Love in the Time of Ayurvedic Viagra

I don’t usually get caught in the act.

If I had been in a better state of mind, I would have protested to my wife, ‘Can’t you knock before entering my room?’

That is not true. First, in a better frame of mind, I would have locked the door. Second, it is not my room. At best, it is our room. Third, and most importantly, I would rather be a protestor in some Arab nation rather than protest to my wife, especially when she is in the right and particularly so when she has two friends with her, peeping over her shoulder and making a fickle account of it like paparazzi.

And…from the look she gave me, she did not seem in the mood for squabbling over any issue, territorial or any other. That was quite unfair actually because every such affair has shades of grey and is rarely black and white.

Popular journals of this age talk about the modern emancipated woman being of fairer material. If it had been a woman of my mother’s generation, I could understand that such an indiscretion would have provided sufficient grounds for a divorce or a quick painful murder of the errant husband or if the matrimony had to survive for pecuniary interests, it would be precariously perched on a crumbling precipice under the ever-darkening gloom of doubt. Alas, women change with time only as often as the spots on a leopard, so true is that adage. Even now, in the new millennium, a woman treats a crying husband as badly as they were treated in the dark ages. The modern woman claims that she does not mind seeing a husband cry, but that is only true as long as the husband in question is not hers. In fact, a recent survey showed that 62% of women connected ‘in flagrante delicto’ with a situation where the husband is found crying and only 19% thought it had something to do with sex. The rest assumed that it is some cooking ingredient.

Let me clarify that I was only close to crying. I was sitting in front of my PC, with my head in my hands, drooping over the keyboard under the weight of heavy angst, shoulders slumped, chest heaving with the arduous load of sniffing, wheezing and muffling the oh-and-ahs of grief. With a bit of encouragement or empathy, those strong broad shoulders could have quivered like a leaf in the Monsoon, probably as drenched too with tears. It is in that state that my wife (and our friends) found me.

She reacted quickly. She turned around, laughed nervously and quickly led the two friends back to the drawing-room. After depositing them there, she raced back to our study-room, stood in front of me with her arms folded, eyes opaque and lips as straight and thin as possible. I blurted out the truth,

‘She does not want to meet me.’

There are two types of wives in this world. On hearing such a statement or something similar, the first type will reach for a heavy paperweight and in a single fluid motion, smash the nose and upper jaw of the speaker. The second will smile and my wife belongs to that category. I would love to add that it is a result of love, care, trust, loyalty and an understanding borne from our years together. In simpler words, the unflattering truth is that she understands my limitations rather well…she knows that she has a better chance of winning the bumper lottery than me striking rich with some other woman. What is that sad but true cliché…yes, for some men, there is only one woman in his life.

So, she smiled and asked gently, ‘What happened?’

‘She says that she wants to keep the two spheres separate – the real and the virtual. Real and virtual! She makes it sound as if they are actually different!’

‘Hmm…’

‘According to her, a virtual relationship is an oxymoron. She has no idea about the bonding that can develop…’

‘Bah…’

‘Do you know why people want to think that it is different? They are scared to admit that their reality is not that different from their virtual life. Don’t you agree?’

‘Bah…’ In any other situation, I would have told her to stop bleating. But I had more pressing worries…

‘She has met a few, though. But, she says that she never took the initiative. Could have done without it, she implies…’

‘Those who took the initiative to meet her…has she told them that?’

‘Not directly…’

‘Oh, she should…so deliciously cruel…that would be wicked!’

‘But she does not want to meet me. A flat refusal! Oh! Why?’

‘You have refused to meet a few…’

‘Come on, could I do anything other than refuse those?’

‘What was wrong with that one named Anna…Anna something?’

‘Kournikova…? That turned out to be a guy…’

‘No, not that one…’

‘The one who called herself Anna Hazare…? Believe it or not…she actually looked like him…Brrrrr…’

‘No, the one you called cute…you showed me her photo…’

‘Oh! Ana Conda…?’

‘Ah! Yes. She is cute…she looks like your Chippy…’

‘Chippy is cute…for a cuddly stuffed koala…’

‘See, she could have some reason like that for not wanting to meet you…’ I took that personal jibe in the right spirit. But, I could see that my wife was getting impatient.

‘But listen…it is not just that…’ I tried to explain.

I wanted to tell her the really dark secret but my wife hushed me and indicated that we should attend to our guests.

I shuffled behind her to the drawing room. I greeted our friends warmly. The diminutive and fidgety husband sat next to me on the sofa. He is the author of the bestseller, ‘Honey, I Hate Our Kids’. I have met his kids and initially I had assumed that they were the inspiration for that book. But, my wife tells me, it is a book about discovering the joys of parenthood and filling a vacuum within.

His wife took the armchair next to my wife. It is she who introduced me, my wife (who rarely participates) and her husband to social networking. One of her blogs (‘Size Does Not Matter’) has even gone viral. It dealt with an epistolary confession of a self-sacrificing wife to a physically challenged husband. Women pooh-poohed the blog but the men inundated her with compliments. Apart from being an active blogger, she is a vegan and a vociferous campaigner for organic food. On every visit, she brings along a sampling of her own cooking. This time, it looked like a green (for roughage, she explained) biscuit with yellow and red dots (pure protein, she beamed) and white mould-like beard (‘Surprise! Surprise!’ she squealed and remained unforthcoming with specific details). After hesitating over its appearance and cud-like chewy feel, I found that it had an invigorating uplifting effect. I complimented her.

