The wife and I share an explosive relationship. And he irritated me like never before a few days ago. He still hadn’t unpacked his suitcase, he refused to stop digging his nose, he ‘forgot’ to buy milk for the umpteenth time and he called me fat.
I’m usually very patient. I handle my business in a calm manner, hardly ever getting angry.
When my ex-girlfriend told me she cheated on me, I said – Let’s figure this out together. When I found out she cheated on me for the second time while two-timing with the both me and the ‘cheatee’ for over a year, I just broke up with her without any fuss. I have never had much of a temper.
But when it comes to the wife, I just cannot hold back. And I didn’t. I exploded with anger. I shouted my lungs out at him. Till my voice became screechy. And then he made fun of my screechy voice.
Anger doesn’t make a damn difference to him. That’s what makes you angrier. It enraged me. But I held it in like Martin Lawrence – ‘woosa’. I ate some ‘bhel puri’ to take my mind off the anger. I worked out to channelize my aggression elsewhere. I ate some delicious ‘Chicken Kadhai Karahi’ at Qureshi’s. The food hit the spot, but I was still furious.
I collected myself. I slept through the rage. The fury, that finally came out at 6 ‘o’ clock in the morning in the form of some angry, red-hot flatulence. That Fartosaurus Rex was a loud obnoxious ripper that made its way through my blanket, up his nose and straight into his brain. The most barbaric of all alarms. The ultimate retribution.
“SICK!”, he screamed and I just laughed aloud with evil pleasure.
He heard my fart in his sleep. The smell woke him up. That’s probably the only thing that will wake him up. He sleeps through alarms, doorbells, ringing phones and all other noisy devices. Which means I have to wake up early every morning to open the door to our agonisingly irritating maid.
She nags me constantly. About my lifestyle; my inability to hear the sound of the bell (She doesn’t get the fact that it’s broken). About her daughter getting bitten by a stray dog outside my building – anything under the sun. The irritation is not unlike someone constantly poke, poke, poke, poke, poke, poke, poke, poke, poke, poking you with their pointy finger in your shoulder-flesh. It makes you want to scream. I scream. Random Hindi words sometimes, or I just shout at her in English, leaving her perplexed. I then end the random rant with a “JAO IDHAR SE!!!” (“GET AWAY FROM HERE”), while sleeping beauty snores away, obliviously.
I kick him out of frustration to wake him up but he never seems to retaliate. I’ll give credit where credit is due. He is quite tolerant of my moody ways. Whenever I, unfairly, take out my anger on him, he just burps in my face. He is also my clothes bank. I steal most of his T-shirts, much to his irritation. But he lets me use them. He never lets me forget though, with a “Nice Shirt Dude”, every time I wear one of them in public.
He is never far from a hilarious moment. My friends and I caught him being called ‘Honeycake’ by his father when he was 16 years old and we have never let him forget it to this day. He was once caught by his ex girlfriend’s mother when he tried to escape from her balcony. She called him in, fed him chai and biscuits and warned him never to see her daughter again. He complied. He wanted to commit suicide when he found out that his girlfriend was cheating on him, even asking me to “Tell my parents it was not their fault”. That story is legendary.
We keep laughing at his expense but he always takes it in his stride and more often than not, gives it back. His favourite counter-punch is showing me a photo of my ex-girlfriend. It never works.
He is one of the most reliable people I know. He will always help you out if you’re stranded. He will complain, he will irritate you, he will demand the earth for his good deed, but he’ll come through. He’s a good friend, that’s for sure. As a boyfriend, however, it’s a whole different story.
He is a compulsive cheater. He can’t have one-night-stands. He cheats. He gives a whole different meaning to ‘Keeping the girls off the Pol’. He will always date the wrong girl, cry to me about it and then cheat on her. It’s a cycle.
I have an incredible amount of dirt on him that I have been collecting over the years. With this post, I have only scratched the surface. I can’t obviously blog about it all, because he will reciprocate… with the dirt he has on me. But that’s what friendship is based on I think – mutual collection of dirt. And we’ve been doing it for 18 years now. But as time goes by, I will collect more scandalous dirt, to allow the release for many more hilarious stories of the wife. For now, I’ll only say – The wife is a blogger too. His blog is legendary.
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