My heart now feels like a stone. I burst into tears and I cry. I cry for all that has happened. I cry for Tanya and baby Rohit. I cry for all the years that I have spent with him which now feel like a sham. I cry for the fool I have been. But mostly, I feel terribly sorry for that stupid silly Nisha who thought that she had found heaven, the day that she married Samir and moved into his home.
How naive and foolish one is at twenty-six. How things change! Who would have thought it would come to this?
I cry for hours. The sound is alien to my own ears as it is a wounded cry I never thought I was capable of emitting, and finally, when I have exhausted my tears, I go into the children’s room. Little Tanya is sleeping peacefully in her bed, blissfully unaware that her mother’s world has just shattered into a million pieces.
She sleeps peacefully on the pink princess bed, with its motif of a crown and the other embellishments she chose herself on her sixth birthday.
‘I am a big girl now, Mama, and I will sleep on my own,’ she had said.
Baby Rohit is in a crib next to her, the same crib which Tanya had used as an infant. I kiss Tanya tenderly, taking in the softness of the cheek and the sheer innocence of her face. For a moment, I marvel at how blissful a child’s sleep can be. She does not even stir in her sleep. I kiss Rohit and inhale the warm baby smell, a mixture of talcum powder and softness, and that special love which babies seem to radiate.
This brings a fresh set of tears, but I bite them back quickly.
Finally, I sit on the floor next to Tanya, and no sooner do I rest my head on her bed, I fall asleep exhausted.
She wakes me up the next morning and I am unable to open my eyes.
‘Silly Mama! You slept on the floor. Wake up. Have you been drinking wine, Mama?’ she says, admonishing me in that tone she adopts when she feels she is right. She is precocious for a seven-year-old. I have always felt that she is an old soul in a young body.
I am up with a start, hearing her voice. It takes me a few seconds to figure out why I am there, and then all the events of the previous night come rushing back in. I feel like somebody has punched me hard in the face. But I have to put up a calm face for Tanya.
‘What nonsense you talk. You know Mama never drinks when papa isn’t home,’ I say and I wince inside, for I know what she will ask next.
Sure enough, she asks, ‘Mama, where is Papa?’
‘He is travelling. He has gone to Germany and will not be back for a while,’ I say. I have no idea from where Germany has come up. I hurriedly help Tanya get ready for school, by which time Rohit wakes up too.
Taking care of Rohit is not much of a challenge (although a little time-consuming), as his is a pretty set routine consisting of the usual sleep-eat-bathe-play-sleep pattern. He is a real darling and is no trouble to look after at all, unlike Tanya who was a cranky, fussy, colicky baby as an infant.
I am able to get through most of the morning because Rohit needs my constant attention. Finally when he sleeps, I get some time to myself, as there are still a couple of hours left before Tanya comes back from school.
I still cannot believe Samir has left me. Is this all a dream? I go to my phone and read his text again. A fresh wave of pain floods me. I look at our couple picture on the mantelpiece clicked during our honeymoon in Seychelles eight years back. The picture shows a younger and slimmer version of me. He still looks as gorgeous as he did on the day we got married. He has never missed his gym routine and still has a body that most men only dream of having.
Which Maya must now be discovering. I feel sick and nauseous at the very thought. She means more to him now than me. I have been discarded, thrown out. I have lived my ‘use-by date’.
In the photograph, his arms are around me, hugging me lovingly from behind. We are looking into the camera and smiling the smile of newlyweds, oblivious to the world around them, who need nobody but each other. Where, or when, did it all start going wrong? Why has he taken this drastic step of walking out?
I think back about all our years together. He did change a little after his mother’s death and was not his usual self and for a while had stopped communicating with me. But then, I had presumed that it was the normal depression that everyone goes through when they lose a parent. When had he changed this much? How had I been so darn oblivious to it?
Then I remember the journals which I started writing after my father passed away.
I am gripped with an overwhelming urge to read them now. They are in a suitcase, stored in the loft above the study. I drag the aluminium ladder towards the loft, climbing up to reach the dusty suitcase which contains all the journals, my college magazines, and some old, sentimental stuff which I did not have the heart to throw away. There are also at least eighty cards in there which Samir had given me in the early years of our marriage. How then can love die? Isn’t marriage supposed to be a ‘happily ever after’?
I find my journal and begin to read.
Nisha’s journals
2001
August 18th
Friday
How many people in the world get married within a month of their father’s death, and then go straight for a honeymoon in Seychelles? Not many, I would guess. Put like that it sounds cold, I know. But then, I really was left with no other choice. It made no sense to live in that apartment alone by myself.
Samir is a sweetheart. I could have never coped with all the funeral arrangements without him. He even lit the funeral pyre, something reserved for only a son. I don’t even remember the faces of the handful of people who turned up for the funeral. My father was a recluse, a lonely man who kept mostly to himself. I think the only people who really came were the people from my building, some of whom I knew. I did feel sorry for him. He lived his whole life with a closed heart ever since my mother died. In all the years that I have known him, I do not remember any person ever visiting us as his friend. He had lived his life in pain and punishment, but he had inflicted it on himself and, in a less obvious way, on me too, by shutting me out completely from his life. I had learnt to suppress my pain and disguise it with a big smile and my wit. How I had longed for his approval all my life. How I had longed for him to just once appreciate my school marks. My heart had cried and cried all through the growing up years. I had tried and tried to get through to him, but he had always remained a stone. The tears had all dried up now. In a strange way, I felt like a huge burden was lifted off me. I did not shed a single tear at his passing away.
