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Shikha Sharma
At 7:25, my husband said he was ready in five minutes.
At 7:43, he was looking for his socks.
At 7:48, he had found one sock and was examining it as if it had betrayed him in writing.
At 7:52, I was standing near the front door with my bag, keys, phone, and the face of a woman who had already eaten two Sunfeast Marie Light biscuits because waiting burns calories in the mind.
We were supposed to leave at 7:30 for dinner at Priya's house.
Priya lives fifteen minutes away if traffic behaves, which traffic does only when nobody is watching. I had told her we would reach by eight. This was my first mistake. In marriage, giving a time to outsiders before checking your partner's shoe status is bold.
My husband came out of the bedroom at 7:55.
"Ready," he said.
Then he went back in to get his wallet.
**Five Minutes Is Not a Unit of Time**
For me, five minutes means five minutes.
Maybe seven if the hair clip breaks or the eyeliner decides to behave like a private enemy.
For my husband, five minutes means he has accepted the idea of leaving. This is a mental crossing, not a logistical one.
He may still need to change his shirt, find socks, charge his phone, drink water, check if the geyser switch is off, reply to one message, and ask where his wallet is while standing three feet away from it.
But spiritually, he is ready.
That is what he means.
I have learnt this after years of believing words had shared meanings.
My friend Meera says her husband says "coming" while still sitting down. Not getting up. Not leaning forward. Just announcing a future event. She says his "coming" has an incubation period.
I felt seen.
**I Am Not Innocent**
To be fair, I also have timing sins.
I say I need "one second" when I mean I need to check the mirror, change earrings, find a lip balm, and decide that the first dupatta was better. My husband has waited through this with the patience of a man who knows he is not allowed to mention the clock after losing two socks in the same evening.
So this is not a complaint from a higher moral platform.
It is a field report from the lobby.
Our delays are different in texture.
Mine are visible. I am at the mirror. I am changing something. I am making a small series of decisions nobody asked for but everyone will live with.
His are mysterious.
He disappears into a room and emerges having done one task out of six. Then he remembers a seventh task. Then he pats his pockets like a person searching for evidence. Then he asks, "Do you have the keys?" though the keys are in his hand.
Nikhil says this is common. He once found himself waiting for his wife, got annoyed, then realised he had not put on shoes. Marriage, he said, keeps everyone humble if they are paying attention.
He is not wrong.
There is also the dangerous confidence of being almost ready. Almost ready makes people reckless. You think you can still answer one message. You think you can still change socks. You think you can still look for the better wallet because the current wallet is too bulky for the pocket. My husband has lived inside almost ready for whole evenings. I have visited there too. It is a pleasant place until someone else is standing at the door with keys in hand.
**The Door Is a Dangerous Place to Wait**
Waiting at the door is bad for the soul.
The door makes you believe departure is close. It gives false hope. You stand there wearing shoes, holding your bag, body angled toward the lift, and every sound from inside the house becomes an insult.
Drawer opening.
Cupboard closing.
Bathroom tap.
Phone notification.
The worst is silence.
Silence means the person has become distracted by something not on the leaving list.
Last month, my husband said five minutes and then started trimming a loose thread from his sleeve with nail clippers. This was not urgent. The thread was not threatening anyone. We were late for Kabir's anniversary dinner and my husband was performing textile surgery.
When I asked what he was doing, he said, "It was bothering me."
I said, "Time is bothering me."
He laughed, which was brave.
**The Pre-Departure Snack**
The only useful thing about delays is the pre-departure snack.
In our house, if we cross fifteen minutes of waiting, I make tea or eat something small. This is not hunger. This is protest, but with crockery.
That evening, while my husband searched for the second sock, I opened the Sunfeast Marie Light packet. One biscuit became two because the first one was for waiting and the second was for the delay being avoidable.
He walked in and said, "Don't eat too much. We are going for dinner."
I looked at him.
He understood that he had chosen the wrong moment to become a nutritionist.
Priya later said I should start telling him we need to leave fifteen minutes earlier than we do. I have tried this. The body knows. Even if I lie to him, I know the real time, and that knowledge leaks into my tone. He hears it and adjusts automatically. We are both too familiar with each other's fraud.
Once, I tried a calendar invite. It said "Leave home" at 7:15. He accepted it. I felt proud of our household administration for exactly one evening. At 7:15, the alert rang on both phones. He looked at it, nodded, and continued applying hair serum with the calm of a man who believed alerts were advisory. I deleted the system after two weeks. Some people cannot be managed by software. Some people need shoes stage.
**The Ride Is Where It Comes Out**
We rarely fight before leaving.
The fight waits for the car.
Before leaving, there is movement. Shoes, lights, locks, lift buttons, parking. Everyone is pretending momentum solves feeling. Once we are in the car, strapped in and unable to escape, the conversation begins.
"We are late," I say.
"Only ten minutes," he says.
"Twenty-two."
"Traffic was there."
"We left late."
"Because I could not find socks."
"Why were the socks not ready?"
"Why were you eating biscuits at the door?"
This is when I look out of the window and remember that I chose this man willingly.
By the time we reach, we are usually fine. Priya opens the door, says, "Finally," and gives me a look that says she knows. Her husband is also wearing slightly mismatched socks, so nobody has clean hands.
Dinner begins. The delay becomes a joke. The joke becomes story material. Marriage turns irritation into future entertainment if you give it enough time and snacks.
**We Have Improved Slightly**
Now we use a two-stage warning.
I say, "We leave in twenty."
He says, "Okay."
After ten minutes, I say, "Shoes stage."
This phrase has helped. Shoes stage means all optional activity must die. No threads. No messages. No new water bottle filling. No sudden interest in changing shirts. Shoes stage is a border.
He has started respecting it.
Mostly.
Last week, we were going to Meera's place. I said shoes stage. He appeared in four minutes, dressed, wallet in pocket, socks matching, phone charged. I was moved in a way I did not want to admit.
Then I realised I had not worn earrings.
He stood near the door and looked at me.
He did not say anything.
That is why we are still married.
