Jamshed V Rajan

Marriage humor. Inspired by conversations with my funny wife. Married or not married, you will love it!

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

I was in Bihar recently. It was just like Mumbai....but with fewer people from Bihar.

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

//This is part 2 of how my wife fooled me into going on a trip by running her hand over my chest. It's best enjoyed if you have read part 1 - visit my profile. //

Last Saturday, I went to Mahabalipuram with my wife, her four girlfriends, and their husbands.

I know what you’re thinking. “Rajan, how bad could it be?”

That is exactly the kind of question unmarried people ask before ruining their own lives.

The day began at 6:30 a.m., which itself should have been a warning, because no good marriage-related activity begins before 10 a.m., unless your mother-in-law is leaving the house.

By 7:15, we were in the car, Rekha fully ready with snacks, water bottles, sunglasses, Google Maps, and that dangerous holiday energy women get when they have planned something without consulting their husbands.

We reached the meeting point fifteen minutes late, which, according to my wife, was entirely my fault. It definitely wasn’t because she had changed her earrings thrice.

The four couples were already waiting. The women hugged each other like soldiers fighting from different trenches were meeting after the war was over.

We husbands stood behind them holding bags, caps, bottles, and our remaining dignity.

That’s when I realized something important.

It wasn’t just me - all husbands look the same on group outings. A mixture of resignation and hope that the day would end soon.

Rekha introduced me: “This is Rajan.”

All the husbands smiled. Not real smiles. Married-men smiles.

The kind that says, “Welcome, brother. Your suffering has been registered.”

One fellow, Deepak, shook my hand and said, “First time?”

I nodded. He looked at me with pity.

“Don’t worry. By evening, things will get better.”

I just smiled and looked around for Rekha. She was now part of the circle the women had formed, and was busy talking.

Within five minutes, they had covered school admissions, maid problems, cholesterol, saree discounts at Chennai Silks, how AI was changing their workplaces, and why men never understand anything.

We husbands stood nearby like parked vehicles. We only blinked, as if our parking lights were on.

The drive began with three cars following each other, which sounds simple only if you’ve never been part of a group trip where every ten minutes one car disappears, one wife calls another wife, and the husband gets blamed.

We finally reached Mahabalipuram after what felt like two appraisal cycles.

Our first stop was the Shore Temple, but nobody looked at it.

The moment we reached, the women started taking photos: one with sunglasses, one without sunglasses, one candid, one walking candid, one laughing candid, and one “don’t take, I’m not ready” candid.

Then came lunch. The women had already chosen the restaurant, and nobody had asked the men.

However, once inside, all husbands ordered quickly.

“Regular meals, with fish fry,” all of us whispered to the waiter as if we were worried about pissing off our wives.

The women took twenty minutes to decide.
“Is the fish fresh?”
“Is the gravy spicy?”
“Can you make mine spicy but not too spicy?”
“When was the salad cut?”

I could see that these questions hurt the waiter personally.

After lunch, the women wanted to shop. I had expected this, but expectation does not reduce pain.

In one of the shops, Rekha picked up a medium-sized stone elephant.
“How much is this, Anna?” she asked.

I wanted to remind my wife that she was 50 years old, and if she had married in her early 20s, the shopkeeper could have been her son. But dare I say what I feel in front of my wife?

“Two thousand, madam,” the shopkeeper replied.

She laughed. Not because it was funny. But because the bargain season had opened.

“Two thousand? For this? I’ll give four hundred.”

For fifteen minutes, they fought like two kingdoms negotiating a border dispute, and finally she bought it for nine hundred.

I don’t know if it’s just me or all men, but I feel bad when my wife starts bargaining. Many times I feel like taking a few 100s and leaving it on the shop’s counter, so that the shopkeeper can recover the loss they incurred while doing business with my wife.

Once outside, she said, “I think I overpaid. But it is ok…right?”

I bit my lip so that I wouldn’t end up saying something I would regret later.

