Hubby Birthday

18 Dec 2010 1 Comment

by Sindhu Murthy in Celebrations

Of the many occasions that threaten you with a nervous breakdown, hubby’s first birthday after the wedding figures amongst the top 3. The other two being the Wedding and the First Gathering with the inlaws’ extended family after the wedding. Now, no matter how hard you try, you can’t help but leak out crucial details of the big B day plan in spartels, initially, and then, in bigger chunks, as many spartels slip out albeit strict vigilance, through misdirected text messages, mis-dialled calls and hopeless attempts to hide gifts before the B day. The more you try to act smooth, more awkwardness you’re headed towards. In other words, things go completely awry and require a quick fix, to maintain that there was some miniscule element of surprise intended. We miserable wives make desperate attempts to mislead the expecting husbands, since the big B day plan fizzles into an awaited surprise. Atleast, in the eyes of the world, and the heaving hearts of pesky onlookers, the wife had better made the B day special enough to secure a ‘She Truly Deserves Him’ or a ‘Phew, She Saved Her Ass’ certificate of approval. Do I really care so much? Sure, for the first year, I’ll allow myself.  

Friday, December 17. Moharram. The wife was off from work. The husband was not meant to be. What’s there to write home about, if there isn’t such a neurosis-inflicting incident to relate to! This mess was most naturally intended by the Gods of fatalistic architecture. The brave and the wise plot in sync with these masterpieces. On most B days, wonder what wives sincerely wish to do for their beloved significant other? Honestly, the buzzed, busy-bee wives really just want to cook a nice meal or order some hot food for a candle light dinner at the terrace or just reserve a table at a fancy restaurant close by because laziness/ sickness/ hyper-business at work strikes only on such momentous occasions. Gifts are also part of the plan but that is spoken about a little later here. Not surprisingly, this day, not very different from the others that get screwed up, was steeped with such expected misfortunes. For several day breaks, the only thing that weighed on my mind was to make this day as memorable as possible, and to keep away the tongues that wag or click – whichever is more ominous.

Frantic and pre-occupied at work, frenetic and falling short of time at home, things were simply not in place till about four hours before mid-night. Left with no option, I called atleast a zillion times to find out if Ravi’s received an approval for a day off on the 17th. His boss wasn’t in a mood for compliance and his clients wanted to warm up to a new deal at 9.30pm on Thursday evening, while I didn’t have a clue about how I would live upto the expectations to a hardworking, doting husband and the pesky onlookers (who comprise members of the extended family, neighbours who guess the recipe by whiffing flavours off your kitchen, friends’ cousins who poke you on facebook and flood your inboxes with ‘funky forwards’, colleagues’ acquaintances who die for updates on your personal life on, well, what else – twitter, facebook and myspace).

At 11.30 pm, Ravi called, asking me to fetch him – something he usually doesn’t ask of me, unless he’s bought a new car, I guess. Nothing else would require me to go down all the three flights of stairs. So, I ensured everything that was supposed to surprise him was in place , turned off all the lights, locked the door and ran downstairs, heart pumping in my mouth. Ravi slowly walked towards me, exhausted and with a blue-black swollen thumb on his right hand sticking out as he struggled to hold his bag and some files in the other hand. Feeling  almost just as injured, I noted that his thumb had lost its form and looked like an apparition that was forcibly fused into his hand. Apparently, after a frustrating day at work, he had banged the car door shut on his thumb! His boss hadn’t fully approved of his leave, which meant, he was expected next morning, although he was allowed to return home earlier than usual. We walked up home slowly. He groaned in pain. He couldn’t even hold his hand up. I hopelessly prayed that the surprise that was meant to spring up on him won’t hurt him too much. I opened the door and insisted that he enter first. Still groaning, he stepped into the completely dark house, except for some flickering lights in the Puja. Suddenly, someone grabbed him from behind, gagged him, pushed him to the floor and locked his hands above his head! Ouch, his bruised hand! Many feet shuffled amidst muffled voices in the dark. Stuffed in the mouth, and pressed down by atleast three people, the usually strong and agile Ravi struggled to defend himself. Finally, in utter pain, he yelped: “Watch my hand, my finger, please! Bitbidro, bolimakkala!”  

Before Ravi completely recovered, lights went on and four puffing and panting boys and one concerned wife sheepishly burst into ‘Happy Birthday to you’, even as the wife rushed to fetch some ice and the sturdy boys ran into the balcony, to give some final touches to the B day arrangements. Ravi looked at me smiling, and conveyed by far the most heartfelt “thanks”, while mentally cursing his blue-black thumb. The balcony was lit with some purple and baby pink lights, couches were plonked around and the juicy appetising pineapple pastry with fish-shaped candles facing each other nailed on it, were hoisted on the centre table. Fodder for the teetotallers and the whiskybuggers were laid out very neatly(by the boys) alongside. Everything was set to summon Ravi into the balcony. As he walked in, his face lit up. His eyes twinkled. His smile beamed across. Like no pain never happened! Or were the deceptive lights acting up? And then, the usual followed. Eat pastry like you’re starved, drink like you’ve survived a drought and stay up all night like you’re living your last! At this point, I felt grateful to this bunch of strict non-vegetarians because I could have neither cooked their chunks of chicken nor satiated their appetite. The good ole joint down the lane that dishes out kickass food at surprisingly low prices rescued me, yet again.

Puneeth, Chetan, Abhishek and Vikram stayed up with Ravi till 4.30am on the 17th. In the morning, while everyone was fast asleep, Ravi rushed to work and even returned, all in two hours. The boss was apparently moved by Ravi’s plight on his B dayand sent him home to regale and recover. The afternoon and evening were spent in roaring laughter, scrumptious food and lots of football on tv.  

A man’s ‘B’est day is ALWAYS best spent with his guy friends, unlimited booze, buckets of food that is reared, unrestricted football and no regulations whatsoever on how the day must be spent. I was plagued with a lack of choices for a B day gift. Ravi loves exquisite clothes, good food, perfumes and football. There was absolutely no point in buying him any more of these, since he had them all in plenty and by his choice. Moreover, he’s fussy about gifts. I didn’t want to upset him and myself more, with any wrong  gifts. What I certainly knew was that he missed his friends terribly. He absolutely dotes over them and is very touchy about the very issue of friendship. I knew I had a clear winner in the idea of getting home his friends from Delhi atleast, for his birthday. Lots of scotch, food, music and an open terrace to vent it all out was my solution to the humungous problem of buying a gift for a ‘Hubby Birthday.’ The result? Happiness that made me immensely happy in turn.

One would almost never hear a woman be so kindly grateful for such a B day surprise bereft of material presents. Can you imagine a woman being content with a birthday speant with only precious people and no expensive things to cling onto! Hellacious! But trust you me, a man surely feels wanted and cared for, when you allow him such extravagant leniences. Try it. You’ll be rewarded for a long, long time.

P.S.: Don’t know if its marriage or simply maturity with age, gifts seem to take less material form now, than ever before. Today, my husband needs less out of more money than once, when he wanted more out of less money. Btw, this post is dedicated to all those, whose expectations I am living upto.