Kishore Singh: My way or the highway

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On Monday next, on the eve of my parents’ return to Bikaner, my wife has decided she would like to invite a few people home for dinner. “But not your friends,” she warned me, “who are all unsophisticated, so we will only call those people I like.” “If you are hosting a party for my parents,” I interceded, “should we not ask their friends over for dinner?” “It is my party for your parents,” explained my wife, “so naturally I will have my friends, not theirs, so if you please, I do not wish to discuss this matter any more.”

But because she said I might wish to add to her list of guests, I suggested a few people to whom we owe a meal, and who were both our friends as well as those of my parents, but my wife immediately vetoed the idea. “Just because I have asked you,” she insisted, “does not mean you can actually invite anyone you choose. The only reason I have done so,” she explained, “is so you will not feel left out of the arrangements.”

There were other ways to include me in as well. “You can,” she suggested, “buy the flowers,” which concession was really a chore since it meant rising at six in the morning to go to the wholesale market to pick the freshest blooms. “But I do not want you to buy gerberas because they wilt very fast,” said my wife, “and I am tired of gladioli — and lilies,” she mused, “are too expensive for a party for a mere farewell party.” “I suppose I could buy orchids,” I said, “if you have specific colours in mind.” “Must I decide everything,” snapped back my wife, “can’t you take any decision on your own?”

Later, relenting a little, she asked me what I would recommend as the menu. This was a minefield I was keen to avoid, since I had been trapped in it on previous occasions. “Whatever you serve,” I lied placatingly, “will be delicious, so why don’t you and the cook discuss this between yourselves?” “You are never there to help me when I ask you for something,” sulked my wife. “I have found,” I conceded, “that whatever suggestion I make will be rubbished, which is why I prefer not to make any. Besides, no matter what menu you decide on now, you will change it every day till Monday, and then serve something else at the last minute, so what we agree on now, or even later, will have no relevance at all — except for the poor cook who will have to cope with all your demands,” I summed up the situation.

“I suppose that is true,” my wife, surprisingly, agreed with me, “but then I am a perfectionist. Which is why,” she cautioned me, “you must be careful with what you say, to whom, and when.” Seeing my mystification, she clarified, “You must remain quiet and not speak to any of the guests unless they specifically ask you for something.” “But this is my house,” I pleaded, “in which you want me to behave like a waiter.” “Exactly,” exclaimed my wife, “since these are my friends, not yours, and not your parents’, you can make sure everyone is looked after, while I entertain them.”

“But that is hardly like a party,” I remonstrated, “with only you having all the fun.” “That is hardly true,” said my wife, “I will be busy talking with all our guests, while all you have to do is take care of the bar and lay the dinner. For which all I ask of you,” for she likes exaggerating things somewhat, “is not to contradict anything that I say.”

Any wonder I’m wishing it was Tuesday already.