The very moment I decided to remove the kettle from stove, another disgraceful fact was revealed, very shameful for a proficient man of house especially in front of critical eyes of a lady. Telling you that fact implies another disgrace, but as I have set myself to narrate those events, I have no other way except disclosing that shameful secret. The matter of fact is, well, I mean the truth is that there was no handle with the kettle.
The handle of my teakettle had left the kettle long ago after a fiery quarrel over the stove. History is a tricky subject to involve in such a matters if you ask me what caused that fiery quarrel, you can partly blame me for setting flames of stove too high and initiating the battle, but you can’t blame me for their parting. I had detected the odor of burning wood within 10 minutes of quarrel and took rapid actions to prevent the outcome but prevention is not an easy thing when a kettle and its handle have decided to part! Since then, I’m used to remove the kettle from stove by gripping its spout with help of a piece of cloth, and that piece of cloth was, umm, it’s even more inglorious part of truth, that piece of cloth was often one of my shirts needing laundry!! If you are by chance a single man living alone, I expect you to sympathize with me; otherwise you can smile, laugh, grin, scowl, frown or do whatever you feel like doing and continue reading.
She noticed my hesitation and before I could explain anything, pointed towards the corner of kitchen where the shirt that currently held the capacity of dishcloth lay! “You need that, perhaps …” That’s the most accurate definition of “Worst comes to worst” I ever got, if you understand what I mean!
Normally I’m a tidy person and like to dust off my dishcloth by hitting it with shelves but you know dispersing the dust in air in presence of a lady is not a much decent thing to do, therefore I decided to directly use it but the tea gushing from spout, more horrifically than BP oil spill this summer, wasn’t in mood of letting me accomplish my mission. I had begun to get irritated by that time, such number of humiliations before a lady in a single morning is enough to make any gentleman irritated, I hope you’ll be agree with me, a very little hope I mean.
In irritation, I called forth my commando skills to accomplish this task, without caring for the hot tea gushing from spout, I held the spout tightly with my current dishcloth and removed it off the stove with a sudden jerk, kind of swift commando actions those take seconds to complete! No doubt mine was a successful one, for one moment I thought I can really storm into window of, say, a room where a meeting of mafia dons is going on and rid the world of them in five seconds with my submachine gun or whatever they use in such actions and after another five seconds I’ll be freeing a very beautiful captive, comforting her “Don’t worry, I’m her! Danger is over!”
But a loud girly scream didn’t let my joy last than for more than one moment! Girls are prefect spoiler in every situation, really! I choked for a moment, like I have really stormed into a room where meeting of mafia don is going on but before I can do commando action, my heroine, tied with a chair, have yelled loudly and angrily “Dude, where is your gun?” Recovering my senses took somewhat longer than time spent in commando action but I was able to come back to senses finally and discover my kind annoyer Sarah rubbing back of her hand with palm of other hand and two very big tears in her eyes about to drop out anytime!
It’s most inglorious part of story, hadn’t I set myself to narrate these events honestly, I could have said she was thrilled or surprised or bewildered at my successful commando operation, but the matter of fact is, a considerable amount of drops from hot boiling tea had flown off the angry kettle during my commando action and landed directly on the back of her hand, well, you can understand well what had happened!
I swear I didn’t know what I’m doing! You can’t blame me; we are never taught what to do if we have burned hand of a girl mistakenly. School and college teachers always insist on teaching us laws of Newton and theories of Einstein those have little value in world of such practical matters and this is a sad thing. We are left on our instincts to determine our course of action and instincts are said to be left over of hunter-gatherer age so it makes pretty much sense when our actions in such situation lack civility. I mean how you can expect a hunter-gatherer to know what to do when you have burned hand of a girl mistakenly. At first hand, it’s not known if hunter-gatherer were used to drink tea (Ever before that, it’s not known if they were used to have proper breakfasts) and even if they drank tea, it’s not known whether they had kitchens and even if they had kitchens it’s not known if they used kettles but even if they used kettles I’m 100% sure they had no office to be late and worry about. For all the lack of my civility, I blame hunter-gatherer man, who didn’t care much to explore manners of dealing with girls and left us in such dilemmas in the age when education system don’t know what we really want to learn.
Before you intend to punch in the monitor, pardon me again for my wordiness and let me tell you that for some moments I couldn’t know what I’m doing but when I realized it I was about to faint with shame. I was caressing back of her hand with my current dishcloth (My shirt, in order to remind you if you have forgot) and saying “Oh, I’m sorry, it wasn’t my fault” Though I could really not answer if she had asked who else’s fault it was. If this was an ordinary situation, I could make a good story about some ghosts living in my kitchen, determined to keep me single forever but it was an emergency and you know you can’t make good stories in emergency situations; hunter-gatherer senses don’t seem to have a literary taste! I have not told you the worst part though, the dishcloth, for being in use for more than one week, had absorbed a good amount of blackness and this all was being applied to her hand like a fine boot polish, I mean, really it had a good shine, rare for blackness of kitchen utensils.
