I wake up feeling sticky. The eccentric rooster in our locality has decided that the time is up, and hence, others should also be up and running. Somewhere in the night, the lights must have gone out. The stench of sweat assaults my nostrils. It’s high time we get the inverter, I remind myself. Ashok is sleeping next to me. His bare body emits a weird concoction of stench and Old Spice aftershave lotion, which he had applied generously over his chin the night. I snuggle up to him, ignoring the thought that I should pour a bucketful of ice over me. The delightful feeling down there persists, reminding me of the passionate sex we had. I trace my fingers over his spinal cord, and he moves a bit.
Getting up, I put on the nightie. I stifle a yawn and proceed to the main door. Pamela aunty greets me.
“Good morning, beta,” she winks.
I suppress the urge to roll my eyes at her and just respond with the fakest of smiles plastered over my face.
Taking the newspaper, I close the door.
I fling the papers on the table and go to the kitchen to make tea. The aroma wafting in from the Darjeeling tea will wake him up. It’s a daily ritual.
As the water boils, I am reminded of my mother. “What have you got yourself into, Shyama?”
DID I SHOOT MYSELF IN THE FOOT?
After all, hadn’t I gotten myself into this situation? They say people dig their own graves; I seem to have fallen into it voluntarily and decided to settle there as well.
It wasn’t like that before. My parents have always been the epitome of liberalism. I completed my post-graduation, and after that, I took up a job with an IT firm.
Huh! IT! The place where people have fun. Where workers booze during weekends. Where colleagues of opposite sexes mingle and, horror of horrors, make out in offices.
This was the trash fed to my parents by well-meaning relatives and acquaintances.
I wasn’t too close with my colleagues. They would all make plans to go out somewhere after work. To decompress, they called it. I had to come back home so that my parents didn’t worry about anything untoward happening to me. But it was more to satisfy the wagging tongues of the many aunties in the family who were appalled that my parents were ‘letting me work’ instead of getting me married.
But finally, my parents succumbed. Mohan was from a well-off family. He didn’t smoke or drink. Aunties went orgasmic, outlining his virtues. He didn’t seek dowry. And so I was bundled off to his house, which had an AC and a cook. I would live like a queen, I was told. And maybe I did.
The AC ensured that I didn’t wake up in the night, bathed in my own sweat. The cook dished out delicious meals one after the other. But was I happy? Was I a bad wife if I didn’t enjoy the sex? Was it my failure if I didn’t orgasm? Mohan hardly talked. His monthly targets gave him more joy than my body. Or was I being unreasonable?
AM I A CHEAT?
It was then I met Ashok. I bumped into him at a bookshop. We shared a similar love for Milton and Tennyson. Gradually, we got closer, and before we knew it, we had crossed the line. So, this was how a man makes love to a woman! His house was the size of a room in a chawl; he had no AC. But he loved and respected me. Ashok made me feel intelligent. Mohan had even refused to discuss what was wrong with him. These were matters beyond the comprehension of a woman.
My parents were aghast. Divorce was hitherto unheard of in our family. Aunties flashed an I-told-you-so look at them. This was the result of too much freedom given to me; they hissed. But finally, they came around.
I’LL TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR EVERYTHING!
The tea leaves now have that right hue. I pour hot milk over them. The shuffling of footsteps tells me Ashok is behind me. He grabs me from behind and nuzzles my nape. But there is no time for a quickie, as shown in films. I must rush to the office, for it is appraisal time. Ashok promises to celebrate that in the evening. He has already booked a table for two at a costly restaurant. He is sure I will get a high rating. And that’s reason enough to indulge ourselves for a day. I turn back and ruffle his hair, giving him a peck on his lips. It’s been a difficult time for him. He shares with me his insecurities at work. I assure him that I will stand by him forever.
Those aunties might snigger over my present state. She has jumped from the frying pan into the fire. But I know what I have gotten myself into. And I owe any success or failure to myself. I refused to blame, or even praise, others for my change of fortune.
There are challenges galore. But Ashok and I will face them.
With that, I switch off the flame. We enjoy our morning sip. The fan starts to whir.
We heave a sigh of relief.
By Narayani V Manapadam
“Narayani is an IT Professional lost in the dreary world of Excel. When time permits, she loves to get lost in the maze of Word(s). But nothing makes her happier than being a cat momma to her beloved Uttam.”
She can be contacted at fraunara@gmail.com.
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