Skip to main content

Got an Idea!




Chill

Let me begin this one with some masala. Spicy. Whatever!

Here’s the spice: She was cleaning the house. My spice. You know — my wife.

For her, clean means CLEAN. A speck of dirt here and there? Not in her dictionary. Unlike me.

So I went to her. “Look, next Friday we have to leave by 4 pm to catch the 7 pm train.”  

The ‘idea’ had just struck me, so I blurted it out. Nothing wrong. She herself once told me, “Spill your ideas then and there.”

But not this time. 

She’s in full cleaning mode. And when work mode is on, anger sits on the throne and listening hides under the sofa. Plus — ear plugs in. Lost to some podcast.

You know that female stare. The harsh ness. Eyes rolling in 4K. Enough to turn any man docile.

Two things happened: One, my idea was not heard. Two, the yelling began.  
“Despite my weak condition I’m doing all this hard work, and you come with your ‘ideas’!”

As if I don’t work. As if I’m running marathons in perfect health.

So I got angry. Back-yelling. Listing my hard work like a tax audit. A full-blown war.

Right at that boiling point, last week flashed in my head — me and my grandson.

We were on the floor with plastic animals and a toy aeroplane.  
I said, brightly, “I got an idea!” My grand plan: line up the animals, board them queue-wise into the plane. Very logical. Very Thatha.

Grandson’s eyes lit up. “I have an idea!”  
He ignored my Big Idea completely. Wow.  

“Thatha, this horse will sit on _this_ wing… you put the Zebra on _that_ wing. Then we fly the plane!”

His idea, his game. Thatha’s idea? No idea.  

And you know what? I was happy. Smiling, I surrendered. Put the zebra where he said. Flew the plane. No ego, only joy.

That memory hit me mid-war.  

So I did the same with my wife. Put a screeching brake on _my_ Idea. Surrendered. Smiled. Let her idea — “finish cleaning in peace” — win.

Thanks, grandson. You avoided an Idea Clash at home.  
Turns out, sometimes the biggest idea is to drop your idea.

---


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Big Bang Theory.

He is robbed including his pants. He can’t fix himself to change in life. He calls Leonard. — Girmit (^‿^) (@cgBalu)   🚆 → 🚉 → 🚆 → 🚉 A funny moment from  The Big Bang Theory  (Season 8, Episode 1). Sheldon decides to tour American cities by train. New York. Arizona. A few others. But there is a Sheldon twist. He never actually goes into the cities. He remains inside trains and railway stations, orbiting them like a cautious satellite. Then disaster strikes. He is robbed. Everything goes. Even his pants. And Sheldon being Sheldon, he cannot recalibrate his personality. So he does the only logical thing in his universe: he calls Leonard. ❤😎  

Gunshot Piercing

Chill Gunshot Piercing It began, as all life-altering decisions do, with someone else’s fashion. My younger cousin walked in wearing purple ear studs—confident, casual, as if he had always been this stylish creature. I looked at him. He looked at me. The studs looked back at me and whispered, “Upgrade pending…” My wife sealed the matter in one line: “You will look good.” That was it. Proposal passed. No further discussion. A few days later, we went to the jeweller’s shop to buy a chain for our daughter. A normal, respectable outing. But destiny had other plans… and a small device that makes a sound like a stapler with attitude. My five-year-old grandson came along, purely for moral support—his own, not mine. The jeweller inspected my ears like an archaeologist discovering ancient ruins. “Ah! Old holes are there,” he declared, as if announcing hidden treasure. My wife took charge. She marked the exact spot on my earlobes with the seriousness of a surgeon and the confidence of ...

Same ease. Same certainty. No performance.

We went to the community departmental store, my grandson and I. I like walking with him. I’m quietly proud of it. Long ago, when I was young, I travelled in a car with a prominent man from our small town. My uncle sat beside him; I sat in front with the driver. He wasn’t loud. Didn’t instruct much. Authority sat on him like it had always belonged there. We had gone to a bigger town for Deepavali shopping. At one stop, my uncle got down, ran into a shop, and brought back two veshtis. The man didn’t touch them. Didn’t examine. Just glanced and said, almost lazily, “Take the one with the green border.” That was it. Decision made. No noise, no effort. Now I’m in a store again. Different time. Different company. My wife has given me a list. My grandson walks beside me, scanning shelves. At the biscuit aisle, he doesn’t fumble through brands. No debate. His eyes settle on a purple pa...