I guess a part of me should have been grateful to him for bringing me up. Had he been a loving father who genuinely cared, who had been there for me when I needed him most, maybe I would have felt grateful. But I am not grateful at all. It does feel a bit odd to refer to him in past tense, but that is about all I feel, to be honest.
I don’t think anyone will ever understand me unless they have lived my life. Not even Samir. So I prefer expressing it here. If I do not express it, I sometimes feel I will explode. Writing here feels cathartic, and I am glad I started a journal. It helps me cope.
2001
August 30th
Wednesday
How strange it is that destiny or the universe or whatever force it is, has a way of making things fall into place perfectly. When Samir had suggested the Arya Samaj wedding and a simple, no-frills ceremony, I had not even thought in detail about it and had agreed. But now in retrospect, it has fitted perfectly with the society’s conception of the ‘proper thing to do’. I can play the grief-stricken bride.
All of Samir’s relatives are present. His mother and brother have flown in from London especially for the wedding. So have some of his other folks from around the globe. If they found it too odd that only Chetana and Akash are a part of it from my side, they were too sophisticated, polite, and considerate to comment on it. But what can I do? Chetana and Akash are the closest people I have had, really. I never had any real friends in school or college. I know most people would find my existence to be a lonely one, but I was fine, really!<
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I am glad that his mother is going back tomorrow. His brother left just after the wedding. His mother stayed around till we got back from our honeymoon.
(Oh, it was bliss! Seychelles is pure heaven on earth! I particularly enjoyed the lovemaking sessions under the canopy of stars on our very private deck. And my treasured memory is how we skinny-dipped, and how Samir had laughed in shock and delight! Oh, I adore him with all my heart and am so, so, so happy I found him. He truly makes me feel like I am the luckiest woman on earth!) His mother is nice and non-interfering. But somehow, I cannot connect much with her. Maybe secretly she disapproves of me—I don’t know. Samir says it is all in my head. But I do have to wear a salwar-kameez when she is around. (How could I refuse Samir when he asked so sweetly between kisses whether I would wear a salwarkameez when his mother was around?) I would have thought that staying in London she would be a little more Westernized, but she seems to have regressed into being more Indian. Anyway, it’s just until tomorrow , and then she goes back.
Samir resumes work tomorrow. I sure am going to feel strange being all by myself in this huge apartment. Samir somehow felt my continuing to work in office would not be good for his image. How can his wife be his secretary?! I did not like how he implied that a secretary’s job was something menial. But I did not want to argue with him. I guess he does have a point after all.
It remains to see how I will pass my time. Maybe I will learn to cook and read!
With a Little Help From My Friends
Reading the journal has brought back a flood of memories. It is as though a door which had been closed has suddenly opened, and you have discovered an entirely new room in your home which you had forgotten existed. It is like I want to retrace every single thing that happened ever since Samir and I got married, to examine and see if there were signs or warnings of something amiss in our marriage all along. Till Samir walked out, I never knew what pain really feels like. Never had I felt like this—not even when my father died. This pain—it feels like a vicious beast attacking me, baring its menacing claws and teeth when I am bound and gagged, and it will get my throat any moment now. Mostly, I feel helpless.
There is nothing I can do. And I think it is mostly my outrage at the injustice of it all that is making me want to wail out loudly. Tears stream down my cheeks and I get up to wash my face. Then I make a cup of tea for myself. And I settle down on the rocking chair in the balcony with my journals again.
It is funny how eight years change you, make you forget the tiny details. But when you open that door, it suddenly comes back crystal clear. It is as though the journal is the key to my past. It is as though by looking back, I can make some sense of the pieces that my life now lies in.
The next entry in the journal is on November 11, 2001.
It is just a very short entry which reads:
There are certain things that change after marriage, things which nobody will understand till they get married. Non-issues suddenly become issues. Now your spouse has a say in who your friends can be and who should remain strictly off limits. Your spouse can now also pass judgements about people whom they know little about, but most of all people who have been longer in your life than they have. I think it is very unfair.
Chetana and Akash came home today.
I wish now they had not.
The entry ends abruptly there, and I think back and recall that day in vivid detail.
It had been three weeks since I joined the baking and cooking course. I had told Samir that I was beginning to get bored at home after ten days of staying put, and that I was contemplating joining some cooking course.
‘You are going to cook?’ he had asked smiling.
‘Come on! I am not that bad a cook. Haan, I might not be as good as your Baiju Maharaj yet, but wait and see. You will soon be begging for stuff I cook.’
‘You know, Nisha, how diet-conscious I am. I am careful about what I eat, and Baiju knows exactly what I want. He’s been with me for ages. Just leave the cooking to him.’
