A Breath of Fresh Air

by Amulya Malladi

  “No, I was not sure . . . not entirely,” I snapped. “Happy? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “No, what I wanted to hear was that you love me so much that it doesn’t matter whether divorcing Prakash was the right thing or not,” he said, his eyes bleak. “You have always been fascinated with him and ever since you saw him again . . . I feel like you have been wondering if maybe life with him would have been better than what you have with me.”

  “That is not true!”

  “Why do you want me to hate him, Anjali?”

  “Because I hate him. Because of what he did to me . . . to Amar.”

  He laughed without humor and shrugged. “I don’t think you hate him. I think you are obsessed with him. You want me to hate him in your place, because you can’t.”

  “Is that how you really think I feel?” I demanded.

  “You don’t hate Prakash. You’ve never hated him. He is the man who shattered your dreams, but he is also the man who was there first,” Sandeep said with passion. “And maybe somewhere in that soul of yours you feel that he was the right choice, I was the wrong one.”

  I was speechless for a few seconds.

  “I can understand your regret at marrying me—” he continued, when I jumped out of bed and interrupted him.

  “I never regret marrying you,” I cried out. “I just wasn’t sure if the divorce was . . . the right . . . the only thing to do.”

  “It is the same thing, Anjali.”

  He had never been this difficult before. We had lived a comfortable life with little thought of the past, until Prakash showed up in Ooty.

  “It is not the same thing,” I said weakly.

  “Are you telling me you’ve never looked at his wife and thought that she is living your life?” Sandeep demanded.

  “I don’t want her life!” I yelled. “I had her life and I didn’t like it one bit.”

  “And it took you over fifteen years to figure that out,” he argued, yelling just as loudly as I was. “Our marriage was always shadowed by the doubts in your mind.”

  “Are you telling me that this has been on your mind all these years? I thought our marriage was perfect.” I was furious.

  “Oh, I never realized that it was shadowed by your divorce until now,” he said. “But in your mind it always was.”

  “And what if it was, how does that matter?”

  “It matters,” he said. “Even if I didn’t feel it until now, you did and that . . . that, Anjali, is the issue.”

  I couldn’t believe he was saying all this. He seemed to be convinced that I regretted leaving Prakash, that I regretted marrying Sandeep.

  “I love you, Sandeep,” I said, calming myself down. “I have always loved you and I have only loved you. I had an arranged marriage in which love was not a priority. I divorced Prakash because our marriage was dead. The doubts in my mind were not mine, everyone else around me planted them. How strong do you want me to be?”

  Sandeep ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “I thought I had a whole wife, Anjali. If you were divided, you should have told me.”

  “I didn’t know myself until now,” I said. “I didn’t even think about Prakash until I saw him again.”

  Sandeep seemed to contemplate that for a minute or so and then, as if he had reached a decision, he looked into my eyes. “Would you go back to Prakash, now that he has proved he has some twisted version of integrity? After all, he did come and tell your parents the truth.”

  I stared at him in shock. “That was not integrity, that was guilt. And I am already married.”

  “What if you were not married?”

  “That is an unfair question. But if you must know, no, I wouldn’t go back to Prakash. I learn from my mistakes,” I challenged him.

  Sandeep pulled me into his arms and kissed me. He understood, he didn’t have any more doubts, I thought happily.

  Sandeep was always so certain of himself, of our marriage, of me, that his doubts that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere made me appreciate him even more. He had doubts, too—he was not infallible, as I had always thought him to be. His emotions were as fragile as mine were and I realized that I had been treating him without any regard since Prakash had entered my life again. I had selfishly exposed him to my feelings, without considering his.

  I clasped him tightly, wanting to protect him from his demons. He was human after all and I had expected him to be some god, who could bear it all.

  “I love you,” I whispered.

  “I just needed to know.” He sounded contrite.

  “I needed you to know.”

  We made love in a frenzy, tearing at each other’s clothes, urgently needing the closeness that we both were afraid we might have lost.

  “I never really doubted you,” he said, catching his breath.

  “I know.” I smiled.

  It was early in the morning when Amar woke us up.

  “Mummy, I feel funny,” he said as soon as I entered his bedroom.

  “Funny, ha, ha, or funny, peculiar?” It was a game we’d played for years and he usually laughed when I said that.

  “Funny, peculiar,” he said, clutching his chest.

  I saw his pale face and cried out for Sandeep.

  TWENTY

  PRAKASH

  Why did you talk to her?” I yelled in disbelief. I knew she was capable of doing something this brazen, I just thought she would have the better sense not to.

  “I wanted to apologize on your behalf, Prakash,” Indu snapped. “And don’t yell at me, my head hurts.”

  “You’ve been drinking yourself silly for the past few days. What is wrong with you? Women don’t drink!”

  “Really?”

  “How many women do you know who drink? And I am not talking about your card game circle,” I said forcefully. Drinking alcohol was a new fashion amongst army officers’ wives. In the good old days when I had first been commissioned, women who drank were frowned upon; now no one seemed to care.

  “I don’t care who drinks and who doesn’t. How many women do you know who are married to divorced men?” Indu retorted.

