The first night after Rekha returned home, I realized something important. A wife doesn’t have to sleep next to you to disturb your sleep. Her presence in the house is enough.
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, but because she wants the room to be at 18 degrees Celsius, and I love to wake up alive.
Anyway, after one week of me being alone, Rekha and the kids came back home. The house became normal again.
By 8.30 pm, everyone had eaten. And by 9.30 pm, the kids had disappeared into their rooms.
After asking me to check the balcony doors and the main door, Rekha also went to ‘her’ bedroom.
I am being polite here. She didn’t actually ‘ask’ me to check the doors. Her exact words were, “Don’t you leave the doors open and sleep off.”
That statement hurt. Because I hadn’t left the door open and slept yet. But that is Rekha. She doesn’t wait for the crime. She prevents it.
If my life were a movie called Singham, she would be Inspector Bajirao Singham.
Anyway, after she had left, I checked the doors and windows and went to bed myself in the kids’ room. They both were talking to each other, as I lay down looking up at the roof.
Something felt different. For the last week, the kids’ room had felt like exile…but tonight it wasn’t any better.
From the other room, I could hear Rekha moving things around. I heard the cupboard when she took her nightdress. Then, when she went to the washroom, I heard the bathroom door. A bottle opened and closed. Her mobile charger fell when she was trying to plug it in next to her bed, and I heard that as well.
There is comfort in knowing your wife is awake somewhere in the house, doing unnecessary things with full seriousness.
And that is when I remembered my father.
My father served in the Indian Army for 32 years. When we were growing up, he would come home twice a year from his border postings. Once for his long annual leave…usually 45 days or more. And once for a shorter leave…he called it casual leave.
The day he came home was always special. The house would change. My mother would become slightly different. As kids, we didn’t understand it then.
At night, my father and mother would lie down next to each other.
Ours was a 1-bedroom house, but even then, all of us slept in the living room – on three mats (paai in Tamil…chattai in Hindi) laid out next to each other.
When it would be just the four of us, my mother and I would take the two sides, and my two younger sisters would lie down between us.
But when my father came, the two men took the outer two sides. And my mom would be next to my dad, but inside.
We would be lying there, trying to sleep. And my parents would keep talking. I don’t remember what they spoke about, but it was always my mother who started with, “Ohh…I forgot to tell you….”
We never understood why two adults had so much to say at night.
We would think, “Why don’t they just sleep?”
Now, when I think of it, I understand. They were not talking because there was so much to discuss. They were talking because he had come back.
They were talking because for months, they had not been able to lie down next to each other and say small, useless things.
They were talking because small, useless things are not small when you have been away from the person you love. And maybe they were also passing the time till we three kids fell asleep.
Back then, I did not understand the strategy. Now I respect it.
That night, Rekha had also come back. Maybe not from the border.
But let us be honest. A woman travelling with two kids, luggage, railway station rain, wet clothes, hungry children, and still entering the house ready to inspect the fridge is no less than a soldier.
I wanted to get up, walk into our bedroom, and lie down next to her.
Not for anything dramatic. Just to lie there and talk. Like my father and mother used to. To ask her about Madurai. To tell her how the house felt without her. To touch her curly hair.
But I didn’t know what Rekha wanted.
This is a delicate thin red line in marriage.
You have to respect that she travelled the whole day. She has to respect that you have been waiting the whole week. That night, this husband was between these two truths.
He was confused. He felt romantic…but he also felt scared. If you are wondering if it is even possible to have these two emotions at the same time…try proposing to someone.
I had been lying there for about half an hour. After gathering some courage, I coughed.
It was a small cough. Anyone could tell it was not a real cough. It was more like an announcement. From the other room, there was no response.
I waited, but nothing happened again. I coughed again – this time slightly louder. Still nothing. Now I was irritated.
For one week, I had missed this woman’s voice. And now, when I was offering her a chance to say, “Drink water and sleep,” she was ignoring me.
So I coughed one more time, this time like the terminally ill Shah Rukh Khan in ‘Kal Ho Naa Ho’.
Immediately, Rekha’s voice came from the bedroom.
“Rajan.”
My heart smiled.
“Yes?”
“If you are trying to cough to catch my attention…please sleep off.”
I froze. This is the problem with being married for 20+ years. Your wife doesn’t just know your habits. She knows your acting range.
I said, “No, no… throat irritation.”
“Drink water and sleep.”
There it was. The sentence I had missed for seven days. No medical value. Full emotional value.
I drank water loudly so she could hear that I had followed instructions. Then I lay down again.
But still couldn’t sleep…so ten minutes later, I got up and walked towards my wife’s bedroom.
I didn’t barge in like many uncivilized husbands I know would have done. I just walked outside her door for a bit – feeling like a security guard.
From inside, Rekha asked, “Why are you roaming around?”
“I came to drink water,” I protested.
“You just drank water,” she said as a matter of fact.
“I felt thirsty again,” I insisted.
“Then take the bottle and keep it next to you.”
This is why women run households better. They attack the root cause.
I went to the kitchen, filled a water bottle (which, for some reason, is always difficult to find at night, but during the day, they will be all over your living room!), and went back to the kids’ room.
Fifteen minutes later, I checked WhatsApp. Big mistake.
Rekha shouted from the bedroom, “Don’t look at the phone. Sleep.”
I looked around. How did she know? The door was closed. The lights were off. I was in another room. Still, she knew.
Some people believe in CCTV. I believe in Wife-Fi.
As many of you already know, when push comes to shove, we Rajans really fight it out. At that moment, I decided that I was going to get what I wanted.
This time, I walked to the bedroom door and stood there. We Rajans may be go-getters, but we are not uncivilized, so I didn’t open the door.
“Rekha,” I said softly.
“What?”
“Can I come there for some time?”
There was silence. Not sniper silence (if you have read previous posts, you will understand this). This was different.
This was decision-making silence. Then she said, “AC is at 18.”
“I know.”
“You will start sneezing.”
“I know.”
“You will get up twice to pee.”
“I know.”
“You will blame me tomorrow.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
Then she said, “Come.”
I entered the room like Salman Khan in Bajrangi Bhaijaan, crossing the border without permission, but with hope.
I lay down next to her.
For a few seconds, neither of us said anything.
Then she asked, “You really missed me, ah?”
I wanted to say something funny. But I didn’t. I just said, “Yes.”
She didn’t say anything…she searched for my hand in the dark and held it. That was enough.
For the next ten minutes, we spoke.
Small things. Useless things. The train. The rain. My mother. Her mother. The kids. The delivery boy who wanted my beer.
Nothing important. Which is exactly why it was important. At some point, she said, “Now go back to the kids’ room before you fall sick.”
I wanted to protest. But I could already feel my nose tightening.
Love is powerful. But an 18-degree AC is more powerful.