As we waited for the shopping to end, the husbands had formed a small support group near the parking area.

Deepak had brought tea, another fellow had found bajji (vegetable fritters), someone else had discovered a bench in the shade, and for thirty peaceful minutes, we sat there in silence.

No project talk. No EMI talk. No IIT coaching talk. Just five married men drinking tea and staring at nothing.

It was beautiful. Male friendship is underrated because it does not need content.

Women need conversation.

Men need a place to sit and someone to say, “Tea?”

On the drive back, Rekha leaned against the window and said, “It was a nice trip. You liked it…didn’t you, Rajan?”

I wanted to talk about the photos, the shopping, the traffic, the missing fish fry (Rekha had taken half of mine!), and the stone elephant now sitting between my legs because she didn’t want it to break on the journey back.

But Rekha looked happy, and in twenty-five years, I have learned that if your wife is happy, the husband’s chances of being happy are higher. There is no guarantee, though.

So I said, “Yes. It was nice.” I added the smile for effect.

She also smiled and then squeezed my hand.

For ten seconds, I thought maybe the whole trip was worth it.

Then she said, “Next month, we’re planning Pondicherry.”

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

Last week, my wife rolled towards me in bed and reached for my hand.

After 20+ years of marriage, I knew this was a dangerous move.

As a weapon, her hand ranks just below Schwarzenegger's AMT Hardballer in Terminator, and well above whatever Sylvester Stallone was waving around in Rambo.

I closed my eyes and played dead.

"Rajan, you awake?"

I did not move.

"Rajan, you just adjusted your pillow. You can't be asleep so soon?"

The problem with my wife is that she can never decide whether her sentence is a statement or a question.

It's been 25 years of knowing her, and I still can't tell the difference. So I kept playing dead.

Better to die in your sleep than get into a fight you are bound to lose.

That’s when she changed her tone and said, "Rajan, I'm feeling romantic. Come on….get up."

If you're married, you know wives never feel romantic, let alone in bed. So when she does, you don't let the chance pass.

And then I made the mistake of opening one eye.

"Sorry," I mumbled. "You were saying?"

"What is it with you men? You force me to play dirty. I'm not romantic. I just wanted you to respond."

"Shit…,” I muttered under my breath.

"We are going to Mahabalipuram on Saturday," she continued.

"Mahabalipuram?" I sat up.

"Yes. This Saturday."

"But why? Can't we just chill at home?"

"I've already agreed to bring you along."

"Agreed to bring me along? So there are others?"

"Yes. My girlfriends are coming too."

"But Rekha, I barely know them."

"Rajan, I barely know any of your colleagues. When they come home, don't I behave?"

Behaving is a very subjective word. But who am I to question my wife, so I enquired further: “How many ladies are coming?"

"Besides me, four others." She ran her hand through my hair.

"Five women and just me? Rekha, that’s scary."

"Don't get your hopes up. They're all coming with their husbands."

"No way. Your girlfriends, I could've managed. But their husbands? Men? No way!"

And then she did her thing - the “hand over my chest” move in the dark. She always does this when she needs something, and I always fold.

Twenty-five years, and I still haven't built a defense for it.

Fifteen minutes later, I was lying in the dark doing the math.

Six hours in a car. With four software engineers I've never met.

Pretending to care about their projects, EMIs, their kids' IIT coaching, and which builder cheated them on the carpet area.

All for fifteen minutes of romance.

I should've stayed dead. Wives know exactly how to screw their husbands.

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

@PistolP94495776 that i do brother ;-)

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

You already know that my wife comes with an “attitude” that the best of men can’t live with. I have no problem with it – if anything, that’s what “attracts” me to her.

But sometimes she can be too much to handle.

The other day, she said, “Rajan, you need to start going for runs again.”
“Why?”
“Just like that.”

Now, there is no point arguing with your wife when she says, “just like that,” so I didn’t.

As luck would have it, the next morning was too cold.

