‘Ghar ki Murgi Dal barabar’-the Hindi proverb effectively using the popular perception about Chicken being a delicacy and the humble ‘Dal’ a much-maligned poor cousin is one of the better known proverbs in the vast ocean of the vernacular medium. Used very succinctly to describe the pitfalls of too much familiarity, it finds a broad unison in the equally apt English proverb ‘Familiarity breeds contempt’. 

This is best highlighted in the sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet, roller coaster husband – wife relationship, more so in the Indian context, where till date, to a large extent, marriage is considered a sacrosanct tenet by the society, where matches are made in heaven and only solemnized on terra-firma. It is not merely a nuptial knot tied between two individuals, but is a much broader covenant between two families, straitjacketed within age-old, social protocols, and which, many a times, outlives the life span of the couple getting married, and in some religions is supposed to last several lifetimes.

This is unlike some sections of the society in the West, where it has become more of a game, as risky and unpredictable as a round of roulette, where the life span of marriages is becoming shorter by the day and partners are changed with the same frequency as seasons change, all camouflaged with such élan that promiscuity seems a virtue.

So, after staying together for a couple of years and having ironed out the initial hiccups of adjustment inherent in any relationship, exacerbated till a few years ago in India by the burden of pleasing extended families, most couples realize that there is actually nothing left to disagree on.  It is then that the fabled seven year itch takes root, when arguments over trivial issues take center stage. 

Till now dormant, and more often than not mundane issues, like diction of speech, the proclivity to watch TV shows, and their selection, the choice of music, type of hairdo, sartorial preferences, driving habits, telephone communication style, reading habits, upbringing of children, use of toiletries, placement of buckets in the bathroom, tackling of insect menace, haggling in the marketplace, attitude towards the household help, placement of furniture, parameters of cleanliness, et al start surfacing with annoying regularity.  They come forth with such stealth that even positive qualities which a spouse might possess in abundance get concealed behind a thick smokescreen of irrationality, and the by now already restrained love gets a further dose of indifference.  The couples often start taking each other for granted, as dreary as any part of the household furniture, like, say the living space couch, which provides immense comfort, no doubt, but which, when it comes to the brass-tacks, does not affect our survival in anyway.

Being petulant and short-fused- a bit on the higher side- I was not left untouched by this syndrome, which afflicted me about ten years after marriage, and coincided with the initial years of the new millennium.  I started taking my better half for granted, as most egoist men tend to do, not realizing that by now she had become that very crucial lifeline on which me, and my daughter were totally dependent upon, for our very survival, to say the least.

This scenario continued unabated, till, one day, while in office, I received a call from her, complaining of a severe headache, emanating from the back side of her head.  The voice belied a certain nervousness, which, coming from my wife, an otherwise gutsy woman of immense resilience, raised my hackles. Not the one to panic and disturb me while at work, particularly about matters concerning her health, I sensed that something was seriously amiss.  Being unusually busy in the office that day, and therefore unable to move out, I advised her to visit our family physician and get a preliminary check-up done, based on which we would decide on the future course of action. Before putting down the phone, I asked her to call me immediately after the check-up was over.

Meanwhile, all sorts of unpleasant thoughts started clouding my mind, accentuated by my underlying streak of pessimism.  As I waited impatiently for her call, my mind, no longer in the work I was doing, repeatedly zeroed on an aspect which I knew all along, but which had somehow begun losing its sheen as the years had rolled by- that how much I valued her and the exalted position she held in my life, and just how indispensable she was for my daughter and me.

After what seemed an eternity, but was actually less than an hour, probably the longest sixty minutes of my life, she finally called up. It was nothing serious or to be worried about. The doctor had diagnosed a bout of sinus which had gone awry and had blocked the ears and the complete upper respiratory tract, causing the acute headache.  Relived on hearing the news, I asked her to take the prescribed medicines, along with some rest, till I came home in the evening. 

By the time I reached home, she had recuperated considerably and was more or less her usual cheerful self, as she greeted me at the door, with a trademark glass of cold ‘Rooh-Afza’ sherbet- my all-time favorite- in hand. As I gulped the sparkling red sherbet in one go, I also imbibed a crucial life lesson – never to treat the delectable chicken (pun intended) -or master of the house (or the ghar ki murgi- in a lighter vein) – as the tasteless ‘dal’ .