It begins, quite innocently.

You’ve had a delightful evening at your friend’s place. Good food, warm conversation, possibly a brief skirmish about which cricket team is truly “in transition,” and now it’s time to head home. You stand, stretch politely, express thanks, and begin the ceremonious journey to the door.

You think it’s over. Oh, poor man.

You turn back after slipping into your shoes and see something unusual—your wife and his, frozen near the door, not saying goodbye but leaning in… talking. Talking earnestly. Talking passionately. Talking as though they’ve just discovered the meaning of life and it’s hidden somewhere in the next sentence.

You glance at your friend. He glances at you. Both of you wear the same look—a tragic blend of confusion, despair, and suppressed rage.

You were foolish to believe this was the end. No, my friend. This is intermission.

“Is it the same topic?” I whisper.

“I don’t think so,” he says, eyes narrowing. “I think this is a whole new one.”

You draw nearer to the scene of the inexplicable phenomenon. You listen. Yes—it is indeed a fresh subject, a new thread in their tapestry of eternal discussion. Something that could have been brought up during the soup, the salad, the biryani, or even the payasam. But no—the doorstep, lit dimly by a flickering bulb and buzzing with mosquitoes, is apparently the most fertile ground for conversation.

A psychologist once explained it to me.

“It’s called HTPS,” she said, peering at me like a researcher studying a retarded chimp.

“Hating To Part Syndrome?” I guessed.

“Exactly. But,” she added with a grim pause, “sometimes it evolves into a far more dreadful condition.”

“Which is?”

She looked me square in the eye and said, “Hating to be part of going back to their husbands Syndrome.”

I reeled back in horror.

“You mean,” I whispered, “it’s not that they hate parting with each other, but they dread reuniting with us?”

She nodded solemnly. “After spending two hours exchanging ideas, feelings, emotions—imagine the crash when they get home and hear, ‘Hmm,’ ‘Okay,’ or ‘Where’s the remote?’”

“I sometimes say ‘Interesting,’” I offered defensively.

“Sure,” she said kindly, “in your sleep.”

I turned back to the ladies. Their expressions intense. Their hands animated. Their husbands—me and my friend—reduced to bystanders, furniture, or part of the wall décor.

“Should we cough?” I asked.

“Tried that last time,” he replied. “She offered me a lozenge and kept going.”

We stood there, two men with defeated watches, counting minutes as our wives talked like philosophers who had just rediscovered the universe.

And so, the Doorstep Drama played on, its cast complete, its dialogue eternal. Somewhere between the goodbyes and the see-you-soons, two women refused to part—and perhaps, just perhaps, refused to return to husbands who’d forgotten how to really talk to their wives…!

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