These were moments of utmost shame to me and were supposed to be moments of great resentment to her, naturally! But, for my surprise, when I looked into her eyes where two very big tears were floating moments ago, there was something else, something that you can’t name accordingly but can guess that it’s not sort of anger you are expecting. There was a pretty smile on her lips, the typical smile that girls have when they watch boys committing a folly in their presence but there was something more than that typical. I mean, when you see something typical you know it’s typical and you need not to feel anything special about it because it’s typical but when you feel something special when you are thinking it’s typical you know there is something more than typical.
Something that can make you forget that you are late for office and you have just lost your breakfast tea! Something that takes away the regret of a failed commando action even if you have stormed into a meeting of mafia dons without gun! Something that can make you forget that you are stood in small kitchen where a very stupid stove is still lit and a good lot of unwashed dishes and a shirt that is used as a dishcloth are telling of your clumsiness! Something that can make you feel like having had best breakfast of your life without having an actual breakfast at all!
Something that can make you feel like you are walking in a garden on an endless carpet of green velvet, flowers of all possible colors and scents are waking from their night-long sleep and morning breeze is whispering into their ears just like, ahem, I guess you have understood what I mean; butterflies, fortunate butterflies those never have to worry about being late for office, are peeping out from behind the flowers they slept in (Hmm, I really don’t know where butterflies sleep but in my dream garden they sleep in flowers, using one petal as bed sheet and another one as cover) Something that scatters all over that garden like soft and saucy rays of morning sun, making you warm and as light and happy as a bird!
I’ll not pardon for my wordiness anymore, if you have managed to reach this far in this story it means either you have enough guts to tolerate it or you are enjoying it, in both case I don’t need to excuse. I just want to tell you that this sweet feeling had immediate effects, so much profound effects that I didn’t object at all when she also took almost half of sugar from jar after taking more than one dozen tea-bags from the carton and left the kitchen with a melodious “Thank you”. I have been smiling soberly all the time, but you can imagine how much soberness in a smile is left after all this! I bet it wasn’t better than smile of Tom when he is trying to act gracefully after a black and blue defeat by Jerry but she says it was very charming and beautiful smile, almost like a celebrity, though she never told me like which celebrity and I sometimes wonder if she means Mr. Bean.
When she left, at once all the humiliation vanished in thin air and I felt a wave of happiness, a intense feeling of joy that makes you feel like all that sunshine, garden, butterflies, birds and flowers are inside your heart and you are inwardly dancing around them. I threw the dishcloth-cum-shirt aside and rubbed my hands excitedly, and smiled and sung a song that had nothing to do with occasion, until an unpleasant smell told me that something has went wrong again and I turned back to find my dishcloth on fire, I had thrown it on stove in my high spirits.
Story ends here abruptly. You might be interested in knowing what happened afterwards and believe me I was much happier to tell you if there was really something to tell. But it proved to be much ordinary afterwards. We married after a few months and in these few months, no jealous lover tried to kill me nor did any kind of ghost or evil spirit tried to interrupt and give our story a horror touch. Neither a fierce father appeared to threaten me of breaking my neck in case he saw me around her daughter again, nor any mysterious friend told me an unbelievable story about her past. Nor did she told me one day that she is a CIA agent in fact and all she wanted is to extract some secret papers buried under the floor of my kitchen, nor did I have to tell her that I have been a contract killer in past whose name was symbol of horror in underworlds and I had to leave worlds of crime after some life-changing event and I was about to commit suicide if she didn’t enter my life as a purpose to live. I mean nothing really adventurous, interesting, horrific, tragic etc. happened. We simply married and are getting along with each other since then, I have never to worry about being late for office and she have never to worry about teabags or sugar in the jar, so we can say things are going smoothly! Though I still wonder if someday we’ll discover each other in completely new faces as Mr. & Mrs. Smith did. Hollywood can spoil your mind, really, if they don’t produce some funny too for the sake of keeping you sane, that’s only serious thing about them.
In the end, let me tell what caused me to write these events after years. For many days, she is asking me to buy her a new kettle because handle of old kettle is broken. Today I went to kitchen for something and found one of my shirts lay in corner of kitchen. The blackness it has absorbed told me it’s being used to remove the kettle without handle from stove!
Aw, you are laughing again and it’s your right, I also laughed so hard that it brought tears to my eyes!