“Thank you for not apologizing”

A few days ago, I was to meet my wife at a mall at 6.30 p.m. but what with having to deal with a few delicious last-minute emails at work, it was 6.50 by the time I reached there.

“Thank you for coming early,” I said.

“I didn’t come early,” she said coldly. “You came late.”

“Yes!” I said enthusiastically. “Thank you for waiting.”

She didn’t take it well. “At least have the decency to say ‘I’m sorry’,” she said in a clear healthy voice that carried to nearby shoppers.

“Don’t embarrass us in front of all these people,” I hissed, lowering my voice. I clutched her elbow and took her to a secluded area in the mall. “Etiquette has evolved, woman. You need to keep up with the times. It’s no longer chic to say ‘I’m sorry’. The right form nowadays is to thank the other person for the inconvenience.”

“What nonsense are you talking?” she said.

“I don’t blame you for not understanding,” I said. “I myself picked up this new form of manners only in the last week.” I began to relate what I had learnt.

A man of principles

I’m a man of honour who lives by a few moral standards. One of these is: squeeze the last drop out of every rupee. Left to myself, I’m able to adhere to this principle. For example, though I frequently miss breakfast when I travel, I don’t do this if breakfast is included in the room rate. Sometimes, when the meeting organizers insist on “starting bright and early”, this means reaching the breakfast area at 7.15 a.m., a time when I’m less awake than hungry, groggily loading up my plate and eating my painful way through it. I do this whether I have paid for the room or my company because it’s the principle of the thing, not the money. Or rather, the money is the principle, not whose money.

However I’m often thwarted from following the path of honour by my wife.

Many parking lots in Singapore require drivers to display pre-paid parking tickets with the date and time of parking punched out in half-hour slots. Last month my wife requested me to drive her on a specific shopping errand. At the parking lot, before punching holes in the ticket, I turned to her.

“Will you be done in half an hour?”

“Why?” she asked.

“So that I can punch the appropriate time in this parking coupon.”

“Oh, in that case, make it one hour – to be safe.”

I explained that it was more important not to waste a punched coupon than ‘to be safe’ but she stuck to her estimate, so I punched two half-hour coupons worth 50 cents each and accompanied her to the shop.

A healthy Mediterranean diet

As we sat down at the Mediterranean restaurant, I beamed at my wife.

“Why did I suggest we eat out tonight?” I asked.

“Because you love food?” she said.

“Yes, yes,” I said with a trifle irritation. “But why did I suggest this particular restaurant?”

“Because you love Mediterranean food?”

“That may be true,” I snapped, my good humour vanishing, “but it’s a stupid answer.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I thought it was the obvious answer.”

“It’s so obvious, it’s stupid. When I ask a question like that, I’m not really looking for you to answer it.” Then I shook off my irritation. After all, I thought, my wife had shown previously that she is sometimes not very perceptive. She misses the subtle nuances of conversation.

“Let’s try this again,” I continued with a smile. “Why did I suggest this particular restaurant?”

“I have no idea,” she said and smiled sweetly. “Please tell me.”

Well, she may start slowly, I thought, but she surely picks up the cue fast.

A bright disaster

While I have sometimes been led astray in my shopping – like when a careless flight attendant recommended a watch for my daughter without first ascertaining her age – and therefore made bloomers that have provided merriment to the family, my wife has always had the devil’s own luck in shopping. She manages to buy stuff that, somehow or the other, turns out to be really nice (eliciting responses like “Oooh! What a pretty dress – thank you, Amma!” from our daughter).

But a few days ago, she compensated for years of chic sophistication with one mighty blunder when she had the light in our living room changed. We were expecting guests for dinner and I had dutifully stopped on the way back from office to buy drinks and nuts. It was dark outside when I reached home, but when I entered the door it was like stepping into the afternoon sun.

“Whoa!” I said. I looked up at the ceiling light in the living room and was blinded.

“Hi!” Normally my wife’s voice clearly rings through the house and into the corridor outside. But I barely heard her this time – her voice was so subdued. And thanks to being blinded by the light, I could barely see her too. The vague blur in front of me might have been her or the cupboard.

I took out my sunshades from my bag and wore them. “Ah, there you are. Why the razzle-dazzle?”

“Is it too bright?” She sounded distressed. “I called Achai –” our electrician-plumber-handyman and frequent house visitor “– because the earlier light wasn’t bright enough. He suggested we change to a more transparent lampshade and brighter bulbs.”

The living room was lit up like a football stadium on the night of the Champions League Football finals. I could almost hear the roar of the crowds.

