The secret to our marriage of 40 years is perfect communication. My wife emits sounds and I receive them. Nary a word is needed.
TuTu, the mildest of the spectrum, she croons to her visiting friend, in sympathy over the intentionally evil behaviour of husbands who snore loudly during TV time. TuTu, what saints we are, they shake their heads while directing withering glances at me. TuTu!
Not to be confused with ThooThoo, which is the only correct reaction to something utterly shameless, like that neighbour’s son piercing those two circles on his chest, and sporting rings on them too. ThooThoo! And then strutting around bare-chested on the terrace (which I dare not point out, is his own terrace). ThooThooThoo!
Tsoooo, a drawn-in breath, is reserved for the shocking and painful. The length of the Tsoooo is directly proportional to the perceived pain. Her sister burned the sambar . Tsoooooooooooo! I burnt my finger. Tsoo!
Letting out breath translates differently, mind you. Exhaling from her mouth, the Haaaaaaah of a deflating balloon, is a damning indictment reserved for my ears only: see how exhausted she is because she has so much to do while I sit around doing nothing (in her opinion). If I protest (which I’ve long since learnt is ThooThoo), the breath is snorted out through her nose – Fffff!
Eeee, heard 3 houses away, is a shriek for me to drop whatever I’m doing (so what if it’s on my foot?) to save her from a marauding cockroach. Eiii, on the other hand, is for those times when it’s clear I’m behaving like a cockroach myself.
Tcha is a shudder at my abhorrent taste, despite her training me for 40 years. I have only to tentatively imply that this minister seems honest, or that woman on television has a nice smile or — Cut down in its prime with a derisive Tcha!
Unhhhh, to others may suggest she’s choking on a murruku, but to my practised ears, it’s a warning, delivered through gritted teeth, to shut up. If I praise some other hostess’ filter coffee, for example, Unhhhh, threatens my wife, as in, “You’ll stay thirsty all your life for this.”
“Oh!” I exclaim.
“What, forgotten how to speak?” asks my wife. Ffffff!
Where Jane De Suza, author of Flyaway Boy , pokes her nose into our perfect lives.
