AS MUCH as this debate can be settled, and, as much as one can ignore that chores done at home are also work, the Economic Survey has said that spending “over 60 hours a week on work could have adverse health effects”, especially on mental well-being.
As per those unfortunate choice of words by Larsen & Toubro Ltd Chairman and Managing Director S N Subrahmanyan (in an internal chat with employees, to be fair), giving office just this much time a week should leave husbands and wives more time to “stare at each other” on off days.
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Leave aside Subrahmanyam’s wife, who surely would have been taken by surprise at her 64-year-old spouse becoming an overnight social media sensation — after a lifetime of doing serious work for the serious engineering and construction behemoth. Anyway, she has chosen to keep quiet on how the two of them spend their Sundays.
Instead, spare a thought for the spouses who do decide that their off days are meant to be spent staring at each other.
My day would go somewhat as follows:
8 am: Staring long and hard at the spouse in a battle of wills over who will get out of the quilt this foggy morning to put the garbage out. This must be done while thinking back quickly over the last four Sundays, to make a solid case for why it is his turn.
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9 am: It’s a staring match again as, after the first cup of tea, one waits for the other to take the lead in “planning the day”. Surely we can’t let a Sunday “go waste”, though both of us are hoping the other will suggest lazing around in the sun or, at the most, binging Netflix; the option being a restaurant meal or movie hall (easier but crowded or overpriced for the weekend), or the theatre festival or the concert (more tempting but to be enjoyed after a struggle through traffic and parking).
12 noon: A heavy breakfast done, the guilt of it still jostling around the stomach along with the paranthas, the thought goes to all the things left undone around the house during the week. The clothes to be put to wash or given for ironing, the books gathering dust, the cupboards acquiring clutter, the weight of the disorder of the children’s rooms, the bills to be paid, the things to be fixed, the pantry to be stocked… Overwhelmed, I give a stern stare across the room to the spouse who, not surprisingly, has his eyes fixed on the TV or ears glued to a phone talking to a friend.
3 pm: It is dawning on us that this Sunday too a lot of things won’t get done — the plumber won’t show up, the carpenter will be late, the electrician will fleece, the Internet guy will blame monkeys for the latest glitch. I am looking at the hubby again, this time in the expectation of an offer to get some of this done over the week. In that eternal hope that this will leave us one “absolutely free Sunday”.
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7 pm: The winter evening has set in early and fast, and the Monday blues have started creeping up, dragging both of us down. That means planning for the next morning and who will leave when, manage the domestic help, oversee the cooking. While engaging in this latest round of staring, one must play one’s hand carefully; there are only that many stare-downs one can win in a day.
11 pm: The dinner table cleaned, the food put away after one more round of staring-do, Sunday is finally in its last gasp. All in all, it wasn’t a bad day. Not all of those stares were combative. Most came tinged with understanding and the hint of a smile around the lips, suggesting the years and hours spent together — when, in the beginning, all we had were glances.
But, can’t say I am not waiting for Monday.
