I have never been able to test the Bard’s theory that sleep knits up the ravelled sleeve of care, for the simple reason that I have never been able to sleep peacefully. Maybe Anne Hathaway took sleeping pills and made sure Ole Bill got his night’s rest, beguiling him into making barmy claims about sleeves and sleep and ravelling. Sadly, I am always denied my beauty sleep by the endless tossing and turning of the missus, who obviously is a failure at knitting or crocheting or whatever one does to the ravelled sleeve.
Let me explain. Last Friday, as I was just drifting off after celebrating the advent of the weekend with three large ones, I was disturbed by the restlessness of my dear wife.
“What’s the matter, dear?” I asked solicitously. All those who might be ignorant of the perils of married life should note that every husband who wants peace at home must invariably address the better half as ‘dear’. Yes, it is mandatory—even if her restless turning has dragged you away from the edge of the most delicious sleep.
“Nothing,” she said.
In the normal course, “Nothing” is an ominous answer, but my highly developed sixth sense told me that, at least on this occasion, there would be no sinister consequences for me.
So, I asked again. Politely. After some time, she said, “I don’t know what to cook for lunch tomorrow. For more than an hour, I have been considering getting up and going to the kitchen to soak chana—the chickpeas that you like so much.”
“So go and soak them, dear,” I said.
“Yes, I would, but there is a lot of matar-paneer left over from dinner.”
“Then don’t, dear” I said, petulantly. “But stop wriggling and fidgeting and let me sleep!”
“That’s the trouble with you! You never help me in making important decisions. Don’t you know that the most difficult part of cooking is deciding what to cook?”
I then suggested brightly, “Let’s have that urad—chana mix, the one you call maa-chholiyan-di-dal!”
“But we had that on Monday.”
“Then make idli-sambar for lunch?
“There is no idli batter, stupid.”
“Okay. What about gatta curry—the one described by Jiggs Kalra in The Cuisine of Rajasthan.”
“Are you crazy? I won’t go to all that trouble to prepare lunch for just the two of us.”
We then both lay awake for a long time.
Illustration: Job P.K.
I would consider myself fortunate if last Friday were an isolated incident. But no! We have these affectionate exchanges very often because the missus is constantly bedevilled by vital questions about food. She grapples with these issues early in the morning (What will we have for breakfast?) and later in the day (What will we have for dinner?) She agonises about tomatoes vs potatoes and okra vs cauliflower. She involves me, too, though I never know whether I am being consulted, or I am required to merely listen to her loud thinking.
What does it mean if she says, “Egg curry sounds nice if one does not have to go to all the trouble of preparing the gravy?” Am I to agree or to disagree? Will I get egg curry for lunch? Or will the menu be boiled eggs simpliciter? Or will it be—surprise, surprise—burnt zucchini?
I have never understood the purpose of the missus’ endless gastronomic consultations. I think she questions me only to enrich her knowledge of trivia about my likes and dislikes, because it is only sometimes that my answers have any bearing on what I get to eat. I half suspect that her inquiries are expressly to ensure that no dish that I like is ever cooked at home.
Knowing that my reply to the question “What do you want for dinner?” is of no consequence, I sometimes remain silent. But the missus badgers me till I give some suggestions. Then instead of French fries, I get a soggy mess of tinda curry. Or worse, bitter gourd!
Since my reply to the question is irrelevant, I have learnt to save time by saying something—anything—very quickly. And then I stubbornly stick to whatever I might have blurted out, even if it is meat on Tuesday or out-of-season jackfruit. Sometimes my wife tricks me by giving fancy names to her creations. Fortunately, I am equally smart and see through the semantic obfuscations. At the end of the day, what the missus calls the Orcadian Clapshot is nothing but potatoes. And even if Julia Child might claim that cassoulet is an epicurean delight for the gods, one should remember that the main ingredient is beans. And beans are beans!
I shared my woes with Gopu today. “Does every household have similar problems? Do other couples also have such asinine discussions? Must husbands eat stuff they don’t like?”
With great sagacity, my friend replied. “No, every household is not like yours. In many of them it is the husband who does the cooking. My advice to you is to shut up and stop complaining. Eat your food quietly. Praise the cooking. And count your blessings!”
He might look stupid, but Gopu is indeed a wise man!
K.C. Verma is former chief of R&AW. kcverma345@gmail.com