Cleaning. Just the word itself can send shivers down my spine, and not in a good way. Growing up, chores were tied to allowance, and it seems my willingness to scrub floors and dust furniture peaked somewhere around age 12. Fast forward to adulthood, and thankfully, my husband and I have been fortunate enough to outsource the bulk of housework. That is, until recently. Being home full-time has thrown my domestic shortcomings into stark relief. Tie-dyed sheets (an accident, I swear!), a perpetually 70% clean kitchen (brain overload!), and shower stains that seem cemented in place – these are the hallmarks of my current housekeeping efforts.
Enter my husband, the tidiness whisperer. He tackles dishes, conquers floors, and transforms chaos into order. And honestly? It’s intoxicating. A clean house lifts my spirits, makes my heart genuinely lighter. I shower him with praise, maybe a little too effusively. He jokes I’m channeling Tom Sawyer, but my admiration is real. And I try to be extra appreciative because, and here’s the bigger confession, I’m not always the nicest person to him.
When we first got married, the inevitable questions arose about navigating a relationship across cultures. (He’s a New Yorker with a Jewish background; I’m a Kashmiri Hindu). We shrugged it off, “one day at a time,” we’d say. And cultural differences? Surprisingly minor. Except for one seismic distinction: my family’s communication style is… spirited. What an outsider might perceive as a prelude to a marital meltdown – a heated discussion about dinner plans, for example – is, in Kashmiri circles, just Tuesday night. Competitive banter, playful skepticism, lively debate – it’s how we connect.
Being “sharp” or “clever” is high praise in my culture, traits often displayed through what some might call… bickering. This back-and-forth, this volley of verbal sparring, is practically our national pastime. Writer Scaachi Koul perfectly captured this dynamic in a video of her Kashmiri parents debating the optimal samosa placement in a car. Watching them playfully dismantle each other, then share the samosa, was a poignant reminder of home. Declarations of love aren’t our forte; enduring partnership, punctuated by spirited debate and resolved over food, is. It’s been the Kashmiri way for generations.
Now, I consider myself nice-ish. While my default setting might lean towards pointing out areas for improvement (in everyone, everything), I’ve learned the power of positive reinforcement, especially with my son. The more I tell him he’s having a “super day,” the more super his day becomes. Babies, thankfully, require minimal niceness calibration, for now. But like any human, I have a constant stream of opinions about my partner’s actions. Usually, our busy lives as working parents keep this trait in check. But in these times of extended togetherness, I have to consciously monitor my “helpful suggestions” to avoid driving him to the brink. (After all, in lockdown, he’s currently my entire social circle.)
Perhaps, in the language of love, his is clearly acts of service. And mine? Well, maybe mine is… needing acts of service to offset my less-than-serviceable communication style. It’s a work in progress, but recognizing these dynamics, even through the lens of household chores and cultural quirks, is a start. Understanding What My Love Language truly is might just be the key to smoother sailing, even when the sheets are tie-dyed and the shower grout remains stubbornly stained.
