Is My Wife Stare-Worthy?

The other day, while scrolling through the digital equivalent of town criers and gossip benches—Social Media—I frowned upon the viral saga of the L&T chief declaring his heroic 90-hour workweek and the no-joy of spending futile time at home staring at your wife when you should be in office sweating over excel sheets and product innovation. 

Naturally, the internet responded with all the subtlety of a cat discovering its reflection, mockery flowing faster than misal-pav-chai at a Pune tapri. The uproar made me reflect on a far more pressing question: Is my wife stare-worthy?

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m definitely no 90-hour workweek champion—my definition of hard work includes impatiently waiting for the elevator to arrive from the 16th floor of Nandan Prospera or successfully dodging Goa’s East European tourists while searching for the perfect richaad-stuffed mackeral and prawn curry. But when it comes to staring, the debate around my wife, Alka, could spark an international summit.

Imagine this: We’re at a wedding. Alka walks in, resplendent as a monsoon cloudburst—cool, dramatic, and impossible to ignore. Heads swivel. Eyes widen. Aunties nudge each other like synchronised swimmers. The men? Ah, they try subtlety. But trust me, their necks have a better rotation range than a ceiling fan on speed 5.

I once asked her, “Why do people keep staring at you?” She raised an eyebrow—one of those perfectly arched ones that could launch a thousand face cream endorsements—and said, “Because I’m stare-worthy, obviously.”

And she’s not wrong! 

Her beauty is not the textbook kind you’d find on magazine covers, all airbrushed and artificial. No, Alka’s the sort you discover like a forgotten melody—understated but unforgettable. She's Baner High Street meets Mapusa Market, elegance wrapped in authenticity. Her eyes? Twin brown-black holes, capable of absorbing both light and my arguments.

But let’s not stop at appearances. If looks could kill, Alka’s sarcasm is a thermonuclear device. The other day, when I forgot our anniversary (again), she stared me down with such surgical precision, I felt my self-esteem evaporate faster than Pune Municipal Corporation tap water in May.

I get it now—being stare-worthy is a full-time job. Forget 90-hour workweeks. Alka works 24/7 without a coffee break. She’s the CEO of Charm Inc., the MD of Poise Pvt. Ltd., and the undisputed Chairperson of “How to Look Effortlessly Graceful While Dismembering Chimborya (crabs) for Lunch.”

But the real question isn’t whether my wife is stare-worthy. It’s whether I deserve to be the one staring.

I, the dark, gangling reporter who once forgot the garland for our registrar marriage. I, who needed a cheap, wilted flower bouquet and a last-minute lipstick tikka just to seal the deal. The same man who was so broke that if romance were currency, I’d have been bankrupt with a lifetime subscription to emotional EMI payments.

Yet, here we are. Forty-three years later, and I’m still staring. Not because she’s beautiful (though she is). Not because strangers turn their heads (they do). But because after everything—love, her stroke, her present trauma, our struggles—she still makes my world stop.

So yes, my wife is stare-worthy. But more importantly, she’s worth more than just stares. She’s worth the quiet moments, the small victories, the shared laughter, and the stubborn hope that love, despite all odds, is the longest-lasting gaze of all.

Take that, 90-hour workweek.