The challenge of buying gifts for the family

As soon as I returned from my business trip, I opened my bag, took out the three packages that were on top, laid them carefully on the bed and shouted to my wife and daughter to come over to examine the loot. If you’ve ever had the chance to observe the way a lioness, after capturing a wildebeest at the end of a long and arduous chase, calls her family over to enjoy the spoils with her, you will get the idea of how I was feeling. I too had captured these articles after a long and arduous chase. The gift coupons I had received from Singapore Airlines to purchase items from their inflight shop were due to expire in a few days and I had forgotten to buy anything on my last two trips. If I had let the opportunity slip by again on this trip, the coupons would have to be squandered. Nothing is as heart-wrenching as forfeiting a freebie, but I had not let that happen. Like the lioness, it was only natural that I should feel triumphant.

“What is this?” my wife asked in a manner that reduced my triumphant mood by 73%. She was holding the elegant watch I had purchased for myself by the tip of its strap as if it were an unsightly worm.

“It’s a beautiful watch,” I said coldly, “It includes a chronograph and, when you change time-zones…”

“Ok, ok, whatever,” she said. “It’s ghastly but if you’re going to wear it, no one will notice.” I was confused about whether to feel insulted that she found the watch ghastly or flattered that she felt I could still carry it off with my personality.

“It’ll go with the rest of your appearance,” she continued, making my choice clear.

“You don’t know a thing about men’s watches, woman,” I said, “So please focus your attention on what I bought for you.” I handed her a box.

The non-existent benefits of eating less

Do you have a friend you’ve never met and will likely never meet, a friend who doesn’t know you exist? Well, I do: her name is Gina Kolata, she lives in New York and… but wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me backtrack, and tell you first about the perfidy of another friend, Rahul, who I have known since boyhood.

A few days ago, my wife and I met Rahul and his wife for dinner. After we exchanged the usual how-are-you, is-the-back-better and has-it-been-raining-or-what, I got down to business.

“Just because he is a waiter, we shouldn’t keep him waiting,” I said and addressed the good gentleman myself. “For starters, how about a plate of samosas, some paneer tikka masala and papadi chaat?”

“Hello!” said Rahul, “That’s way too much food for the four of us…” – actually I had only ordered for myself – “and on top of that, it’s loaded with calories. Here, let me take over.”

He beckoned the waiter over to his side of the table, instructed him to get a large plate of green salad and while I was still recovering from the shock, dismissed him (“That’ll be all - we’ll give you the mains’ order soon.”) He then turned to me and began a lecture on over-eating, calorie consumption and the evils of fried food.

“I’ve been researching health,” he said. “You should go to this site, www.mayoclinic.org. At your age, Paddy, you should be…”

“I’m the same age as you,” I reminded him. “We went to school together.”

Overcoming the birthday overload

I don’t mind wishing the odd fellow Happy Birthday occasionally, but the wretched day arrives every year for everyone, including Eskimos, coastal Maharashtrians and my extended family. Every member of this group – in typical disregard for my convenience – was born on a different day and expects to receive a thoughtful greeting card from me every year. The list is long and requires careful prioritization. First, of course, is my wife; she is followed by my son and daughter; then my mother and mother-in-law. Next are my sister, brother-in-law, nephew and sister’s brother-in-law. After this my sense of order collapses because, creeping out of the woodwork, come a bevy of uncles and aunts and, due to the power of reproduction, countless cousins who, thanks to the power of modern-day transportation, are spread across the globe. The result is a staggering pile-up of birthdays every year.

Handling this annual workload requires a management system. Luckily I’ve studied management. So, by explaining the principles of strategic planning, workflow optimization and cognitive dissonance to my wife, I suggested to her the following method of dividing the work between the two of us: I would take care of her birthday card and she would handle the others’. To my surprise, she refused. Having encountered this problem before, I dealt with it in my usual way: I abandoned the scientific approach and resorted to abject begging. It worked.

Meeting the teachers

Compared to the simple, straightforward parent-teacher meetings in India, where you meet one class teacher, dust your hands and go for a movie, the Singapore equivalent is a complex algorithm designed to confound aeronautical engineers. Not knowing this the first time I got invited to one, I responded with foolish enthusiasm.

It was a balmy day in April – or October, but definitely balmy (it’s always balmy in Singapore) – when my son returned from school with an envelope.

“It’s for you,” he announced, “You’re both invited to meet my teachers next month.”

“Wow!” I said, excited, “How come? Did you top the class? Are they giving you a medal?”

“No, no, of course not,” he corrected me (a bit hastily, I thought), “It’s a routine parent-teacher meeting. Here,” – he opened the envelope and showed me a list – “you can select up to seven teachers from this list.”

“Why only seven? I want to meet more.”