Requested by The devil @ 07:39 pm | Dec 2nd 2004
Topic Suggested: Imagine u r Rekha, n blog abt Jammy!
Mail id: None
(Would ‘The Devil’ want to own up?)
Where do I start? All of sudden, a day seems to have 34 hours. After-effects of marriage. Perhaps.
My day begins at 5.30 a.m. with a cup of tea for the mangled mass of body that has been lying beside me all night.
His Bedroom Orchestra (read snoring) coupled with the flinging-and-flaying of his limbs after every five seconds has ensured that I am sleepy in the morning, but then I have certain responsibilities towards God – I will take care of the less endowed and this is what I am doing at 5.30 a.m. in the morning with a cup of tea in my hand.
He doesn`t brush his teeth before having tea. I am glad we don`t eat dogs in the mornings because they have a very good sense of smell and I am sure they would have gotten upset and bit my husband in his mouth.
After tea, the man slips into coma for half an hour. When questioned he insists he plans for the day`s activity. But I don`t believe the liar.
By six thirty it is time for a visit to the loo, with a newspaper in his left hand. Mind you, he would not even know if I gave him the previous day`s newspaper. He doesn`t care for the Putins and Seers, just that he tries to copy his father-in-law…and that`s my father. What Rajan doesn`t know is, my father takes the newspaper to the loo because in my house in Kerala, we don`t have a door.
By 7.30 he rushes in to the bath with a towel so stiff that it would crack if dropped. Legend has it that he has been using it for the last ten years but I don`t think he has used it to its full potential, for you can also –
1) Commit murder by slitting people`s throats using the sharp edges of this towel.
2) Take a Bank to ransom by showing the guy at the Cash Counter this towel.
3) Carry this towel whenever he travels and show it to the conductor whenever he asks for tickets.
4) Carry it to theatres screening newly released movies so that the crowd at the ticket-counter thins down on seeing him.
When he comes out of the bath, he is all dripping. Reminds me of one of those dirty roadside fountains maintained by the PWD. But I don`t care, for I would see him only for another 30 minutes before I dispatch him to the office.
The time spent on the dining table is torturous. For me.
He cannot butter his toast (but he can butter his bosses at work), neither can he spot the difference between corn flakes and pop-corn. So much so, I once caught him having masala popcorn with milk and sugar and some dry fruits and complaining of the bad corn flakes I had bought.
It is ceasefire for me after 8.30 a.m.
After a good 10 hours at my office, I am back to the normal grind. I hate the wet penguin look he gives me after taking a shot of whiskey from an old bottle that his father gifted him ten months back. I wonder if the bottle will ever get empty. Or does he keep filing it?
I have once asked him about the secret of this never-finishing whiskey bottle.
“Why doesn`t this whiskey bottle get over?”
“Unlike your father, I am a slow drinker.” He replies with a hint of victory in his eyes. But I don`t let him win…
“I have a feeling, you fill it up with whiskey every time the level comes down.”
He tries to show his anger, but I can see a wee bit of fear in his eyes that comes when he is about to be exposed. So I leave a drunk Rajan to ponder over his life and go to bed.
After five minutes of staring in the dark, a wobbly figure walks into the bedroom and snuggles beside me. I know he is my husband, for he feels unnecessarily warm. The warmth reminds me of Travolta, my Labrador retriever. I miss him.