As I cuddled up in bed, my wife said, “Come on, don’t be a sissy. Get out and build
some stamina.”

“Stamina?” I froze. “Wait. Do you have a reason for asking me to go jogging?”

“Nope.” She kept a straight face.

But when I insisted, she leaned forward and whispered, “You aren’t holding up in the bed anymore.”

I could have run a marathon right then, barefoot, just to prove a point. But the bed was too comfortable.

At that moment, I had two options: step out for a run immediately and start working on my stamina, or get a second opinion.

But getting a second opinion would mean finding a young girl, and in my 50s, that was going to be difficult.

Not that it was any easier in my 40s or 30s either.

From the next day, I started jogging. Two weeks later, Rekha asked, “You seem to have started enjoying your jogs?”

“Yes. The first few days were boring, but now I have gotten into the groove.” I replied, removing my sweaty t-shirt and checking out through the corner of my eye
if Rekha was looking at my imaginary six-pack.

My wife thought for a while and then asked, “Why do you always leave for the run at 5:30 am? Anything special about the timing?”

“It fits my schedule. Starting early helps me be in the office by 9:30 am.”

She didn’t say anything, but a few days later brought it up again.

“In my opinion, you wouldn’t be so consistent unless there was something in it for you,” she commented, giving me the look a judge reserves for a culprit just before giving them a life sentence.

“Yes. Health. Fitness. And of course, improved stamina.” I replied.

She didn’t say anything, but as I closed our door behind me, Rekha’s voice came from behind: “I hope your punctuality has nothing to do with any other woman runner?”

It was one of those moments where the benefit of the doubt could go either way.

So I pretended not to hear her.

After all, there was no woman, and for the last two weeks, I had been running all alone.

It really pains me that my wife still hasn’t understood how difficult it is for me to get younger women.

Even if we strike up a conversation, within 30 seconds, they call me Uncle, Sir, or Bhaiya.

Anyway, soon enough….two months passed.

My leaving at 5:30 am every morning for two months without cribbing was more than Rekha could take.

One fine day, she bought tracks and running shoes and followed me ten minutes later.

I didn’t know she was following me until I spotted her hiding behind a tree.

I had nothing to fear. “I would finish my 5 kms and go home,” I said to myself.

Then it would be her responsibility to explain the spying. And I love such situations, where I have the upper hand.

But fate had other plans.

As I completed my third kilometre and decided to walk the next 200 meters, Sunita, a pretty neighbour, jumped in front of me.

“Hi! You are Jammy, right?”

“Yes,” I said carefully, because I knew my wife was watching.

“Ritwik’s father, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve seen you play football with your kid. You don’t know me, but I know you.”

“Okay?!”

“I have been seeing you running consistently for the last two months…and I have to be honest…you have inspired me to take up running.”

“Wow, that’s nice. But why did you stop me now?” I enquired.

“Do you mind if I jog alongside you? I have trouble pacing myself.” The lady responded with a sheepish expression.

If you know me, you will know that I can’t see a woman in distress.

I try to help them even at the risk of being scolded by my wife.

She ran two kilometres with me, and then got tired and left. Before we parted ways, she shook my hands and said, “Thank you for giving me company!”

God’s ways surprise me. On the exact day you don’t want a girl to cross your path, he throws a pretty one towards you and says: Fight this out with your wife.

As you may have guessed by now, I could not convince my wife that I had met Sunita only that day.

And that she had nothing to do with me getting up every day at 5.30 and going for a run.

To prove nothing was going on between us, I had to give up running. Just when I had started loving it. And just when my stamina had started improving.

But since I have stopped running, my stamina is back to zero, my reputation is back to normal, and my wife is happy again.

In marriage, that is called peak fitness.

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

A decade back, a colleague of mine proudly exclaimed, "My wife won't go anywhere without me!"

I wanted to burst his bubble and tell him it wasn't something he should be proud of (or happy about), but I decided against it.

In sharp contrast, my wife is fiercely independent, and I love that.

