Life, most of the times, rivets us to the wall called ‘adversity’. But then, once in a while, it sets us free. It introduces us to the humorous and the lighter side of it. Writers are quick to observe this shift because they are the ones who suffer the most – from a plethora of anxieties, anomalies and accusations … recluse, dreamer, irresponsible and unsocial being some of them.
So, it was a welcome change when my wife called me a ‘Considerate Husband’ one fine morning.
It all happened last week when I woke up early which incidentally has turned chronic these days. Anyway, instead of looking up at my manuscript residing inside the hard drive of my laptop, I found myself staring at D.H. Lawrence’s Sons & Lovers lying on the shelf. Although I’ve read the book, I have this habit of going back to the ones that tickle the writer in me in some ways. Sons & Lovers did that.
I put on my glasses, picked up the book and eased into the chair. I realised the setup missed one essential element – a cup of tea, which I normally made myself. Today, I didn’t feel like performing that chore.
I introspected and narrowed down the reason for such a wishful thinking. My writing career was not taking off. The delay was turning me anxious, cynical and moody. Frankly, I’ve never troubled my better half for my first cup of tea. It would be unfair. However, the subsequent tea binge was entirely her prerogative. I thought this time around I would make an exception. After struggling with my conscious for some time I nudged her in bed. Like a true soul mate she got up quickly, made tea and also threw in my favourite cookies. I blessed her from my heart, asked her to go back to bed and looked forward to a comfortable and entertaining read. Several colourful bookmarks peeping out from within the pages brought a smile on my face.
I opened the book where the first bookmark was placed. I was three sips and four paragraphs down the page when the lead protagonist’s considerate behaviour hit me like a slap. He made his own tea.
How considerate, I thought.
It turned me furious. Later, when I told my wife about the strange incident she simply smiled and said. “Sons and lovers … Walter Morel … that rogue. You call him considerate?”
“But, he made his own tea?”
“That doesn’t turn him into a saint, or considerate for that matter,” she said with undue harshness.
Her comment turned me thoughtful. I was still in the midst of analysing her answer when her voice echoed around the room. “I am sorry … you were saying something.”
“For me you are a perfect example of a considerate husband,” she said holding my hand.
That perked up my spirits.
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