  “Are you going to bring that up for the rest of our lives?” I demanded, regretting the attack of conscience that had made me tell her the truth about my first marriage.

  “No, just for the rest of your life,” she said, picking up the copper ashtray lying next to her and throwing it at me. I didn’t even have to duck to avoid it. Indu had terrible aim. Always did.

  The ashtray fell on the mosaic floor of the living room and clamored before settling into inertia.

  “You shouldn’t have talked to her, Indu. It is none of your business,” I said softly. “She is in the past and it is over. . . . Can we please move on?”

  Indu smiled cynically. “Move on? It is so easy for you to say that. It is so convenient to just push it under the rug and . . .”

  I raised my hand to silence her. “Enough, Indu.”

  “Did you even think what would happen if you went to her house to talk to her parents? Did you even stop to consider what problems might come her way?”

  I hadn’t, but I didn’t want Indu to know that, so I shrugged with indifference.

  “Ooty is a small place, Prakash, and she is a schoolteacher. If people in her school knew she was a divorcée, do you think it might cause some problems for her?” Indu asked.

  “I did what I thought was right.” But her words had hit the spot. As usual, I had been selfish, thinking about myself and no one else. I had been doing it for so long, it had become a character trait, almost as if it was genetic.

  “You did what you thought was right,” she said, her tone laced with sarcasm. “You infidel son of a bitch—”

  “Are you fighting?” my daughter’s tiny voice interrupted Indu. She was peeking into the living room from the hallway. Her eyes wide, questioning, and her lips set mutinously.

  I opened my arms and Mamta ran into them. I swung her up high and then held her. “No one
is fighting, beta. Mama and I are just talking.”

  She moved her face away to look at me and raised an eyebrow comically. “What does in . . . fi . . . de—”

  “Means nothing,” Indu snapped, then smiled at Mamta, who appeared to be ready to take issue with the snapping. “Nanima sent some ladoos. Do you want one?”

  My mother-in-law often sent sweets or clothes or something else for the children. Indu was an only daughter, and a spoiled daughter she was. When Indu and I announced that we were getting married, her parents had tried everything they could do to stop us. I even had to meet with her father, where he threatened me with dire consequences if I didn’t leave his daughter alone. When I told Indu about the conversation, she raged at her parents for days and, finally, her doting parents gave in to their darling daughter’s desire. They married her off to me and never again showed even an iota of disapproval.

  Now after all these years of marriage, they had even started to like and appreciate me. Though they probably always thought that Indu could have done so much better than to marry a divorced man.

  Mamta forgot about our loud voices and went inside the kitchen, squealing loudly about the sweets.

  Had I done too much damage to Anju’s reputation? I must have. Anju’s parents refused to see me as the bad guy. They were still convinced it was her fault because she hadn’t tried hard enough to make our marriage the roaring success they thought it could have been.

  I decided to go to Anju’s house the next day and talk to her and clear it up. I wanted to let her know that I hadn’t wanted to cause any trouble, I just wanted to let her parents know the truth.

  I slept in the guest room that night because Indu locked the door of our bedroom from the inside. For someone who had calmly married a divorced man, she was certainly behaving strangely. Was she angry because she now knew that it was Anju who had divorced me? Or was it the reason why Anju divorced me that bothered Indu?

  I hadn’t told her about Amar yet and now I didn’t have the courage to do it at all. She would probably kick me out of the house if she knew I was the reason a young boy couldn’t walk by himself and was going to die.

  I had never been Indu’s hero. She was the antithesis of Anju. She didn’t hero-worship army officers; she had been raised in the army. I knew that with Indu there would be none of the shenanigans that Anju had tolerated and that was one of the reasons why I had married her. Indu was a stronger woman, not supple and naïve like Anju. Well, the Anju who had married me. Toward the end she had not been naïve and supple. I had hardened her and made her cynical and cold. Maybe her new husband was a better man—but I didn’t really want that myself.

  On a baser level, I wanted to be the only man in Anju’s life because I had been the first. Since that was not possible, I hoped that her new husband was no better than I had been. I wished that her second marriage was no better than what she had had with me.

  The next morning I left the house before Indu woke up. She had stayed in our room all night and I knew things weren’t going to be any different for a while. I had never spent the entire night alone in the guest room, but this time I had. Usually when we fought Indu would join me and cajole me into a good mood. Usually Indu would be the one at fault and she would always apologize and then we’d make love. I knew that this time Indu thought I was at fault and I should be the one to apologize. But I hadn’t done her any wrong. I had been the best husband and the best father I could. I had never cheated on Indu or abused her. I couldn’t understand why she was so upset.

  I hesitated when I told my Jeep driver where I wanted to go, but I ended up at Anju’s doorstep once again. I had come from my office and was in uniform, my stars shining, my clothes neatly ironed—I looked like the brigadier I was. For a while I had even worn a moustache to complete the army officer look; but Indu said it tickled and I had let the moustache go.

  An older woman, in white, opened the door.

