If you told my wife that you thought I was romantic you would have to pick her up from the floor as she rolled with mirth. That is the thing with wives. A few years after marriage they think their husbands are as romantic as watching paint dry. Other people are highly romantic and fun and funny and interesting and so heroic and courteous and charming, but husbands are just like leftover cabbage in the fridge.
The other day my wife says, there was a time when you said all the right things and do I remember sending her a tennis ball and writing “the ball is now in your court.” I say that was 33 years ago.
She says, you once sent a stocking and wrote, “sock it to me,” now that was something. I say, I was courting you then, now we are married.
She says, you used to write poetry, remember? And you opened the car door for me, you never do that now, you were so gallant and I used to dream of you as a Prince Charming type with a wit and a certain style.
I am pretty princey, I say, even now and there is nothing wrong with either the charm or the wit, the thrust and riposte is still there.
She says, no, no, you are just boring and predictable and you never say anything nice, there was a time you had zing. Now it’s the same dreary routine, there has to be something more than this, we are stale and you are no fun.
So I say, okay, let's put some zing into it, let's go spend a weekend at a beach resort and walk in the moonlight and play in the sand and recapture the romance of our youth, I shall even serenade you.
Rash promises made in rash moments of blood rush and the next thing you know the two of us are at this resort in this room overlooking the sea and she says, isn’t it marvelous, just look at the view, except Dhoni is now facing the Pakistanis on TV which came on without my touching it, honest, I swear, I did not sneak a peek, and is and I say, that’s four down and she says, you are not watching TV are you? I say, no, just the cricket, dash it, we could lose this game. She makes those funny growly sounds wives make to show displeasure and says, I thought we came here to get away from it all and rediscover ourselves.
Can’t that wait till stumps, this is cricket.
She says, no, now we are going on the beach.
But Dhoni has just come in.
I lose.
That night we sit at this table for two and the waiter lights this candle and I say, put it out, it goes straight into my eyes, can’t stand that flame dancing in front of me, which is the wrong thing to say because I can see this sulk coming on and I figure a change of subject is necessary so I ask the waiter if he knows what the final score was and my wife flings a napkin on the table and slams a glass.
What’s wrong, I say, don’t you like the place, I thought you wanted to do this.
She makes another sort of strangly sound. I say, we did this once, remember, thirty years ago we were in Goa and ate prawns in their shells. She looks all misty-eyed and nostalgic. How time has flown, I say, the girls grown up, you and me against the world, couples as well as best friends.
She sighs in that way wives sigh when they go through that spasm of finding you half tolerable. I ask the band to play, Those Were The Days. We look each other in the eye and feel togetherness sloshing about.
She clasps my hand and we walk on the shoreline, two people rekindling love, away from the humdrum of daily routine. The moon shines down and we have what is known as a companionable silence.
What are you thinking, she whispers, resting, her head on my shoulder, share your thoughts with me.
Oh nothing, I say.
No, no, no, you have that faraway look in your eyes, I know you so well, tell me what’s on your mind.
It is going so great and then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid.
I don’t know, I say, but we have to get a stronger opening pair and a better attack and we can’t keep depending on the same couple of players, Dhoni has to lead from the front ... believe me, you don’t want to hear the rest of it.
