'Vegetating' at home

Several years ago, my wife and I came to an arrangement regarding her social life. As family care-giver and home-based entrepreneur, she wished to step out in the evenings to experience the city’s bright lights and fraternise with the rich and famous, no matter that their pecking order changed frequently. Dear reader, you will know me for my shy and retiring nature, while my wife craved the excessive hedonism of Delhi’s jet-set. I acquiesced for two reasons — a) as a loving husband I did not wish to deny her some excitement; b) and, because, why provoke marital discord?

No sooner would I return from work than my wife would say we must get ready to head out because a) there was a play for which she had passes; b) followed by cocktails at an acquaintance’s farmhouse in Chhattarpur to celebrate something or other; c) then a soiree at a celebrity’s home where the city’s A-listers would be present; d) and if we had the energy, we might stop by at her bestie Sarla’s home to apologise for not attending her birthday festivities because we simply couldn’t decline the other invitations, “you understand, don’t you, darling”. 

We did not always go to four, or three, or even two, places, but, yes, we did party-hop, and when we weren’t going out, friends were coming home, till, well, age — mine, dear reader, let me hasten to assure you, my wife remains ageless — began to take its toll. I started to invent excuses to stay home, pleading a) an overload of work and crippling deadlines; b) cooking up false early morning appointments; c) a charade of late night con-calls impossible to take at loud dinner parties; d) inventing fatigue, if not quite ill-health, as pretext for last minute cancellations; e) while telling her to go ahead as planned and on no account ruin her evening for lack of participation from me.

In recent times, my wife has decided to embrace that independence, no longer bothering me with her social calendar. Nor does she care to share her plans that might include a) doing the rounds of couture week; b) going to parties as a friend’s friend; c) taking selfies at openings and launches, of which there are several each day. At times, she even carries a change in the car, informing me she must attend a “handloom type gig” first, before changing into a “cosmopolitan outfit” for somebody’s anniversary bash. 

I no more know the friends with whom she ties up for picks and drops and to keep her company en route. Increasingly, now, I return to a quiet house, unsure whether my wife will be in, or have left to join in revelries elsewhere in town. Odd bits and bobs on the bedroom chest provide clues to her social peregrinations. This week alone she has attended luncheons and dinners, been to spiritual thingummies, been glimpsed at cocktails, photographed at college alumni get-togethers and sundry other celebrations. I, meanwhile, have my evenings chalked out too — a) pour myself a drink (or two); b) find a quiet corner; c) curl up with a book; d) have dinner (alone); e) open the door to let my wife in; f) listen to the triumph of her visits while I — her word, dear reader — opt to “vegetate” at home.