The husband said to me recently, in appreciation of my wifely and motherly excellence, “I feel like writing a poem about you. I would if I could, but since I can’t, I will stick to naming my weapons after you..”
Before you roll your eyes any further, let me explain. The husband is a gamer (for those of you who came in late) and no, nothing has changed post infant, except perhaps, the fact that he uses headphones while he goes on about massacring people and escaping with the loot, so that the infant is not permanently marked by violence at the tender age of (almost) five months.
The weapon he is referring to is ‘Lalli’s bane’, something that has the power to inflict instant fatigue leading to immobilization and eventual death (just like I do with my sharp tongue, he says) with just a few whacks in a combat with soldiers, orcs, minatores, evil henchmen, or generally anyone he wants to kill in the game, Elder Scrolls Oblivion.
The infant has also joined the ranks in his gaming world and currently, Rehaan is the name of the main character in Fallout 3 (his current PS3 craze), a boy who is trying to save the world in a post apocalyptic Washington DC, and searching for his father to solve a mystery. Earlier, I was Lee, the warrior princess in a first person fantasy shooter game. “See, I think of you even when you are not around,” he says, almost in his defence.
Coming back to poetry, there was a time when I used to judge men by how well they wrote. Or least how well they wrote letters and notes and poems to me. It was an unstated pre-qualification for any man in my life, and many not-so-nice-men were given the benefit of doubt just because they wrote poetry, or what seemed like it then. Like a friend of mine who judges men by whether they recognize that her bag is, indeed, a Louis Vuitton. But I realized pretty late that the cadaverous poets also came with other baggage that I didn’t necessarily want to deal with, and besides, in the email era, it didn’t seem to matter any more. If you want something interesting to say to someone, just find it on Google.
The husband doesn’t write poetry, or cook or talk about rainforests, eco-friendliness or recycling, or approves of my desire to settle in a village or enjoys getting wet in the rain, or likes rearranging furniture every now and then, or is a backpacker or has been chased by a cow while going to school. But then that would have made two of us. And what could be more boring than marrying your clone? So I am just happy to be the ‘bane’ of his existence.