I did feel a bit upset at the way he put it so frankly. But a marriage is all about honesty, isn’t it? I do know how very careful he is about his diet, and how he will not miss his workout at the gym for anything in the world (A lean, taut, muscular body like that of Adonis does not come without all that hard work). But still, there was no need to be so upfront about it.
‘Okay, Samir. I won’t do the course and I won’t cook for you. Happy?’
‘Hey, Nisha. Don’t get upset. Go do the course! It makes you happy, right?’
‘It’s not that it makes me happy, Samir. You are at work the whole day and when you come back, you don’t want to talk about it. I am at home the whole day. Cooking and cleaning is taken care of by your efficient staff.’
‘Not “your”, my love, it is now “OUR”. This home is as much yours as it is mine,’ he gently corrects me.
‘Well, what I am saying is that this is not how it used to be before, Samir. I felt good at work, I felt good discussing every project with you, and how you valued my inputs. And now suddenly I am at home, with nothing to do except waiting for you to get back. Then you don’t even want to discuss things that happened at office with me anymore.’
‘I leave my office worries in the office itself, Nisha. And besides, when have we really talked work after office? I need to unwind once I get back home, I need to take a breather, and talking about work is a strain. I thought you of all people would understand that.’
He was right as usual, of course. In office, we gave work our hundred per cent, but once we left office, we made it a point not to talk about it. We just ended up having some amazing sex and we were recharged for the next day.
‘Yeah, Samir, you’re right. I don’t know why I am getting so worked up these days.’
He had kissed me on the forehead and said, ‘Go do the course baby, you will feel good.’
The course turns out to be a very good one. When it came to cooking, I knew only the basic items like rice, dal, rotis, and a few vegetables. In my growing up years, Malati Tayi had cooked for us, and after she passed away, I had managed the basics. My father never cooked, except for the regular cups of tea he made for himself. He had once said that my mother had been a really superb cook. So maybe it was genetic, I don’t know, but I find myself really interested in learning all that the course instructor has to teach. She is Mrs Indrayani, a round, fat, Punjabi lady, and she proudly announces that food is her passion. It shows.
We have learnt how to bake a mouth-watering pineapple cake. The course includes everything—right from starters to main course to desserts. It includes the basic dishes from four styles, namely, Mughlai, Continental, Indian, and Chinese. I get to learn the various terminologies used in cooking; I learn the difference between sautéing and blanching, and the julienne style of chopping vegetables. I also learn how in Chinese cooking, cutting the vegetables with precision is the most important thing, and how it has to be cooked on very high flame for very little time.
Baiju has already cooked for the day and left. But I badly want to cook, to try out all that I have learnt in my cooking class. I zero in on a sumptuous-sounding Chinese meal and decide to go shopping for the ingredients I would need. When I finally make it, I am so pleased with the results. The fried rice and noodles are cooked to perfection. So are the stir-fried vegetables in hot garlic sauce. And so is the chilly–garlic chicken. I am so darn proud of my first home-cooked meal that I simply sit and gaze at it in admiration. It looks so professional for a first timer! Maybe I do have my mother’s natural flair for cooking. In a strange way, I feel connected to my mother, and it has been ages since I have thought of her.
I feel so happy that I immediately call up Samir to tell him of my culinary achievement. He listens and then says that it is a good thing, but he is in an important meeting and will get back to me later. I apologize and tell him that there is a lot of food and I would like to call my friends over to celebrate. He distractedly agrees.
/> I have been in touch with Chetana and Akash ever since I got back from Seychelles. I now feel a kind of special bond with them because they actually made so much effort to be with me throughout my wedding, playing the part of my family.
I call them and insist that they come to my home straight from work and that I will not take a ‘no’ for an answer.
‘But, Nisha, it will take us at least one and a half hours to get to your place from Andheri,’ says Chetana.
‘So when did distance become an issue to visit an old friend? Get Akash and just come!’ I order.
‘He has his tennis practice and you know how important that is for him.’
‘Tell him I said I will get very upset if he doesn’t come and that he can give up his tennis for just one day.’
Finally they arrive. I squeal in joy as I open the door and hug them. It is the first time I am meeting them after my marriage. They are completely impressed with my home, just as I was when I had stepped into this house with Samir, for the first time all those months ago. It is now my home too. They can’t stop raving about the house, the skylight, the view of the ocean, the airy balconies, the well done-up interiors, and the location.
‘Nisha, you are so darn lucky to be living here!’ exclaims Akash. Chetana too is undisguised in her admiration and oohs and aaahs at appropriate places, as I give them a walking tour of my home.
Samir watches us with an amused look on his face. He has come a little earlier than usual.
I have set the table well and it looks very attractive with placemats and the tablecloth and cutlery neatly arranged. (Table setting is a part of the course as well, and I am a proud student today.) Chetana and Akash just cannot believe that I have done all the cooking. Akash asks me to confess whether I got it from a restaurant. I tell them about my cooking course and how much I am enjoying it.
Tea for Two and a Piece of Cake Page 8