  “Can I speak with Anju . . . Anjali?” I asked politely, suddenly remembering she would be at school. I was so used to thinking of her as a housewife, I had forgotten she now worked. How modern! She used to hate the idea of working outside the house—she used to believe that the man should bring home the money and take care of the bills and provide for the wife and the children.

  Was Anju working because she and her husband needed the money? Of course she was, I thought smugly. With a sick son at home, wouldn’t she rather be at home, instead of working for a meager schoolteacher’s salary?

  The woman who opened the door looked at me suspiciously, and for a moment I thought that she would shut the door on my face.

  “She is a married woman now,” she said angrily, and I nodded.

  “I know, I just wanted to talk to her or . . . her husband.” I added the husband part to convince her that I was here on honorable business.

  The woman sniffled a little, as if at the brink of tears.

  “They are in the government hospital. Amar, my nephew, fell very sick early in the morning.”

  I felt my stomach fall down. “How sick?”

  “We don’t know. Sandeep said he would come home . . . and tell me.” She started to cry. “That boy is pure gold. Nothing bad should happen to him.”

  “I will go . . . to the hospital and check,” I said impulsively. And once I said it, I knew I had to do it. That boy was there because of me. He was my responsibility, too. “And I will make sure someone lets you know how he is doing.”

  I got back into the Jeep before she could say anything and instructed the driver to go to the government hospital and to make it fast.

  The hospital, like all hospitals, smelled of disinfectant and medicines. The hospital, like all government hospitals, was dirty and messy. Sick people were lying on the floor because there weren’t enough beds to accommodate the poor. It seemed infested with diseases. This place would make a healthy person sick. Why the hell would anyone bring their child here?

  I knew the answer to that one: lack of money. I was used to military hospitals that were sterilized and everything was done with the precision the Indian army was known for. This was a far cry from the clean military hospital I had taken Mohit to a month ago when he had a fever.

  It was easy to find Anju. She and her husband were in the lobby of the intensive care unit. I assumed that their son was in one of the ICU rooms.

  Anju was sitting on a bench with her husband. He had his arm around her and they were rocking each other, comforting one another.

  He saw me first. I was noticeable in my uniform and he moved his head in acknowledgment.

  She raised her head slowly and her eyes fell on me. For an instant she was shocked and then she flew toward me in a rage.

  “What are you doing here?” she yelled, ignoring a nurse who tried to shush her. “Go away! Get the hell out of here. Now.”

  I stood there helplessly. “I . . . went to your house . . .”

  “Go away!”

  The nurse looked at me angrily and motioned toward the door.

  “He is going to die,” Anju yelled. “Do you know that? Did anyone tell you that? Is that why you are here? To see?”

  “No,” I said hoarsely. Tears filled my eyes and clogged my throat. “I . . . I wanted to make sure he was okay.”

  “Why? What is he to you?” she demanded acidly.

  Her husband came and stood beside her. He put his arm around her and she collapsed against his shoulder, whimpering softly.

  “I just wanted to check,” I said to her husband because she didn’t seem rational. “I . . .”

  “I think you should leave and maybe . . . come back later,” her husband said politely and calmly. “She has had a—”

  “Don’t come back later. Never come back. This is because of you.” Anju’s head reared up again. “You left me that night and now he is going to die. I should’ve died, too. Wouldn’t that have been perfect for you? You could’ve gone on fucking that bitch and—”

  “Anjali,” her husband silence
d her with just her name. He didn’t say it in anger or even loudly, he said it patiently, gracefully. “Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll see him out?”

  “Why will you see him out? What is he to you?” she asked wildly. Her eyes were red, swollen, and her untidy hair flowed loosely and framed her face.

  Anju’s husband made her sit down, then he walked out with me into the open area beyond the doors of the intensive care unit lobby.

  “I am really sorry,” I began, and he waved his hands in dismissal.

  “She is just distressed and . . . since she blames you, she got very upset,” he said. “I am Sandeep Sharma.” He held out his hand and I shook it like an automaton.

  “Brigadier Prakash Mehra,” I said. He knew who I was, but I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Why are you here, sir?”

  He asked me with such frankness that I couldn’t lie. “Because I feel responsible for your son’s illness.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “He is our son. You are not responsible in any way.”

  “But I did this to him, to all of you.” It was not a man’s place to cry, but it was not every day that I found out I was to blame for a little boy’s impending death. “I forgot to pick her up and . . . One night and all our lives have changed forever.”

  Sandeep just stood there. “Please don’t feel responsible. It was an accident.”

  “I never meant this to happen.”

  “You couldn’t have known,” he agreed.

  I looked at my polished shoes and then at him. “I . . . can arrange for . . . I can try at least to move your son to the military hospital. They have better doctors and they have better services.”

  For a moment I wondered if I had insulted him.

  “If you could manage that, we would be very grateful,” he said humbly.

  “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “If it will make my son comfortable, sir, I will sell my soul.”

  I started to pull strings as soon as I reached my office. I called Colonel Puri, who commanded the military hospital, and asked if he could do anything. According to the rule book, Colonel Puri couldn’t do anything, but he and I knew each other from before and he owed me a few favors.