So much so, if it were possible, she would have had both our kids by herself.

The other day, I spotted her standing in front of her laptop with her arms akimbo, staring into the screen.

"What are you looking at?" I asked.

"Nobody tells me what to do!" she exclaimed.

I turned to look at the laptop screen, and there was an alert "Battery low! Plug in your laptop to a power source."

Then she narrowed her eyes at the screen and asked me, “Doesn’t that sound less like information and more like attitude?”

I thought the matter would end there. It did not.

She folded her arms tighter, as though entering a staring contest with the charging notification itself.

The laptop, clearly intimidated, dimmed a little more.

“Are you going to plug it in?” I asked.

“That,” she said with the calm of a freedom fighter, “is exactly what it wants me to do.”

For the next ten minutes, she operated on 3% battery and pure principle.

I have seen people challenge authority.
I have seen people question the system.
I have now seen someone go to war with a dying laptop.

Eventually, the laptop shut down.

She looked at the black screen, looked at me, and said, “See? Now nobody is telling me anything.”

“It is dead,” I added.

“Yes, that’s what happens to anyone who tries to tell me what to do,” she said and walked away.

Note: Since then, I charge her laptop before it drops below 20%.

Not because I care about the device or my wife, but I don’t want to witness another revolution.

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

@Harisri43076646 Ha ha ha awesome...yes Hari. Adde thaan

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

You are on your way to the hospital in an ambulance....are you lucky or unlucky?
Now for some context....

On 14 April at 5.50 am we had to catch a Vande Bharat train from Chennai Central to Mysore, and then drive 4 hours to Kannur.

This was the first of five short trips we would make in the next 45 days. However, on the 13th at 6 am (exactly 24 hours earlier) my daughter threw a curveball.

"Appa, looks like I have an upset tummy," she said.

She had just come back from Aurangabad by train, and it looked like the Chicken curry and Parotta combo at Tirupati Railway Station had played its role.

"And I am feeling really tired too," she added.

My wife's immediate response: "Shall we cancel our trip to Kerala?"

But somehow life prepares you for what's to come. I said, "Hold on, Rekha...I think I know exactly what needs to be done."

+++++

We will come back to my daughter's condition. But first, my story.

After a stag party of 13 middle-aged men at a beachside resort on 4 April, by the 10th, I was nursing an extreme case of upset tummy.

During a meeting with my team, the cramps became unbearable. I bid adieu and decided to just get home and sleep it off.

But as I neared home, I could barely drive. I feared I might black out.

That's when I stopped at the HMC Clinic right beside my house.

I don't usually prefer them because they usually have student doctors, who lack the experience needed to infuse confidence in a 51-year-old man who thinks he is extremely fit but is temporarily down.

Today, I had no choice. I staggered in, barely able to stand.

The doctor was 60+, and he spoke a lot (in a good way).

Like how an astrologer predicts future events, this doctor "predicted" everything I may have done since the fateful party. He was bang on.

Finally, he said I was suffering from Acute gastroenteritis.

Which, for the love of God, I still can't pronounce right. I was also severely dehydrated.

As I lay on HMC's single bed with the IV drip going into my system, one thought kept circling: "Why only me? There were 12 others, and we all ate the same things, drank the same things ...well, to be honest, we did have a choice - whiskey, rum, beer, and toddy.

But why did it have to be only me?"

But then Arthur Ashe's story also came to mind.

When the first Black tennis Grand Slam champion was diagnosed with cancer, he said: "When I was holding the cup, I never asked God, 'Why Me?' So now that I'm in pain, how can I ask 'Why Me?' "

I have narrated this story multiple times to my friends, my kids, and my colleagues, but all that bravado flies out of the window when it is your turn.

Two hours later, with the medicines and IV fluid in my system, I felt much better. Took one more day to fully recover.

+++++

This is where my story and my daughter's story merge.

Because I had experienced exactly what she was experiencing (just two days earlier) I knew exactly what to do. I rushed her to HMC Clinic and asked for the same doctor.

