Kishore Singh: Challenging times

My wife recently learnt of the saree challenge which - unless you're from outer space and haven't yet been informed - is about posting pictures on social media wearing 100 sarees during the course of a year to promote the trend among urban and professional women. My wife, who has a problem juggling her wardrobe of sarees categorised by season, colour and occasion wear - "the summer sarees in the dressing room cupboard, the party ones in the bedroom closet, the yellows and creams in the children's box bed" - immediately went shopping to acquire a handful of new drapes. "You're supposed to wear the sarees, not buy them," I pointed out, to which she said, "I can't post selfies in sarees I've worn before," though it's a moot point how many in her wardrobe she has even aired.

Then, being rather fond of her own pictures, she decided she liked the idea of a shirt challenge, a jacket challenge, a shoe challenge, even a yoga-wear challenge, for which she maxed out credit cards in inverse proportion to the arrival of packets and bags piling up in the dressing room. "I'm frustrated," she complained, "I don't know if I should wear a top to my kitty lunch and a saree for the baby shower, or vice versa," which conversation was nothing new, having played out on a routine basis every day. Through experience, everyone had learnt to exercise caution and not voice an opinion on this touchy subject. Nor could she make up her mind whether the shoe challenge should be clubbed with a purse challenge, or a jewellery challenge - my wife is nothing if not innovative - or whether it deserved a spot independent of her day's wardrobe, which tightrope I resolved by leaving early for office.

At work, my son called to ask for my debit card details, having ordered various doodahs online for his sports bikes but without the wherewithal to pay for them. His motorbikes have been works in progress for as many years as he has had them, one or the other constantly in a workshop being "designed" by some out-of-work genius. Having carried helmets with Mohawk-style extensions, gizmos, gadgets and lights for as long as I can remember, his appetite for refurbishing his bikes is matched only by the protein substitutes and shakes that line his counters, making his room resemble an apothecary's. I was once made to spend an excited two hours watching a recording of a journey from a camera fitted on his helmet that depicted nothing but asphalt and potholes.

Commuting back from work with my daughter, she sprung a surprise. "Dad, how do we get a visa for Dubai?" she wanted to know, the authorities there frowning on a bunch of girls arriving unescorted by a male figure. Her girl gang had decided on a bachelorette party that they hoped to combine with a shopping binge to celebrate the first among their lot getting married. She also wanted "help" with her tickets, hotel room and a shopping budget, the ask for which had me break into a sweat. "What about a party at home?" I suggested, which question did not even earn the dignity of a response.

Ahead of dinner, I was browsing the book offers on Amazon when my son said, "Dad, you waste a lot of money on books," and my daughter suggested, "I can get you a Kindle from Dubai." And my wife added, "Darling, there simply isn't any more space in the house for your junk."