The Luminescent Comedy: Navigating Marriage with the Left-Hand Syndrome

When conservation meets nonconformity — and love learns to squint.

Yes, The Left-Hand Syndrome. 

It sounds like a rare neurological condition or a superhero power granted only to the worthy. In my household, it belongs exclusively to my wife, Mita, who appears to be on a lifelong mission to save the planet, one light switch at a time.

Her weapon of choice?

The left hand.

Swift. Silent. Unforgiving.

A room lights up for barely a moment before click — darkness returns. It’s as if photons personally offend her sense of environmental responsibility. I often imagine her thinking, Enough glow for today. Back to the shadows.

I, meanwhile, occupy the opposite camp in this domestic war of lumens. I have tried logic. I have tried data. I have even tried dramatic comparisons.

“Lights consume far less electricity than geysers,” I argue.

“Or ovens.”

“Or refrigerators.”

“Or air conditioners, which practically inhale electricity.”

My words, however, behave like poorly insulated wires. They spark briefly… then die on contact.

Mita listens patiently. Nods occasionally. And then — without raising her voice or her eyebrow — switches the light off again.

To be fair, she does have a point. We live in an age where sustainability is the moral badge of honour. We speak reverently of carbon footprints, ecological balance, and responsible living. In that sense, Mita may well be an unsung hero — a guardian of kilowatts, fighting the good fight in quiet rooms across the house.

And yet.

There I am, at noon, standing in what can only be described as a tasteful cave. Outside, the sky is moody. Clouds have gathered like conspirators. Inside, the light remains stubbornly off.

“Switch on only when it is required,” she says calmly, as though illumination itself must justify its existence.

I have since surrendered.

I now move through my home like a trained ninja — memorising furniture placement, developing peripheral instincts, and occasionally misjudging distances with mild dignity. Who needs full visibility when you can cultivate the survival skills of a nocturnal mammal?

This, then, is marriage.

A gentle negotiation between ideals and comfort. Between saving the planet and finding the sofa. Between brightness and restraint.

Mita’s Left-Hand Syndrome has woven itself into the fabric of our shared life — a small, glowing (or not glowing) reminder that love often thrives not in grand gestures, but in learning to live — quite literally — with less light.

Who knew marriage could be so illuminating…even when the lights are off.

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