FORTY YEARS WITH A CRAB

                                                                                  Ever seen a crab?

That horrible ten-legged creature with pincer like claws ready to pounce upon you!

Forty odd years ago I used to believe that such a crab was perched in the heart of every person born under the zodiac sign of cancer.This belief was a  result of my numerous encounters with different people. My erstwhile boss, who had been smiling and joking a few moments before, suddenly threw files at my face. The lady–receptionist at the club who blew into a rage when I innocently asked the time by her watch. Or a few of my friends who have the tendency to be irritable without slightest provocation. I found out that a common thread ran through the personalities of all these people. They all had uncertain moods, they were all grouchy, they were all born between June 22 and July 23.

Even at an early stage of my life, my dread of these Cancerian creatures had developed to the extent of being a phobia. So much so that when I thought of getting married, I decided that my partner in life could be anybody but a Cancerian. I would manage to live with a mercurial Geminian, an arrogant Leo, a ruthless Scorpio or even a clownish Sagittarian, but never with a crab.

So whenever a proposal for a marriage came my way, the first thing I inquired of was the date of birth of the girl. I also ran matrimonial ad in a national daily mentioning my priorities regarding the prospective bride and added a stipulation, “CANCERIANS NEED NOT APPLY”.

Ultimately I landed with a wife whose matriculation certificate declared that she was born in the month of April; on the first of April, to be precise. The first few months after the marriage were spent in great conjugal harmony. She completely fitted into my mental picture of a typical Aries girl – a deeply sentimental, generous to a fault, unusually friendly female as if descended directly from Mars. It was when I was settling down to a long and happy married life that things began to happen.

Her grouchy moods began to surface occasionally but became more frequent later. Even my light-hearted comment on her parents or my innocent jokes drove her to tantrums. Scenes of fire-works, flying saucers in the dining room or the broken crockery in the kitchen became a common sight. I was a bit confounded. No, a Aries woman couldn’t behave like that.

Once, during one of our rare peaceful moments together , I dared disclosing my doubts to her. She seemed to be an astrological exception, I told her. She broke into a crazy laughter which went on and on. A typical Cancerian guffaw it was.  When it subsided a bit, she revealed the secret. The date of birth mentioned on her matriculation certificate was not the correct one. She was actually born on July eleven.

And here I am, living with my crabby destiny for the last forty years. But situation is not as pitiable or tragic as you might imagine. During the course of years my cancer phobia has been cured to a great extent. I had the chance of having glimpses of the brighter side of her Cancerian personality. Her rich sense of humour, her classy aesthetic sense, her infinite capacity to love and her rare culinary skills redeemed her most creditably.

      And regarding the problem of her black moods, Linda Goodman’s book on Sun Signs came to my rescue. It taught me that the passing moods of cancerians are synchronised with the changing shape of the moon. Keeping the track of prevailing phase of the moon I could manage my lovely crab and her wild moods. If it is a waxing phase, I can crack my bawdy jokes or make my flippant remarks. But if the moon is waning, I have to be extra-cautious. She is most touchy and vulnerable during this period.

Now I fondly hope that my life partner of forty odd years chance upon this blog during the period when the moon is nearest to being the perfect, round ball in the sky. I know she will enjoy reading it then and may even appreciate it. But only God can save me if it catches her eye in moon’s waning phase. I can visualize the heaps of broken crockery in the kitchen.