Key Factor

Is it 'men' or is it just my husband who has this quirky relationship with keys? Because every time he has to take his motorcycle, he is searching for the keys. And what is worse is that everyone in the house is pulled into action.

It would all start with him patting his trouser and shirt pockets and walking up and down the length of the house, lifting up random things and putting them back.

“Are you searching for something?” It would be either his mother or me asking the question.

“No, no… hmmm… yes, my keys. Mother, look under your pillow, please.”

“How can your keys get under my pillow?” His mother would ask. Nevertheless, she would do as she was bid. Of course, the elusive bunch won’t be there.

“V, go check in the wardrobe. Please! I looked there already but maybe I didn’t look properly enough.”

“OK, give me a minute.” I know it would be a lost cause, but I would go anyway.

The next fifteen minutes becomes a hustle of rummage and we try to attempt at flashbacks to rebuild the sequence of events that could most probably be his last engagement with the missing keys.

And then suddenly, dropping the search and leaving us in mid-sentence, he would take quick strides to the kitchen, only to emerge, a minute later, with the truant keys, a victory smile playing on his lips.

“Remember, I had bought coffee powder yesterday? I just recollected that when I had gone to put the packets on the kitchen shelf, I had the keys too in my hands along with the coffee packets.”

My mother-in-law and I would do a head wobble as if to say why would anyone want to arrange coffee powder packets on a kitchen shelf while holding on to a set of keys?

This key-search is an everyday story in our home, the only variable being the repository from where the lost keys would eventually be reclaimed. But when, once, after an exhaustively futile search, my husband found the motorcycle keys inserted in the ignition slot of his vehicle, as he had absent-mindedly left them maybe two or three hours earlier, I decided to give the matter some serious consideration. We didn’t want anyone driving away a good vehicle for free.

After some critical analysis of the problem, much akin to intense soul-searching, trying to come up with probable solutions, holistic or practical, I went shopping for key holders. Getting them mounted on the walls is another story that I don’t want to digress into, but eventually every room in our house had a receptacle for the keys. I thought it was a brilliant idea till, a week later, I realised the holders didn’t hold anything. They were just showpieces; the frenzied key-searches had not abated.

Next, I bought lovely bamboo trays and put them on the three shelves where he usually keeps his stuff. The trays ended up overflowing with a lot of things but not one of them even remotely resembled a key. Did my husband even recognise the intended usage for these items?

Even the much-mocked weapon of a woman — the lengthy tirades — was pointless. It was energy spent in vain.

So finally, vexed to saturation point, I, with my mother-in-law’s support, launched a non-cooperation movement. We declared quite emphatically that our help would not be available for any further searches.

And we kept our word. So, the next time a search ensued, the two of us sat through it nonchalantly.

“V, go check in the wardrobe. Please! I looked there already but maybe I didn’t look properly enough.”

I responded by burying my nose deeper into my book. He looked towards his mother for appeal but she appeared to be too engrossed with the television.

When he saw no help forthcoming, he said, “It’s getting late. I think I’ll take an auto rickshaw.”

After he left, my mother-in-law and I combed the house for the keys. We didn’t find them. Thereafter, other matters of the house took over and we forgot about the keys.

In the evening, when my husband returned home, he took out of his pocket the vagrant keys and hung it on the key holder.

My mother-in-law and I gave a gasp of surprise. “Where did you find them?”

“In my trouser pocket,” he replied. “But you didn’t take your motorcycle to work?” asked my mother-in-law.

“No, I took an auto rickshaw to work. I found the keys after I reached office.”

My mother-in-law and I looked at each other and smiled triumphantly. There would be no more searches. Or so we thought. How mistaken we were!

The key routine continued for another three days. This morning, my husband was back with his search for the mislaid keys and my mother-in-law and I joined in the rummaging, our non-cooperation movement forgotten.

Old habits die hard, they say!