Since the publication of that
bestseller by John Gray, the man-woman conflict seems to have got much
simplified. Every weekend domestic skirmish now finds an explanation
attributable to the different planetary lineage coming from Mars and Venus. Without
profiling ourselves into being the descendants of the two specific planets, I
have no hesitation in declaring that my wife and I too have had that celestial
chasm in our outlook to life.
For a working couple, weekdays
get too busy to have any scope for a difference of opinion or for that matter
any opinion at all. But all slipups and aberrations
do not go unnoticed – not by the Venusians for sure. It just builds up like the cyclonic low
pressure zone and hits home over the weekend. As in case of any weatherman,
though I can well predict the timing, the intensity remains as capricious.
The weekend, for me, means a
relaxed milieu of rest and recuperation in preparation for the impending week.
It means waking up late; it means a relaxed breakfast, reading through those
extra pages of the newspaper; and it means a short post-lunch nap. Of course,
without compromising on that weekly grocery shopping and topping up of the
freezer with fruits and vegetables for the week. For her, the weekend means setting right all
the upheaval of the household over the week. Catching up with me on the status
of the pending bills; checking with me on that mutual fund investment that she
read in the newspaper over the morning coffee, on one of the weekdays; a gentle
reminder on some KYC that she had to submit and I had been dragging it for many
months; chasing me to get the plumber and the electrician for the leaking tap
and the dysfunctional light switch. And the list goes on.
At times a Sunday can get tougher
than the weekday. The descendants from
Venus, I am told, are great at multi-tasking. As they juggle around their
multiple assignments, they have also stacked up all the delegations that keep
coming up the moment poor Martians complete one task. One such Sunday morning recce of my cupboard
by her resulted in recovery of a big bunch of sundry papers. As I finished disposing off this bunch of receipts,
bills, notices received and stacked over a period, she handed over her form-16
to me to file her tax returns. I looked behind her, on the study table, as to
what was lined up next. She gave me a mischievous smile and went into the
kitchen.
As I was working on my laptop,
calculating her tax liability, she was explaining a real life problem that she
had been facing. I thought the problem was due to her incorrigible habit of
excessive multi-tasking and was about to suggest a simple solution to overcome
the tricky situation when I suddenly remembered the golden words of John Gray,
as I had read the book recently – the Venusian is not looking for a solution
from me. And I told myself – you are a genius but don’t trivialize her problems.
Just listen to her and acknowledge her problems. Thanks to Gray, the
conversation ended pleasantly – I reserved my solutions and she contained her
emotions.
The other day, as part of a long
weekend clean-up, she inspected the refrigerator and took out the 3 cans of
beer lying there for some time. I had bought these a few months back when a
cousin of hers came visiting. I had stocked my freezer well with the drinks to
make sure I do not run out of them if the visitor decided to stretch his
limits.
As she took out the bottles, she
noticed the expiry dates printed at the bottom, in bold letters. To my bad
luck, the dates had gone past due. I knew I was in for trouble. I had this uncanny
knack of getting into trouble by missing dates due to procrastination. So far
this had happened only with utility bills and notices but this was my first
ever dispiriting experience with the spirits. She looked at those printed
numbers and then looked at me but said nothing. And suddenly it flashed upon me
that this was a catch-22. She couldn’t be happy that I had not consumed the
alcohol and she couldn’t admonish me for letting the stuff get expired. And
that gave me a high that consuming those three cans couldn’t have given. The old wine stayed loyal to me even after its
expiry.
But she had the last word. The
three cans are now lying in my bathroom and I am expected to wash my hair with
that twice a week. I am not complaining if that sometimes leaves a taste in my
mouth, I am just worried about the strange smile that my office security guard
gives me when I enter my office early in the morning.
