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Making up with your wife when it wasn’t your fault

As this title suggests we men are kind of used to it. For the sake of peace and all that, the merit of the conflict is ignored, we give in large heartedly, goes with the territory.

Like, have you noticed how easily husbands and wives make peace in 
the TV sitcoms and movies. He 
comes home holding a robust shining rose in his hand, grins sheepishly and she says oh Harold, for me, how sweet of you and the sun comes out. They hold hands and walk towards the sunset, each volunteering to take the blame for the fight. I was wrong. No, no, I was unreasonable. And they look into each other’s eyes. Wash of high emotion.

Try this in real life.

You’ve just parked the car. Found the once dew specked rose has wilted and the stem has been crushed 
under the right hand corner of your briefcase. Also, the cellophane has come undone and the bud looks as if it would rather not bloom, if it’s all the same by you.

So you step out, blowing life into the bally thing (phoo, phoo, wake up, little rosebud) and naturally your daughters are there to receive you today (why aren’t they working or looking after the baby or whatever instead of walking up to the car?) which they never are on other days and you try to hide the flower from their prying little eyes and Senior says, what’ s that?

It’s a rose, silly, says Junior.

Why are you carrying a rose, says Senior, did you go to a flower show?

Lunch to one of those heavy restaurants, says Junior, they give them out there, you know.

You went to a ritzy lunch, says Senior, after this morning’s scene with Mom, how could you?

This is for your mother, I say, I bought it for her.

Oh, says Senior.

Oh, says Junior but why?

It’s a peace offering, I say, it’s my way of saying let’s make up, I am man enough to render space to her.

One rose, says Senior.

And a half dead one at that, says Junior, he’s got high hopes.

It’s the thought, I say, the gesture that counts, now where is your mother?

In her room, says Senior, hey Mom, Pop’s brought you a rose.

From a restaurant, say’s Junior, 
one of those freebie things like his 
collection of shampoo minis from hotels.

It’s not from a restaurant, I say, I bought it, will you stop saying that, I never went to a restaurant and don’t talk about my shampoos.

Not to mention those silly little jam jars you swipe from planes, says Junior, it is so embarrassing, you are sixty, you steal jam.

At which point wife sails past like the lead ship in Spanish Armada, her wake shimmering in lofty disdain, unmindful of disgusting flotsam (husband) en route.

It didn’t work, says Senior, great one for stating the obvious, seeing as how she is in PR.

You could have got at least a bouquet, says Junior, you can’t expect to be winner on one lousy flower, peace don’t cometh cheap, anyway, I better get back to the baby, don’t want to see this massacre.

It’s the thought, I say, the thought, get it.

At least I brought it, I say, as wife wheels around and Spanish galleon’s past on return trip.

Don’t shout, she says, I abhor people who raises their voices.

I am not people, I say, I am your husband.

One and only, says Junior

Yours truly, says Junior, vowed and paid for.

And if I bring you a flower I expect it to be gracefully accepted, I say for good measure, I don’t like being ignored.

We do not accept gifts from people who do not behave properly and are boorish and inconsiderate, says my wife, getting into her royal collective pronoun act. We, she says, are choosy.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, I say, I’m sorry about yesterday, let’s forget it (unsaid part being, it was not my fault.)

There are certain things that cannot be forgotten, she says.

Well, you weren’t exactly circumspect, I say, you got your punches in.

In the movies the couple are by now going out for dinner all harmony and sweet endearments.

Here its all quite out of hand, nowhere near the making up stage.

The flower sort of bends over and collapses on you and the girls say, try a diamond ring next time. Massacre of the innocents.

Bikram Vohra is Khaleej Times Editorial Advisor. Write to him at 
bikram@khaleejtimes.com