Why didn’t you ever win a gallantry medal?” asked the missus, apropos of absolutely nothing.
“Eh?” It took me a solid five seconds to register the question. Then I paused my morning bhajans playlist, fished out the earbuds, and dramatically removed my spectacles to give the impression that I was all ears.
I explained, very patiently and very carefully. “They say bravery is not the absence of fear. It’s overcoming fear despite knowing the risks. You must be either insanely courageous or gloriously stupid to pull off genuine gallantry. And even then, there’s a fifty-fifty chance the authorities won’t pin a medal on you but just label you as ‘that idiot’ and move on.”
“So why didn’t you get one?” she pressed. “You were gallant enough back in college—opening doors, spreading your coat over puddles like a modern-day Walter Raleigh for every girl in our class.”
“Now where exactly is this interrogation headed?” I asked, sensing danger. “There’s a world of difference between chivalry and medal-level stupidity.”
“Then why no medal? You’re stupid enough,” she finessed triumphantly. Game, set and match!
I didn’t want to start another world war before my second cup of chai, so I tried to close the discussion. “Does it even matter? Plenty of my friends got those medals. Fat lot of good it did them!”
“Oh really?” Her eyes lit up wickedly. “Didn’t that useless Gopu say medal winners get free train tickets for themselves and spouses? Plus, income-tax concessions?”
Suddenly we were in completely new territory. I hadn’t realised she was keeping a secret dossier on gallantry medal perks.
“Let’s go by train to Goa this summer,” she declared. “I love the Konkan views. Just borrow Gopu’s medal to book the tickets. We will travel free—both of us!”
Ever since Madam Sitharaman snatched away the 50 per cent senior concession, we have had to abandon the romance of trains for cattle-class discomfort in budget airlines. I patiently explained to my wife that a finance minister ruthless enough to axe the oldies’ discount was unlikely to be hoodwinked by a borrowed gallantry medal.
“Fine, if borrowing won’t work, ask Gopu to gift it to you,” she ordered. “He’s a bit of a rotter, but if you ask nicely, maybe he’ll hand over his medal to you. File your tax return, book the Goa tickets, then gift the medal back. Problem solved!”
“Just because you say something dear, the universe won’t start working that way.”
But she was already in huff mode. “I’m going to the terrace for some sun,” she declared and stormed up the stairs like a miffed Queen of Hearts.
For those who might not know, we live in a fancy high-rise condo. Our so-called ‘penthouse’ comes with a private handkerchief-sized terrace, while several neighbours’ terraces are the size of badminton courts.
I trailed after the missus to apologise, but she had already lost interest in the medal saga. Instead, she was now focused on Mrs Tomar’s adjoining terrace, where the lady was serenely pouring mustard oil into pickle jars.
“I want that oil,” the missus declared.
“We have litres of the stuff in the kitchen,” I pointed out. “Isn’t there a commandment about not coveting thy neighbour’s achar ka tel?”
But logic was no match for her sudden thirst for oil and real estate ambitions. “Not just the Tomar’s oil—I also want the terraces of the Haris and the Dixits. Right now, anyone can leap from their terraces to ours. That’s a threat to our safety—and to the entire society!”
I marvelled at the rapidity with which an initial hankering after a medal had blossomed into territorial ambitions amid psychotic security concerns. I tried explaining that forcible terrace annexation would invite censure from the RWA faster than a noisy party complaint.
But the missus must have attended Lady Macbeth’s lectures on basic persuasion, because she countered, “Have you forgotten that in the last condo AGM, when it was so patronisingly decided to give representation to ladies, I was elected the Parking Overseer & Terrace Usage Supervisor—POTUS for short—for a four-year term? Only when we annex the additional terraces will the area under my control justify my designation as POTUS!
She was on a roll now. “Let the Tomars, Dixits and Haris whine to the RWA. We’ll just ignore them. Their uncooperative attitude is destabilising the entire condo balance of power. Any other apartment owners who speak up in their favour will be fined!”
“Fined? What kind of a fine?” I asked.
“They will not be allowed any Zomato or Swiggy deliveries unless they give ten per cent of the order to us. If the RWA intervenes, we will simply stop paying maintenance and launch our own WAR—the Welfare of All Residents. Which will be great. So great! I will be president for life. Obviously! We will limit membership to those who deposit one lakh rupees upfront. No deposit, no entry. Their problem, not ours.”
All said and done, my wife’s mavericky behaviour has earned us cautious respect from other residents so far. But I dread to think what would happen to the world if some addlebrained megalomaniac head of state got inspired by the missus and started behaving like her!
K.C. Verma is former chief of R&AW. kcverma345@gmail.com