“I need space”. Ooops! As soon as I finished mouthing these words, the colour drained from my husband’s face. The wine glass was kept down and most shockingly, the TV was turned off though Arsenal was trailing 0-1 against Stoke City. I had his full, undivided and visibly scared attention. He held my hands, looked into my eyes, absolutely petrified.
His Brain: Oh God! She needs space. Where does this come from? Our first marital crisis- must be because of the shift to South Africa. What else can it be? I am definitely not ready for such drama right now. This is not good. Will l become one of those sordid stories where rock solid guys go spiralling down in their career because their spouse could not adjust in new surroundings? There was that article in the Economist on how families from Eastern Europe find it gruelling to settle in London. Such upheaval when they shift less than 1500 kilometres and that too within the same continent. I had attributed this upon language and at that time had smirked on our linguistic and therefore geographical flexibility. To think of it Polish speak Polish, Chinese speak Chinese, Dutch speak Dutch, French speak French, but I think because there is no such language as Indian, we speak a whole lot of languages! I was sure I would never have to face these issues as I was really thorough in accepting where to relocate. Language, wide Indian Diaspora, safe upmarket estate for residing, school with multicultural kids, lovely weather, exceptional natural beauty, even the super essential domestic help- all available- and she still complains and needs space. What is a man supposed to do?
My Brain: Why is he acting so surprised? Of course I need space. Overcoats, jerseys, suede jackets, thermals and leggings jostle with shorts, vests, halter neck tops and sun dresses. Unavoidable really if you live in a hemisphere different from the rest of the world. Freeze your brains in the minus 3 degrees temperature here and thaw it back in the 40 degrees plus temperature melting you in India! Any self respecting Indian girl will have these three categories of clothes- Indian, western and indo-western and the conformist that I am, so do I. My South African friends love my eye popping collection of gorgeous chiffon sarees, raw silk salwar kameezes and pashmina shawls and I love my chic dresses, corset tops and balloon skirts. It may be a post thirty thing but I only studied psychology for the grades (and being in my thirties, even that was eras ago) to be able to do any further psychoanalysis. And let me not even begin on the shoes- boots of varying lengths and colours, flip flops, peep toes, ballerinas, slippers, pumps, stilettos, wedges- what does a girl do? Being appropriately dressed does take time, money, energy and space. And what about the overloaded kitchen cabinets about to burst spraying every conceivable spice and condiment that one has ever seen or even heard. This can potentially have a dangerous domino effect – fix any damage yourself (groan......another dreaded DIY project)-to be able to fix buy more electric saws, drills, screwdrivers, sand papers that we are absolutely terrified of- find more space to keep the above mentioned terrifying tools. Aha! I must present this line of argument to him first as the ingredients here are much closer to his stomach and thus his heart. I can give him an ultimatum to choose between roti and tramezzini, chutney and peri peri, dhaniya and oregano,thandai and wine! That should communicate the message loud and clear.
Hot tears are definitively a bad alternative to hot curry at dinnertime and my husband’s mind was racing to find suitable means to prevent the ever filled dam in my eyes from overflowing and drowning the rest of his evening in their barrage. He starts by saying that he completely understands (while thinking- Help! I just don’t understand). He then mumbles that moves can be challenging especially for wives who have left their family and friends behind and need to start all over again and how he will be okay if I wish to visit India more frequently. Hell, he would even try to take leave immediately and plan an impromptu vacation to soothe my nerves and take me shopping for guess what- shoes........the one solution to all problems! Now it is my turn to reciprocate with the “what the hell are you talking about” look. Firstly, I have lovely friends here thank you. Secondly, why would I want to travel 15 hrs with a six year old and go to India more often- I am just back after a 3 week visit. Finally, why would someone always making fun of my Imelda Marcos-ish shoe obsession propose getting more pairs when I seek help for stopping the already humungous pile from crushing me under? And to think women are considered more irrational!
Finally we resort to what we MBA’s do better- communication through unambiguous almost bullet pointed statements and questions. He asks “please spell out what you would want me to do”. I promptly reply “I would want you to buy me more cupboards and drawers and put up more shelves and racks”. The sheer joy, the unmitigated relief in his whole body language would be visible from miles and since I was only inches away from him, even my super myopic vision could not miss it. My husband suddenly saw the huge ominous cloud lift from his career and drilling holes to put up shelves was a really small price to pay. He laughs and says “my budding writer, please have mercy on my heart beat and get your grammar right next time by ever so kindly inserting the super important more in I need space!!!”
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