"I can understand you have an upset tummy," he said, "but why are you so dehydrated?"

My daughter's answer was so her: "I didn't want to visit the train's restroom often, so I drank less water through the whole trip."

She got the same IV drips. The same medicines. And by 1 pm on 13 April, she was discharged. Being younger, she recovered faster than me.

And now, here we are - on Vande Bharat - excited to celebrate Vishu in Kerala.

Now I understand that my Acute gastroenteritis was just a dress rehearsal.

So that when it really mattered, I knew exactly what needed to be done.

And now I am genuinely glad that out of 13 middle-aged men who partied that night, it was me who caught the acute gastroenteritis - with both hands.

Please drink your water on trains. And if you are in an ambulance, thank your stars.

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

Prakash Kumar is a close friend of mine who is sandwiched between his wife and mother.

For reasons I don’t fully understand, he believes I am an expert in relationships. So he narrated the group dynamics in his house and asked for my advice.

Here is his narration, in his words:

+++++++

If my mother and wife have fought, I will know by 6 p.m.

Both of them will call me at the office and casually ask, “When will you be home?”

That’s when I know…tonight is not going to be easy. It is a survival mission.

Armed with this information, I enter the house at 8 p.m…mentally prepared, emotionally unavailable for both.

If my mother opens the door, my wife will be standing right behind her to take my laptop bag.

If my mother arranges my shoes inside the shoe rack, my wife will bring me a towel.

Basically, I am not a husband. I am a 'trophy' being fought over.

I look at my father for support. With the Economic Times in one hand and the TV in front of him, he shrugs. I recognize that shrug.

He doesn't want to get involved: “Son… I fought this war. Now it’s your turn.”

I retreat to the washroom, which is the safest place in the house. But only for short bursts at a time.

If my wife gives me a T-shirt outside, my mother will loudly announce, “Dinner is served!”

At the dining table, silences are long… and sentences are short.

I can hear the utensils much louder than usual. In fact, I can judge the intensity of the fight by the decibel level with which the ladle hits the pan.

On normal days, I can notice gentle serving. But today, it's a "percussion performance" using steel utensils.

“So, how was your day?” my wife asks. This is a dangerous question.

One wrong answer… and the United Nations will need to get involved (it already has a lot of time...having shied away from the US-Iran war).

So I say, “It was fine.”

If I say “great,” I will create emotional damage.

If I say “bad,” I will get investigative questions.

“So, what did you do the whole day?” my mother asks.

I have to be careful not to give a detailed answer.

My wife won't like it. So I say, “Nothing much.”

Since my wife doesn’t understand Tamil, my mother starts speaking in Tamil.

I respond in a neutral language…like Switzerland.

I don't want my wife to think I am conspiring with my mother.

I look at my father again. This time, he doesn’t even shrug.

He just looks deeper into his plate… as if the answers to life's problems are hidden in the sambar.

Dinner is a disaster because both forgot to bring two dishes to the table.

Thankfully, both of them made one dish each...so one person can't be blamed for the disaster.

After dinner, my mother tries to keep me outside the bedroom.

She offers ice cream, fruits, Dabur Chyawanprash, etc.

Meanwhile, my wife starts sending signals from the bedroom.

She says, “I’m sleepy…do you want to come in?”

I know that these are not questions. These are summons.

So I take one spoon of Dabur Chyawanprash and rush to the bedroom.

Inside, I stare at the TV…strategizing. My wife sits in front of the mirror and sulks.

Eventually, I make the mistake every husband makes: “Why? What happened?”

The moment I say this, I realise…I have opened the dam.

She starts crying and explains how my mother is actually a witch…that my father and I have failed to identify for 30 years.

I instantly agree....I do one better, actually - I upgrade her to a senior-level witch.

After some time, my wife is convinced I am on her side.

She sleeps peacefully. And because she sleeps peacefully, I also sleep peacefully.

