When silence is an irritant

THE sight of an avid golfer rushing at the crack of dawn to beat the tee-off deadline seems maniacal to an onlooker, who is oblivious to the travails of this determined creature.

Much before the rooster crows its first call, the golfer is up, while the world sleeps, to plunge into a flurry of activity in the darkness. This is undeniably annoying to the slumbering household but gleeful for the pets, who break into a prance-and-bark performance, infuriating the lady of the house. Her annoyance is vented by an auditory onslaught, the measure of which can be withstood only by a resolute golfer.

But bravado alone cannot help weather this storm. Prudence is more likely to stand one in good stead. So, like a committed golfer and a caring husband, I devised means to minimise disturbance and adopt the stealth of an assassin treading the labyrinthine corridors of a Mughal fort.

Slowly slipping out of the covers, I took the precise number of steps to reach the washroom. Then I gingerly closed the door to complete the morning chores and later sneaked out, tip-toeing all the way out of the bedroom without a rustle — it was quite a feat accomplished by me. But the exuberance of the dogs was always a tad difficult to overcome. So, to perfect my seamless departure from the house, I ensured that all doors were well oiled and squeakless, the rooms equipped with feather touch-gadgets and the tip-toeing was elevated to the graceful gliding movement of a ballerina. The dogs were relocated to a place where their joyous outbursts would not reach the bedroom.

After meticulously adhering to these safeguards, I set out for my morning round of golf. To my satisfaction and enormous pleasure, my wife slumbered blissfully like a log.

One day, I asked her, “I guess you are not disturbed now when I go out in the morning?”

My hopes of eliciting an appreciative response dissipated as she looked coldly at me over her cuppa and said, “Silence is so disturbing. I now lie awake, unable to fathom whether you have left or not, and that is quite irritating.”

My jaw dropped open, like that of a golfer who watches the ball as it sails gracefully towards the pin after a chip shot but falls instead on the cusp of the bunker to roll backwards into the sand.

Exasperated, I said to myself, “Pleasing the lady of the house is as elusive as scoring birdies on the course, both of which I so desperately yearn for.”

Musings