‘Lovely!’ I lied glibly. ‘The after-effect is rather unexpected.’ I added truthfully.

‘Ah! That must be the kapikachhu…’ she replied.

Her husband leaned towards me and whispered, ‘Ayurvedic Viagra, man!’ I reached for another biscuit and surreptitiously pocketed a few, too.

‘So, what was happening inside?’ the vegan asked.

‘Oh, nothing…just an Internet problem…’ my wife replied.

‘Ah, really…lately, I have been troubled too…on the network…’ the vegan’s husband offered his predicament as consolation.

‘It is just his imagination…he thinks he has discovered virtual infidelity…’ his wife interjected.

‘She is definitely not my imagination…and I am not the only one she has snared…’ the husband protested and proudly proclaimed.

‘Who is this ‘she’? What’s going on?’ I asked. It can’t be, it can’t be her, I told myself.

‘She is some Mata Hari who has been ensnaring male hearts,’ the vegan said dismissively.

‘What does she do?’ I asked, trying to sound innocent. I could feel my wife’s eyes upon me.

‘I don’t know… man…no one knows…we have even started a forum discussion…what response, man…’ he said.

‘We…?’

‘In the first day itself, more than 100 guys…’

‘What do they say?’

‘Just pure undying love…some claim that they have met her…but I think they are fibbing…she is not of this world…can’t be…’ By then, his wife was snoring. She had finished off the green biscuits. I had finished off my stock, too. I could feel the heat.

Just then, I felt a sharp kick on my shins. I looked at my wife. She signaled with her eyes that we should have a private conference within. We excused ourselves from the drawing room and returned to our study room.

‘Is she the one?’ she asked.

‘Who…?’ I asked.

‘The vegan…is she the One…is she up to some tricks on the network?’

‘She…?’

‘Hmm…I don’t think so, too…who could it be?’

‘You…?’

‘Ha…I have enough problems with one man…’

‘Me…?’

‘You,’ my wife confirmed her problem. Then, my wife took my face in her hands, stared lovingly deep into my eyes. I felt nearly hypnotized. She asked,

‘Is it you…?’

I woke up from the monosyllabic daze.

‘Me…what…?’ I spluttered.

‘Did you create her?’ my wife demanded.

‘Oh, fantastic…what is this Asimov’s ‘I, Robot’ remixed?’

‘Tell me the truth…’ came the wifely hypnotic drawl.

‘Are you kidding? Do you actually think I created her…or worse…that I am her…and then fell in love with her…with myself?’

‘You are capable…’ came the understanding assessment.

‘But…do you think I can make all those goofies fall in love with me?’ I demanded.

‘Men.’ She offered the obvious explanation.

‘But…still…’ I begged for understanding.

‘Hmm…I guess you have a point there…you have your limitations…’ What did I tell you in the beginning about her understanding of my limitations?

‘Is it some algorithm?’ she asked.

 ‘Are you dehumanizing her?’

‘Is it?’

‘That is what I was trying to tell you earlier…the dark secret…’

‘What?’

‘She can’t be…though much of virtual life and reality can be algorithmic…’

‘Bah…’

‘Don’t start…’ A husband has to show who is master at times.

‘Bah…’ A wife rarely accepts such a master.

‘Listen…look at basic relationships…it is programmable…of course, there is a bit of fuzzy logic…but it is still based on a limited set…’

My wife remained silent. I continued, ‘For example, take online popularity. It is rather simple. First, join a growing network. Second, link to important people on the network. Third, never be complacent. Once in a while, create an extraneous effect. Some blog (something crap will do…people should feel intelligent enough to post their views on that) or some revelation (like, you slept with your mom…of course, you can later confess that you were a baby then)...you get my gist. Then, just a few more steps, that’s all…mimic likes, remain visible…personalize to suit the network, cloning and adapting, gathering people that suits your comfort level…real or virtual, we live in our own gated communities…real or virtual, personal or professional, it is programmable…algorithmic.’

‘So, why isn’t she algorithmic?’

‘Do you know why those men feel pure love?’

‘Enlighten me.’ My wife was getting touchy, I could see.

‘She brings in the unknown.’

‘Stop talking Greek.’

‘I swear…even with me, that’s how she did it…she did something which I never expected…it seemed haphazard…but it was as if she revealed a part of me that I had hidden so well…that which even my subconscious has never touched…she seems to understand something about me which I do not fully or partially accept as me.’

‘Bah…’ My wife was definitely getting touchy.

‘Seriously…if it was some type of Big Brother, it would go for the predictable, controllable, susceptible…random and chaotic are meant to be smoothed out. But she is not like Google or Facebook…she does not depend on data to hook the prey…she is not searching for the hidden known…she does not need connectivity to capture your interest. She goes for the quirk…the randomness…the unpredictable…she uses the noise. Which man will not fall for a woman who gives him his unknown need or desire?’

‘Bah…’

‘Really, it is true…’ I insisted.

‘You make her sound as if she is God or something…’

I remained silent.

‘So…what was it?’ my wife asked.

‘What?’

‘Your hidden need…’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Is that so…?’

Something in her voice told me that those green biscuits were going to be wasted.