What a Man Wants?

It is a truth universally acknowledged, at least in the smoky clubs & air-conditioned cafes of Mumbai, that a man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. Or so the storybooks say. But nobody, it seems, ever bothers to ask the chap himself. They ask what women want, they write endless columns about it, they make films where the heroine spends three hours figuring it out. But the simple, straightforward question of what a man wants, deep down, is left to gather dust like an old cricket bat in the attic. It was this very question, a verbal torpedo aimed right at the good ship Binni, that found me on the veranda of the Willingdon Club one particularly sticky afternoon.

My interrogator was a Ms. Rhea Roy, a journalist with a tablet & a look that suggested she could see straight through my linen shirt into my very soul, which she would then probably critique in a podcast. “Mr. Patil,” she said, getting straight to the point. “Let’s cut the fluff. What do men want? But nobody asks. So, I’m asking you.”

Well, I ask you. It’s a stinker. My mind, usually a pleasant space filled with thoughts of lunch & the next cricket match, went completely blank. “Want?” I stammered. “Well, a decent vada pav, for starters. One where the potato isn’t a sad, dry lump. & for my Aunty Sheila to stop sending me biodata of girls named Poonam who are all chartered accountants.”

Ms. Roy made a note, her lips a thin line. “Sustenance. Avoidance of family pressure. Very primal. But I was thinking more of the emotional sphere. The spiritual. The… well, the sexual, Mr. Patil.”

The word hung in the air, stark & naked. A nearby chap dropped his paan. I felt a bead of sweat join the general dampness of the city. “Ah,” I squeaked. “The old… yes. Well. A chap wants… a girl with a lovely smile. & one who doesn’t laugh like a hyena. & who can talk about… things. Not politics. Just… things. Cricket, perhaps.”

It was a pathetic effort. Ms. Roy gave me a look of pure pity. “Thank you, Mr. Patil. You’ve been… illuminating.” & she was gone, leaving me feeling like a deflated balloon. I needed my butler, Manohar.

The Soup of Despair

I stumbled back to my flat in Malabar Hill, a hollow man. Manohar, my gentleman’s personal gentleman, was there to meet me. He took my sandals, my jacket & my general air of gloom, processing them with his usual silent efficiency.

“A trying afternoon, sir?” he inquired, his voice as smooth as silk.

“Manohar,” I collapsed into a chair. “I am in the soup. Not a light rasam, but a thick, chunky mulligatawny soup of existential dread. I have failed as a man. I was asked what we want & I offered up a vada pav.”

Manohar raised a perfect eyebrow. “Indeed, sir?”

I told him everything. Ms. Roy, the question, my pitiful answer. I even confessed the mention of the ‘s’ word. Manohar listened, his face a calm, intelligent mask. “It is a perplexing query, sir,” he said finally. “The male of the species, particularly the urban Indian male, seldom gives it thought. He is too busy trying to get a good parking spot.”

“But that’s just it, Manohar!” I cried. “Is that the answer? To be left alone? It sounds feeble. & to be honest, I feel… off. Not quite myself. A bit… low on octane. Lacking the old josh.”

This was the deeper truth. I felt like a damp squib. My usual vim & vigour had gone on an extended vacation without leaving a forwarding address.

Manohar’s Wisdom & The Magic Potion

“A common malaise, sir,” said Manohar sympathetically. “The city can sap a gentleman’s inner fire. However, regarding your question, the desire for tranquillity is a powerful urge. It is why a man will pretend to be on a conference call to avoid a neighbour who wants to discuss property prices. It is not laziness, sir. It is a yearning for a spot of blessed quietude.”

He went into the kitchen & returned with a small, unlabelled glass jar. Inside was a dark, lumpy substance that looked like rich, fertile soil.

“Manohar,” I said, eyeing it with curiosity. “What is that?”

“This, sir,” he said, with a hint of pride, “is a traditional preparation. A blend of specific herbs & roots, known to restore a gentleman’s inner fire & vitality. It is designed to bring the body back into balance.”

He unscrewed the lid. A pungent, earthy smell filled the air, like a forest floor after the first rains. He tipped a small, dark pellet into my palm. It felt firm & natural. I popped it into my mouth & chased it with a glass of water. The taste was… complex. A mix of earth, spice & something strangely comforting.

“The effects are gradual, sir,” Manohar explained calmly. “One should begin to feel a restoration of balance within a week or so.”

The Week After: A Slow Rekindling

I went to bed that night not expecting a miracle. & a miracle did not immediately arrive. But something was happening. By the third day, I noticed I wasn’t reaching for a nap in the afternoon. The traffic noise still grated, but it didn’t feel like a personal assault. By the fifth day, I was sleeping more deeply, waking up feeling genuinely rested, not just dragged from a dream.

Then, on the seventh morning, I awoke feeling… transformed. The oppressive humidity didn't bother me. The traffic noise sounded like a vibrant symphony of urban life. I had a new spring in my step. The old engine was not just purring; it was ready for a Grand Prix. I felt re-ignited. A man of substance & stamina. The old josh was back & it had brought friends. My entire outlook had shifted from a dull grey to a vibrant, sparkling technicolour.