Next morning, while wearing my shoes, I wink at my wife and ask, “Which is bad?”

She glances at my mother and says, “Yes… the witch is bad.”

I then turn to my mother and ask, “Which is bad?” She says, “The blue one.” I immediately remove the blue socks and wear the black ones.

As I leave, I whisper to my mother, “I know you both fought… but I trust you. See, even for my socks, I still ask you.”

As I start the car, I hear noises from the balcony. In the rear-view mirror, I see them holding each other… by their unkempt hair. They really can’t stay away from each other.

+++++++

I didn’t know what advice to give him. Honestly…he doesn’t need advice. He needs a Padma Sri.
Would you have some advice for him?

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

@sethupathy_ts I agree

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

We live in a nice township in Chennai, and our neighbours are nice people… till the time they aren’t.

Recently, when Rekha and I had gone for a morning walk, an elderly couple stopped us and accused me of cheating on Rekha.

Nothing like a light allegation to warm up before your walk.

We knew the couple - they lived on the second floor of the block right next to ours, and since we were also on the second floor, we had a direct line of sight into each other's living rooms.

Basically, we don’t have neighbours. We have CCTV.

Pointing at me, the old lady said, “This man here is not good for you. I have seen him with another woman.”

Rekha gave me a stare.

I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I promise… no! Also… I don’t even have that kind of energy.”

My wife turned towards the lady and asked, “Where did you see him, aunty?”

“In your own living room - he was holding her close, caressing her back, and also kissing her,” the lady continued.

Now this angered me.

If at all I was going to cheat, I knew it wouldn’t be in my house.

I was smarter than that. I can bear all insults, but being considered dumb is unbearable.

Rekha turned towards me and asked, “Is aunty saying the truth? Who is she, Rajan?”

“I don’t know… let’s ask her,” I shot back. After all, she seemed to know more about this affair than I did.

At this point, even I was curious to meet this woman.

My neighbour aunty was unstoppable.

“Yesterday, early in the morning, I saw your husband hugging a much younger woman in the living room.”

This surprised Rekha. “Aunty, I was at home at that time. Besides the two of us, there was nobody in the house.”

I stayed silent. Life has taught me that when you are being accused, it is best to limit your words.

“But I saw him holding her close, caressing her hair, and even kissing her,” the aunty continued.

Now I knew it was my time to step in.

“Was it around 5:30 am yesterday?”

“Yes, exactly! So you agree?” the old lady enquired.

“Ohh aunty, you are mistaken. Rekha was stepping out for a walk, and I just hugged and kissed her for a bit before she left.”

There was a bit of silence.

A smile lit up Rekha’s face.

Now it was my wife’s turn.

She held the aunty’s hands and said, “The younger-looking lady you saw in our living room was me. Don’t worry - Rajan was just hugging and kissing me.”

The aunty looked at us, clearly unconvinced. Then she got irritated for not having an impact.

She started to leave, but not before muttering, “Liars! Which 50-year-old man kisses his own wife?!”

As she walked away, her husband followed quietly behind her… like a man who had accepted his reality.

Because clearly, in some houses… kissing your wife is a forgotten art.

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

@Iconboss0418 🤣🤣

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

@HumanGopolitics Ha ha ha that's a perfect meme for my stories

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

@1mp15hlyY0ur5 Not really... chennai is traditional for sure...but not that bad.

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

@StockSamurai25 That's an awesome habit man. Keep it up!

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

@Sanjeev_Khanted I can imagine 😁

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

@LTermInvestor I am a story teller...never said it was true

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

@vsivasundravel But ADMK? 😁

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

@ShwetaSubra Ohh wow that's so cool to hear from an ouchmytoe reader after such a long time. labnol was @labnol 's not mine. He is also a friend from the mid 2000s.

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

@PoornimaNimo That's a fantastic reply by your parents! Hats off!

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

@narayananh 🤣🤣

[Jamshed V Rajan @ouchmytoe]

@raamki At least this way someone looks at me 😁