Rubbing it in
Feb 7 2008 | Views 1479 |
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Tags: Ultimatum friends discourse idiosyncrasies Baba thumb nails spirituality tears humour
Tags: Ultimatum friends discourse idiosyncrasies Baba thumb nails spirituality tears humour
The first time I saw him doing it was when we were visiting my aunt. While we were talking about the good old days and reminiscing about scores of enlightened branches of the family tree, my distracted hubby sat rubbing his thumb nails against each other. All his concentration seemed directed over his action and all he contributed to the discussions were a series of ‘hmmmm’ and ‘hhhh’ and at the enthusiastic best it came to ‘ahhh hmmmm hhhhh’.
My chagrin at his detachment towards the family jewels made no difference. When subtle hints failed I resorted to the broad ones and when those also failed I landed a solid kick on his shin. Nothing seemed to work on the spouse absorbed in his two thumb nails.
The next time it happened during a religious discourse. While the sublime talk elevated the august gathering into a new high, the spouse let me down by remaining on the ground level, rubbing the two thumb nails with great gusto. Something was definitely amiss, I surmised, making a mental note to confront him as soon as we reached the safety of our abode.
It was the third time in three days I found him indulging in his now favourite pastime when we were in the midst of a heated debate. A few good friends had dropped in and we were engaged in a spiritual discussion about the benefits of detachment Vs materialism in attaining the higher realms of nirvana. While the four of us were mouthing uplifting philosophical thoughts and quoting intellectual stuff, the partner was engrossed in his two thumbs. The going was getting uphill, as they say. It was too much to bear.
The proverbial last straw on the camel’s back… even as I raged about the wasteful expenses and waved the chequebook on his face, he maintained a strange equanimity unlike his usual snarling self. That did it. I threw the book and the book case and everything I could lay my hands on. I wouldn’t have it any longer, I threatened. How could he twirl his thumbs while I talked money?
The beatific smile remained in place and he continued rubbing his thumb nails. Determined to extract an explanation, I harangued him mercilessly. ‘How can you be so heartless?’ I said.
The saintly smile remained in place.
When the words had no effect I resorted to the last ammunition in my arsenal. Tears had always worked in winning me the day, in our marriage. Whenever everything else failed, the tears did the trick. Copious, unadulterated and saline, the huge drops fell from my welling eyes. He stirred a bit unhappily. The distracted air dissolved for a moment.
‘Of what use is spirituality, darling, if you can’t remain detached?’ he asked, his face wreathed in a holier than thou smile.
That did it! I howled and thrashed around, pitifully. This unexpected expression of emotions hit a chord in his steel heart.
‘Now, what did I do?’ he asked, nonplussed, his thumbs pausing in their act.
‘Why do you keep rubbing your thumb nails?’ I screamed. ‘Is it a subtle way of thumbing your nose at me?’
He looked taken aback at my outburst. And then he burst out laughing.
‘I am not thumbing my nose at you, darling. I wouldn’t dare.’
‘Than why do you continue that nonsensical activity?’ I asked.
‘Oh, that! It is a harmless activity, let me assure you,’ came the reply without elaborating.
‘But every activity should result in something,’ I insisted.
‘Yes, it should. This one is expected to result in youthfulness,’ he smiled.
It was my turn to be flabbergasted.
‘What? Says who?’
‘Guru Gyandev! According to him, rubbing the thumb nails can lead to renewed growth of hair on bald heads, youthful complexion and of course good health.’
For a moment I stared at him and then it dawned on me. He had been running his hand over the bald pate and admiring himself in the mirror, quite often lately.
Things couldn’t get worse. Last Sunday we were special invitees to a function in the Club. I saw him seated in the front row with honoured guests. I was being presented with a trophy for winning a quiz contest and he sat there, the beatific smile still in place, rubbing his thumb nails even as the audience clapped. I lost my temper.
I had kept quiet when he tried the headstand on some Baba’s prescription; I had suffered in silence when he began juicing up all the bottle gourds in the refrigerator gulping them by the glassful; I had tolerated the ever growing line up of lotions and potions – all designed to reap a rich harvest on the barren top of his head. Then there was the period when he chugged like an old railway engine, practicing some strange breathing technique guaranteed to cure all bodily ills.
I had been at my tolerant best through all the idiosyncrasies but I was damned if I was going to sit quietly and watch him twiddle his thumbs or rub them till the cows came home.
The ultimatum has not worked. Honestly, I am planning to present him with a hair transplant treatment this anniversary.
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