Kishore Singh: Hers, mine, not ours

PEOPLE LIKE US

That you can live under the same roof and be vastly different people was never in doubt, but that my wife and I should know friends who have nothing in common is something I have only just begun to learn. For I had thought that like all couples, the only people we knew outside work were those with shared common interests. I couldn’t have been farther from the truth.

“Did you know,” I gasped one evening, “the bottom has fallen out of the real estate market?” I then explained what a friend, who is a developer, had said by way of dire warnings: “There is,” for I did not want to bore her with details about speculators and interest rates and liquidity crunches — always imagining she would understand it in the first place — “no money left with people.”

“Pshaw!” said my wife, or at any rate, it sounded something rude, “I’ve had a fabulous day, and all the people who I met seemed to have rather a lot of money.” “Oh,” I said, drawing up short, “maybe some people still have a little bit of money, but they aren’t likely to be spending it any time soon.” “How funny,” laughed my wife, “they all seemed very keen to spend their money, as a result of which” — she stretched like a cat — “I’ve made rather a lot of money.”

Maybe she’d had a lucky day, I reasoned; after all, when you are in business, some days are bound to be better than others. But I felt sad for her: recession obviously lay in wait, and if it caught her unawares, she would suffer more than most. “The retail sector has been hit hard,” I told her, pointing to neighbourhood stores that had shut barely months after they had been commissioned. “Oh, naturally,” she bit into a guava, “only shoppers who are idiots will subsidise the cost of shop owners. Which,” she smiled at me, “is why people come to me to splurge instead of spending it on overheads in stores.”

So, okay, maybe she knew a thing or two about financial management — she did run a business, after all — but clearly wrack and ruin lay ahead. Especially after a dear friend who runs one of the country’s largest art galleries complained about how prices had taken a tumble, and people were no longer buying art. “People don’t have the money for luxuries,” he said bitterly.

“People don’t have the money for luxuries,” I repeated to my wife the next day. “Oh, they have money all right,” she corrected me, “and they’re every bit as keen to get rid of it as before.” On the day my art gallery friend had been lamenting about the state of his affairs, my wife had had a difficult day too — coping with the demands of people who seemed incapable of putting an end to their shopping.

“Silly woman,” I thundered at my wife, “your friends should be ashamed of spending money when everyone I know is going broke.” “You should,” said my wife, “choose your friends with care. Mine,” she pointed out, “are at least not holding on to their wealth, which,” she concluded triumphantly, “is what is propping up your broke economy.”

I suppose there was some little truth in what she said, but I couldn’t help but remind her about Nero fiddling while Rome burned, et cetera. “Buster,” I could see she was riled, “if you want some pocket money, when the stock market is eating into your salary, I suggest you watch your mouth.” Me, I’m keeping quiet, for as another friend pointed out, certain broke investment bankers are selling their art collections really, really cheap. And if I’m nice, maybe my wife will extend me an interest-free loan.