready with snacks, water bottles, sunglasses, Google Maps, and that dangerous holiday energy women get when they have planned something without consulting their husbands.
We reached the meeting point fifteen minutes late, which, according to my wife, was entirely my fault. It definitely wasn’t because she had changed her earrings thrice.
The four couples were already waiting. The women hugged each other like soldiers fighting from different trenches were meeting after the war was over.
We husbands stood behind them holding bags, caps, bottles, and our remaining dignity.
That’s when I realized something important. It wasn’t just me – all husbands look the same on group outings. A mixture of resignation and hope that the day would end soon.
Rekha introduced me: “This is Rajan.”
All the husbands smiled. Not real smiles. Married-men smiles.
The kind that says, “Welcome, brother. Your suffering has been registered.”
One fellow, Deepak, shook my hand and said, “First time?”
I nodded. He looked at me with pity.
“Don’t worry. By evening, things will get better.”
I just smiled and looked around for Rekha. She was now part of the circle the women had formed, and was busy talking.
Within five minutes, they had covered school admissions, maid problems, cholesterol, saree discounts at Chennai Silks, how AI was changing their workplaces, and why men never understand anything.
We husbands stood nearby like parked vehicles. We only blinked, as if our parking lights were on.
The drive began with three cars following each other, which sounds simple only if you’ve never been part of a group trip where every ten minutes one car disappears, one wife calls another wife, and the husband gets blamed.
We finally reached Mahabalipuram after what felt like two appraisal cycles.
Our first stop was the Shore Temple, but nobody looked at it.
The moment we reached, the women started taking photos: one with sunglasses, one without sunglasses, one candid, one walking candid, one laughing candid, and one “don’t take, I’m not ready” candid.
Then came lunch. The women had already chosen the restaurant, and nobody had asked the men.
However, once inside, all husbands ordered quickly.
“Regular meals, with fish fry,” all of us whispered to the waiter as if we were worried about pissing off our wives.
The women took twenty minutes to decide.
“Is the fish fresh?”
“Is the gravy spicy?”
“Can you make mine spicy but not too spicy?”
“When was the salad cut?”
I could see that these questions hurt the waiter personally.
After lunch, the women wanted to shop. I had expected this, but expectation does not reduce pain.
In one of the shops, Rekha picked up a medium-sized stone elephant.
“How much is this, Anna?” she asked.
I wanted to remind my wife that she was 50 years old, and if she had married in her early 20s, the shopkeeper could have been her son. But dare I say what I feel in front of my wife?
“Two thousand, madam,” the shopkeeper replied.
She laughed. Not because it was funny. But because the bargain season had opened.
“Two thousand? For this? I’ll give four hundred.”
For fifteen minutes, they fought like two kingdoms negotiating a border dispute, and finally she bought it for nine hundred.
I don’t know if it’s just me or all men, but I feel bad when my wife starts bargaining. Many times I feel like taking a few 100s and leaving it on the shop’s counter, so that the shopkeeper can recover the loss they incurred while doing business with my wife.
Once outside, she said, “I think I overpaid. But it is ok…right?”
I bit my lip so that I wouldn’t end up saying something I would regret later.
As we waited for the shopping to end, the husbands had formed a small support group near the parking area. Deepak had brought tea, another fellow had found bajji (vegetable fritters), someone else had discovered a bench in the shade, and for thirty peaceful minutes, we sat there in silence.
No project talk. No EMI talk. No IIT coaching talk. Just five married men drinking tea and staring at nothing.
It was beautiful. Male friendship is underrated because it does not need content.
Women need conversation. Men need a place to sit and someone to say, “Tea?”
On the drive back, Rekha leaned against the window and said, “It was a nice trip. You liked it…didn’t you, Rajan?”
I wanted to talk about the photos, the shopping, the traffic, the missing fish fry (Rekha had taken half of mine!), and the stone elephant now sitting between my legs because she didn’t want it to break on the journey back.
But Rekha looked happy, and in twenty-five years, I have learned that if your wife is happy, the husband’s chances of being happy are higher. There is no guarantee, though.
So I said, “Yes. It was nice.” I added the smile for effect.
She also smiled and then squeezed my hand.
For ten seconds, I thought maybe the whole trip was worth it. Then she said, “Next month, we’re planning Pondicherry.”