The Russians love the French phrase “Cherchez la femme,” popularized by Hugo, implying that most trouble, directly or indirectly, is caused by women. Their women use it with equal fervor, because beneath the façade of female solidarity, they actually despise one another.
In my case, those words should be embossed on my walls, mirrors, and coffee mugs.
Most of the women I’ve met over the past 28 years have collectively inspired me to write a punk-rock version of Rod Stewart’s classic "Some Guys Have All the Luck."
Only my anthem would open with:
“Some dudes get blowjobs, others the whack jobs - no prizes for guessing where I belong…”
Misogyny? Sour grapes? Trapped by unwanted pregnancy and bamboozled by child support? Did the ex-wife take it all? False rape accusations?
Nooo… sir. It’s far more insidious.
I could, of course, rant for hours about a recurring theme with women in my life:
“I rejected you earlier to sleep with or marry someone else, but now please feel sorry for me.”
Some returned the very next morning, others after ten years, the latest after thirty.
Not my skeletons, not my closet - I was merely opening the front door. So why me?
A more benign, though no less infuriating, episode unfolded when I first moved to Delhi. Some friends of mine, a couple, introduced me to one of their acquaintances - a runty little woman with a large pumpkin-like head and small beady eyes. Despite having the sex appeal of a female Mr. Bean, she seemed intelligent, friendly, and fairly witty. A few drinks here and there, a stroll through a mall, and we all ended up at her place.
At some point she pulled me aside to help replace a burned-out bathroom lightbulb. The new bulb blew instantly. She then launched into a damsel-in-distress routine, which I did not yet know was her speciality, about leaving early for work, returning late, dealing with uncouth electricians, and living alone.
Tipsy and gallant, I offered to help if she couldn’t find anyone to check the wiring.
The next day I gave her a quick call - no more than 30 seconds - to ask whether she’d managed to fix it. To my relief, she told me not to worry about it.
Before I knew it, my friend’s wife was accusing me of harassing - sexually, of course - a poor married woman under the pretext of helping with a lightbulb, courtesy of copious inputs from the latter. This had already sparked a massive fight between her and her husband before she decided to conduct her own little trial for my supposed crimes. While I was stunned by the accusation, I was far more furious with my friend’s wife than with Madam Pumpkinhead, who was, and remained, a complete stranger to me. There you go, I told myself - once again trying to help people out. No good deed goes unpunished.
Later, my friend claimed he avenged me by posting a photo of Madam Pumpkinhead on Facebook, sitting on someone’s lap at a party, for her husband - who lived in another town - to see.
As for his wife… well, let’s just say we stopped being friends. And for various unrelated reasons, she later ceased to be his wife as well.
**P.S.** With my karma demon (whose existence I vehemently deny) apparently working overtime, a few years later Madam Pumpkinhead, her husband, and a circle of party regulars were arrested in a high-profile narcotics case in their hometown, with a massive stash of drugs. Their names and photos were plastered across local newspapers and TV, effectively ending her banking career. I heard about it much later, and yes, I unashamedly savoured the news with unabashed schadenfreude.
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