Selective Interest - A scientific study conducted in my kitchen - By Divya Iyer

Written By: Divya Iyer

Category: Essay

Competition: Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In her engaging essay "Selective Interest - A scientific study conducted in my kitchen," Divya Iyer provides a humorous and insightful look into the dynamics of selective interest within marriages. This entry is part of the esteemed Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 hosted by Hashtag Kalakar. With a sharp wit and keen observation, Iyer explores how everyday interactions in her kitchen become a scientific study, revealing the often comical aspects of communication in domestic life.

About the Work

Divya Iyer's essay masterfully combines humor with a relatable narrative, capturing the essence of married life through the lens of selective interest. The piece is filled with vivid imagery, witty anecdotes, and a playful tone that invites readers to reflect on their own domestic experiences. Iyer's clever use of scientific metaphor adds depth to the theme, making her work both entertaining and thought-provoking.

Selective Interest - A scientific study conducted in my kitchen

Original Submission by Divya Iyer

Selective Interest: A Scientific Study Conducted in My Kitchen

Let me clarify the myth first. Husbands do not suffer from selective hearing. Their ears work perfectly fine. In fact, my husband can hear a neighbour whisper about gold prices from three floors away. He can hear a cricket score update on a stranger's phone in a crowded local train. He once heard me thinking about ordering paneer for dinner and materialized in the kitchen in under four seconds. His hearing is world-class. Olympic standard. If listening were a sport, he would be on a cereal box.

The problem is selective interest. And that is a completely different medical condition that no insurance policy covers. I have checked. I am a CA; I read policy documents for sport.

Here is how it works. His brain runs on an algorithm more sophisticated than anything Google has built. It constantly scans incoming sound waves for keywords and assigns them priority levels, a kind of air-traffic control of domestic life. Anything related to food, sleep, cricket, or the phrase "your mother called" gets processed instantly, in 4K quality, with subtitles and a full orchestral score. Everything else goes into a folder marked Later, which is a euphemism for When the grandchildren arrive.

Last Tuesday, I told him three things. One, that his socks were on the dining table. Two, that our son's school needed a signed form by Friday. Three, that I was leaving him for Ranbir Kapoor. He nodded thoughtfully through all three and said, "Hmm, but what about dinner?"

The form stays unsigned. The socks remain on the table. Ranbir is still waiting.

But here is the part nobody tells you, and this is important, so pay attention, unlike my husband. The selective interest cuts both ways. Ask him about his day, and you will get "Fine." Ask him where the rice cooker is, and the man delivers a TED talk. "The rice cooker? Ah, interesting question. You see, it is not where it is, it is where it should be, according to physics. I distinctly remember placing it on the counter in 2019, and objects at rest tend to stay at rest, unless acted upon by an external force, like a wife." He has never once found the rice cooker. He has only ever theorized about it, at length, in a register I can only describe as philosophical.

He can also recall, with photographic precision, every single thing I have ever said in the last decade, provided it is slightly embarrassing to me and useful in an argument. "But in 2021 you yourself said pizza is overrated!" he thundered last week, when I innocently ordered one. The man stores my own words like a black box recorder, saving them for the crash. Somewhere in his memory palace there is a whole wing dedicated to my careless sentences, climate-controlled, alphabetized, and accessible only during disputes.

And the remote control? That object has taught him architecture. He knows every possible location a remote can exist: behind cushions, inside the fridge once, mysteriously, under his own leg. He can locate a remote in the dark with sonar. But his own spectacles, perched on his own head, require a district-wide search operation and a prayer to Hanuman ji. The whole family joins the search. His son directs operations from the sofa with the authority of someone who has never lost anything he wasn't prepared to blame on his mother.

So no, ladies, do not insult his hearing. His ears are fine instruments, beautifully made, perfectly tuned. They simply work for a company that does not value your department. Your updates get delivered, filed, and quietly ignored, like those "Important: Action Required" emails we all pretend we never received.

Is there a cure? Doctors say no. Scientists say no. My neighbour aunty says yes, it involves withholding food, and apparently, her husband now hears her heartbeat. She delivered this information across the compound wall with the serenity of a woman describing a miracle, and I have chosen to believe her, because the alternative is accepting that we have all married the same man wearing different shirts.

As for me, I have accepted my fate. If I really need his attention, I do not raise my voice. I simply pick up my phone and whisper, "One plate biryani, extra raita."

He comes running. Works every time.

But last month, the algorithm failed in the most spectacular fashion, and I have not recovered. I was on the phone with my sister, in the kitchen, in my lowest voice, the voice I use for sentences I don't want overheard, and I said, "I'm just so tired these days, I don't know why." He was two rooms away, with the television on, during a cricket match. I heard nothing for a full minute. Then the television went silent, and he appeared in the doorway with two cups of coffee, set one down beside me, and went back without a word.

The form is still unsigned. The socks are still on the table. Ranbir, as far as I know, is still waiting.

But the keyword list has one entry I never knew about, filed quietly, at the very top, above cricket: her tired. Fourteen years of marriage and the man has been running that search his whole life, and has never once let on.

I drank the coffee. It was terrible. It was perfect.

About the Competition

The Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating diverse voices in literature. Participants from around the world submit their original works, showcasing their creativity and talent in various categories, including poetry, short stories, essays, and creative writing. This competition is a testament to Hashtag Kalakar's commitment to promoting the arts and providing a stage for literary expression.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Divya Iyer for her delightful contribution to the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her essay, "Selective Interest - A scientific study conducted in my kitchen," offers a refreshing perspective on everyday life, blending humor and insight in a way that resonates with readers. Thank you, Divya, for sharing your unique voice and enriching our literary community.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.