“Manohar,” I said at breakfast, feeling a decade younger. “What in the world was that stuff? Some sort of ancient secret?”

He gave a slight, respectful bow. “It is a science, sir. A very old one. The practice is called Ayurveda. The specific branch for this kind of restoration is known as Vajikarana.”

Fortified with this new energy & knowledge, I was ready to listen. “Manohar,” I said, “You were saying. About what men want.”

The Deeper Dive: What Men Really Crave

“Indeed, sir,” Manohar continued, pouring me a perfect cup of chai. “When it comes to the fair sex, a man wants a woman who is, in essence, his perfect doubles partner. She should have his back, anticipate his moves & share the same goal of winning the match, even if they occasionally bicker over the score. The tragedy is that a gentleman, thinking he is signing up for a friendly game, finds himself in a high-stakes tournament where his every move is critiqued by a demanding coach.”

“By Jove, Manohar,” I exclaimed. “Like my brief entanglement with that bank officer, Anjali!”

“Precisely, sir. A gentleman confronted with a partner who wants to discuss five-year plans over poha feels his soul is under attack. What he wants is not a competitor, but a teammate. Someone who understands that the point of the game is to enjoy playing it together.”

“Exactly!” I said. “So a man wants… less?”

“Not less, sir. More… camaraderie. He wants a partner who can challenge his mind, but not turn every conversation into a debate. He wants a girl who can laugh at his jokes, even the bad ones & who understands that the most profound thing they can share of an evening is a comfortable silence, knowing they are on the same team.”

The Ultimate Answer: The Need for a Manohar

I sat back, my mind clearer than it had been in years. “So, let me get this straight,” I said. “A man wants peace, a good partner & to win at silly games.”

“That is the core of it, sir,” said Manohar. “Though I might add one final, overarching desire.”

“What’s that?”

“The desire, sir, for a Manohar. But not as a replacement, sir. As an enabler.”

I stared at him. “An enabler?”

“Yes, sir. A man may yearn for peace & the companionship of a good woman, but the chaos of life often gets in the way. The aunts, the bills, the forgotten anniversaries, the traffic. What he truly wants is someone to manage the chaos, to be the chief operating officer of his life, so that he is free to be the creative director of his relationship. He wants a problem-solver. A bulwark against the world. He wants, in short, a gentleman’s personal gentleman. & occasionally,” he added, with a ghost of a smile, “a small, dark herbal pellet that puts the spring back in his step, so he has the energy to be a good partner.”

It was a revelation. The absolute truth. I, Binni Patil, wanted Manohar in the background, making everything right, so that I could enjoy the company of a woman like Rhea Roy.

The Confrontation: Binni Finds His Voice

A wave of confidence surged through me, powered by ancient herbs & clarity. “Manohar,” I declared, “I must find Ms. Roy again. I must give her the real answer.”

I found her at a café in Bandra. “Mr. Patil,” she said, surprised. “Back for more? Have you had a profound revelation?”

“I have, Ms. Roy,” I said, pulling up a chair. “The modern Indian male is a creature of paradox. He is a warrior, but he hunts for a parking spot. He is a poet, but his sonnet is a perfect cover drive. He is a lover, but his ideal romance requires no talk of mutual funds.”

I was on a roll. “What a man wants is not a grand passion. It’s a quiet fan in an air-conditioned room. He wants a world where he can win at silly things, so defeat is just an excuse for bhel.”

I leaned in closer. “And when it comes to the… other thing. He doesn’t want a project to be improved. He wants a teammate. A woman whose smile says, ‘We’re in this together, Binni. Have another samosa.’ He wants a partner, a co-pilot for the journey of life.”

I paused for effect. “But all of that is impossible without one thing. The root of it all, the deep, secret desire, is this. What a man truly, madly, deeply wants… is a Manohar. He wants someone to handle the logistics of life, the boring bits, the chaos, so that his mind is free & his heart is open. He wants a chap who can sort it all out, so that he can give his full attention to the woman he’s with. Everything else is just a bonus.”

There was a profound silence. Ms. Roy stared at me, her stylus frozen. Then she slowly put her tablet down. She looked up & a slow, strange smile spread across her face. It was a smile of genuine intrigue.

“Mr. Patil,” she said, her voice softer than before. “That is the most honest thing I have ever heard.” She paused. “This Manohar… he sounds like a remarkable man. I almost feel I need to meet him to understand the full picture.”

Conclusion: A Spot of Peace

My heart did a little flip. “Well,” I said, trying to sound casual. “He is making some excellent chaas at the moment, I happen to know. If one were interested in such things.”

“I am,” she said, standing up. “I am very interested.”

Half an hour later, we walked into my flat in Malabar Hill. The city’s chaos seemed to fall away at the door. There was Manohar, a picture of serene efficiency, who, without a word, took our things & materialized with two glasses of cool, frothy chaas.

Ms. Roy looked around the peaceful room, then at Manohar & finally at me. A look of understanding dawned on her face. I felt a sense of complete rightness wash over me. The world was full of noise & confusion, but in here, there was peace. There was Manohar to hold the fort. And, for the first time in a long time, there was the prospect of truly enjoyable female company. It seemed to me that this was it. The answer. A bit of peace, a good partner & a Manohar to keep it that way.