In 2002, The Tribune, Chandigarh called for readers views on Woman of the Year. There was an overwhelming response from readers culminating in above ten thousand entries out of which twenty four were selected for publication. In a covering article, the Editor made a special appreciative mention of my entry for being the only one for celebrating ones own wife. Here is my prize-winning piece : The Woman Of All Seasons My Woman of the Year, nay all years and all times, is my wife. She is no celebrity. She hasn’t won any awards nor is she written about in newspapers or featured on TV programmes. She doesn’t have the glamour of Aishwarya Rai or the charisma of Mayawati. She is a totally unknown Indian and just a housewife. And yet she is the only woman who means and matters so much to me. But for her, my life would have been like a rudderless boat. The patience with which she has handled the quirks of my mercurial temperament year after year has raised her to the stature of an all-forbearing saint. She has managed the finances of a household presided over by a reckless spendthrift like me with such consummate skill that even experts can learn a lesson or two from her. The amount of drudgery she has to go through to keep me and mine in comfort is monumental. She keeps the house in as much order as my whims and children’s waywardness would allow. If I savour the pleasures of uninterrupted leisure at home, the credit goes to her unlimited capacity to run through the household chores. She is the custodian of our domestic peace and happiness and acts as a cushion against the blows and buffets of fate and foes. Many of my male chauvinistic angularities have been straightened out under her benign influence. She is the undisputed mistress of my house and yet she cuddles my ego by regarding me as her lord, her pati parmeshwar. Who else but she can be my Woman of the Year?
Posted on: Mon, 17 Feb 2014 15:35:15 +0000
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