A decade ago when I entered that huge banquet hall, the Air Force band waiting to ambush me belted out a welcome composition. Little did I know then that this was just a prologue to a life-long parade where the wife would call the tune and I would face the music. My part has since that day been dramatically chopped into a supportive role where I merely play second fiddle. In love with her dimples, I ended up marrying the entire package. By the time I could come out of the trance and affix myself to the wit's advice on changing one's girl rather than her name, the die had already been cast. All the while Fate was waylaying me, I laboured under the illusion that it was Dame Fortune smiling at me. Love was never blinder. Entering into wedlock with a musically inclined woman has its own pitfalls: the word 'strain' suddenly takes up an entirely new meaning. Especially, if you happen to be tone-deaf. Yet, at times, I do break into a song -- she dubs it braying -- or whistle wistful tunes that remind me of those halcyon days of bachelorhood. I have, naturally, shifted from Rafi and Kishore Kumar to Mukesh and Talat Mehmood: kind of suits the predicament I'm in. Innocuous requests like "May I sing?" make the wife and daughter exchange terrified glances. "No," they shout in unison. These days I'm taking lessons from her at playing the synthesiser: just what doesn't a man do to get closer to the better half. The other day, I told her that I was just playing Rafi. "I heard. Rafi lost," she announced. I am the sole recipient of her sharp gibes. When, at times, I ignore her calls to help out in the kitchen or do the cleaning-up -- being engrossed in more momentous matters like reading a nail-biting thriller or watching Baywatch -- she tells me about their 'oh-chho-chweet' dog Sheru (who, incidentally, has since long been residing with the morning stars). The import of the matter, as it always turns out, is that Sheru was a much more evolved soul than man: at least, one particular man. After all, I don't come running the moment I'm addressed, there are doubts about my loyalty, I am a much messier eater, I can perform a grand total of two tricks: an out-of-tune whistle and a handshake, whereas Sheru was smarter... ah, well. Over the years, I have played many a role: a chauffeur ferrying her from hither to thither; an errand boy who helped out lugging grocery and stuff; a Santa Claus who bought coffee, cards and helped out with menial jobs; a saviour who got bashed up several times having been unable to talk my out of the pickle the girl landed me into; a shoulder to shed tears on... Recently, a friend of mine, once the life of parties and now resembling a character out of a Russian novel, approached me with a profound query: "Do you understand women?" He put the question to me not because my intelligence had overwhelmed him, but merely because I had more experience in matters matrimonial. Giving him my most pensive, intelligent look I shook my head. He gaped at me, wondering what I was doing outside a padded cell, and moved off in search of sage counsel. That question, however, set me thinking. Agreed, it was a fatuous exercise to indulge in, but then I'm a married man. Let's see, do I understand my wife? Take the time when we were off to a party and I said, "You look cool." She was beside herself with joy. On another similar occasion, I happened to remark that she didn't look too hot. To this day, I have not been pardoned at being 'so mean'. Or the time, when I was still courting her and put my arm round her in the theatre, casually. She snapped at me, much like Sheru would have. Stung, I retreated, practising to be a gentleman and watch the movie instead. Later, when I was dropping her back to her abode at the Air Force station, I discerned something was amiss. Normally bubbly and overflowing with enthusiasm, she seemed to be rather edgy. I also sensed more than a passing resemblance to a rumbling volcano. "What is it?" I asked. "I don't think you like me. You are not very reassuring," she proclaimed. "But you asked me to take my arm off," I bleated defensively. "Yeah," she spat flame, "but I didn't ask you to make such a big deal of it." Almost 15 years on, I have yet to crack the riddle. When a woman says 'no', it does not necessarily mean 'no'. The ambiguity of the female 'no' has perennially tested the male IQ. It's a wise man who can distinguish between a 'no' no and a 'yes' no. She often complains that I do not like her friends. Resolving to mend my ways and rise up the popularity index in wifey dear's eyes, I snuggled up to one of her striking friends at a party. I even invited the girl on the floor and danced around happily. "See, I do like your pals. I hope you saw I wasn't stuffy," I chirruped later. "Sure," she hissed between clenched teeth sounding like a pressure cooker about to explode, "I saw. So did everyone else. You didn't have to stick to her like glue. And how long has it been since you danced with me?" Trivial matters infuriate her. She regularly lists my character traits, uncannily in the same way that my mother or my teachers used to. "You are uncouth, dirty." "You are the laziest person on earth." "You don't give enough time to me." "You're constantly watching the TV." "You don't ever help me in the kitchen, or cook for me." "You stink perpetually of cigarettes." "You don't shave often." She calls a two-day old stubble 'fungus'. She fails to introduce me to people when I'm growing a beard. For an entire year, when a resplendent ponytail adorned my head, her vitriolic creativity reached unprecedented heights... She wouldn't be half as angry if I put a shoe on the dining table as she is if I let a wet towel remain on the bed. A wet towel, lying accusingly on the mattress, has left me more enlightened about my personality than even my most eloquent critics. If I'm in a hurry to leave for some place, her eyebrow lifts questioningly. Regular shaving makes her suspicious, especially if the after-shave is applied liberally -- which I do just to keep her guessing. She's more like a human lie-detector. However, I really wish I had half as much fun when I'm out of the house as she thinks I do. Every once in a while, remorse grips me and I decide to be a model husband. But when I get into the kitchen, I'm less welcome than a lizard. After all, lizards don't rearrange her culinary stuff. I try my hand at cooking only when she's ill: my prowess at whipping up exotic cuisine makes her get well faster than the doc's pills. She then pushes me out of her kitchen and tells me to go watch the telly. You don't really have to do something to make her happy: even a half-hearted attempt at trying is enough. Experience has taught me that you can make a woman happy by buying her a pearl necklace. You can also do so by quietly gulping down the periodic mess she cooks. Or remembering her parents' birthdays. Or by putting the soap-cake back in the case. Or by folding your pajamas neatly. Or by agreeing to watch just one TV programme at a time... It's funny, though. Despite her apparent tough attitude I often catch her crying over some silly, mushy movie. Despite my errant behaviour, she sits up with me when I'm sick and puts up with me when I'm not. The food that's put on the table is always hot. Delays in my getting home without prior warning make her hop around in panic (what happens when I get home, thereafter, is best left unsaid)... Matrimony opens your eyes to a vital reality: you must love your wife a lot and not try to understand her at all. Considering the number of surprises she can spring at you, life, at the least, can be spine-tingling. Though not a violent man, Shishir Bhate swears he will skin alive the man who sends this URL to his wife. Tell us what you think of this diary
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