Who’s watching me in my kitchen?

For two whole weeks they each had the same feeling but refrained from communicating it to the other. That, of course, happens in a marriage 17 years long. Couples tend to develop by then a subtle sense of intuition. A newly-retired husband knows instinctively when to snap out of his lounging posture on the sitting room couch and with one expert flick turn off both the TV and the DVD player. This usually happens minutes before a knock on the door (bolted as a precaution in the event of absent-mindedness) that announces the return of the hard-working wife, fresh from dealing with a class of 47 burgeoning intellects.

My brother-in-law, Maurice, was the first to sense it, while chopping onions in their Chennai kitchen. My sister, Rebecca, said she became mildly disconcerted later when frying the said onions. She felt she was being watched (spied upon) and in typical wifely fashion turned to look over her shoulder suspecting hubby was keeping tabs on her frying techniques (why a man married for 17 years would do this is beyond the realm of explanation).

To her satisfaction or dismay, it is not sure, hubby was back seated on the sofa gazing at the TV screen watching two ninja types in a parallel universe battle over a moral principle, electronic sabres flashing. Anyhow, this feeling, unexpressed, persisted for days.

When the containment grew too heavy to hold it, like all suppressed opinion, gave birth via articulation.

“Every time I’m in the kitchen I feel as though I’m being watched,” said Becky. “Funny you should say that,” Maurice replied, “I’ve had that too when chopping up stuff, like a pair of eyes watching me. Once I thought you’d come home early.”

Third pair of eyes

When each was convinced that the other was not engaged in covert spying, they adopted the Conan Doyle philosophy which says roughly that when all other avenues of investigation have been exhausted what remains has to be the answer.

“A third pair of eyes is in the house,” they said, in unison, another trait that 17 years of marriage brings.

Immediately their two pairs flew up to the rectangular window with its flip-open-upward fitment. Perched right above the wooden slat were two glittering eyes. Nothing more.

“It’s a rat,” said Maurice.

“It’s pussy,” said Rebecca, “Come for the fish.”

A long stick was procured; the shutter given a tentative bang, upon which the eyes disappeared. Not for long, though. The next day they were back, observing, observing. Maurice, emboldened by the fact that it might indeed be the cat stood on a stool, the closer to peer at the voyeur. The shocking confirmation that it was indeed a rodent nearly caused him to lose his sense of stability. A rather large rodent, too, by his reckoning. That meant only one thing: Operation Rat Poison. Off went the master of the house to get some rat ‘biscuits’. “These are very powerful,” said the shopkeeper, “One bite and they are gone.”

“Oh,” said Maurice doubtfully, “that means the rat will die outside the window. I won’t be able to get rid of it. The space is so narrow.”

“Oh, no, no,” explained the shop man, “They always feast on the biscuits and go somewhere else to die. Don’t worry. You’ll be safe and rid of this pest.”

That little consoling, comforting spiel was worth Rs100 (Dh6). That very night a feast of biscuit was prepared for Mr Rat on the other side. Mr Rat must have obliged for the following day and the day after both Rebecca and Maurice went about their onion-chopping and onion-frying chores without ever feeling like they were being spied upon.

Then, a week later, they both began to have the same feeling. They carried it, unarticulated for 48 hours before each, virtually in unison again, cracked. “I think I smell a rat,” they said. A tentative flip-up of the window, some courage-sapping minutes later, proved they each, despite the 17 years, had not been misled by their olfactory senses.

Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.