The Right to Put
Things in Disorder
by Biswajit
Banerji
In any
household, how many times a man is accused of
using a thing and then not putting it back in its
designated place? If on any occasion, the hapless
fellow happens to be blessed and free from such
accusations then it can safely be assumed that either
he is a bachelor or he has, after due
consideration, not taken the trouble to
‘use’ a particular thing in the house
which continues to remain in its hallowed place.
If he is a bachelor, he already has a wanton
license to merrily put things in disarray, but if
he isn’t, then further agony awaits him in
the form of jibes that he is a lazy,
uncontributing specimen who does not care a fig
about what’s going on in the house and how
the poor wife has to manage everything
singlehanded.
The
satisfaction that comes from putting anything
back in its original place after every use is
beyond most men. Why the net displacement of any
household object should be minimum and not
maximum, post-utilization, is a moot question
that has not been answered since the inception of
mankind. For most men, the minimum displacement
theory as propounded by the conspiring wives, is
loathsome enough and deemed fit for summary
rejection. Initially, keeping things in permanent
disorder begins as a passion that soon assumes
the regularity of a habit, finally degenerating
into a fossilized dogma. At this stage no amount
of good advice, persuasion or threat is going to
have any effect other than causing visible
irritation accompanied by occasional eruptions.
The other day
I had to launch a massive combing operation in
the house to locate my specs which had the
irritating habit of disappearing when needed the
most. All possible hideouts were searched
including the most improbable and patently
improper places like the shoe-shelf, refrigerator
and even the commode flush-top. In my quest, I
had committed the sin of ransacking everything
that came my way until the house resembled one
that was ready to be forsaken and set on fire.
The whole exercise was excruciating and as I
dropped into the drawing-room sofa, a sharp
shooting pain, apparently originating from the
damned piece of furniture, forced me to jump on
my feet. There lay on the sofa, the spectacles in
a state that reminded of artefacts excavated from
vandalized ancient tombs. It seemed I had middled
the ball perfectly well with immaculate timing to
inflict the most savage damage. My first reaction
was to curse my glasses for having mingled so
seamlessly with the sofa as to render any kind of
detection impossible. Then I blamed my friend for
his phone-call that had caused me to rush out of
the drawing room, leaving the poor glasses to
fend-off the elements of nature. My wife, who has
the gift of waylaying the most defenseless
creatures, came around to say that I richly
deserved whatever had happened and that it was a
sound lesson. I mumbled something in apparent
agreement but secretly thought that it was good
riddance because the spectacle-frame was too
backdated and a confirmed age-enhancer. Any
celestial repercussion of my sacrilegious act has
yet not been reported.
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