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.

I squinted at the new lampshade sitting on a rectangular case, its base made of glass, with two wide horizontal bars of clear glass. Through this I could see two bright halogen lamps shining like the midday sun… and something else.

“Why are those coloured wires showing?” I asked.

“Oh, you noticed them too?” my wife asked, sounding more forlorn. “I thought only I notice them because I watched Achai assemble the whole thing.”

“Perhaps our guests won’t notice,” I said optimistically.

When Murali entered our apartment with his wife and eight-year old boy Manoj, he winced in the glare but did not say anything. His son was less reticent.

“It’s so bright!” he cried, “Can I have this kind of light in my room? Please? I can play cricket.”

“You like it?” I said. The boy nodded vigorously. “Aunty bought it today,” I continued and helpfully pointed to my wife who was sitting in stony silence.

The boy looked ready to quiz my wife on her wonderful purchase but Murali diverted his attention by requesting me to turn on the television and tune into Cartoon Network.

A few minutes later, the boy interrupted us. “Papa, what is that?” he pointed to the screen, where the cat Tom was fixing a box-like contraption inside Jerry’s hidey-hole. Colourful wires protruded from the box.

“A bomb,” said Murali, “Tom is going to blow up Jerry’s house.”

As if on cue the bomb went off with more fanfare than Tom had envisaged. Along with the mouse hole, the entire house was destroyed, leaving Tom sitting confused in the middle of the mess, his fur completely singed. The wily mouse, as you may have guessed, had anticipated the whole thing and vacated the premises beforehand. Manoj was impressed.

A few minutes later he interrupted us with a scream.

“A bomb!”  Pointing to the ceiling light with the colourful wires, he bolted from the house.

His father ran after him and brought him back, assuring him that it was not a bomb. Manoj was not convinced. Every now and then he would shoot a fearful glance at the ceiling and look longingly at the front door.

After our guests left, I commiserated with my wife on her unfortunate purchase but I was happy. Finally I had a weapon in my arsenal for the next time she criticised something I bought, as she undoubtedly would. I knew this and judging by the way she was looking at me, I knew she knew I knew.