Love Lasts Forever

by Khanna, Vikrant

  Her eyes fell on it and eyed me skeptically. ‘What’s that?’

  She rose from the bed and with a faint smile and raised eyebrows headed for the letter. My heart thumped when she ran her fingers through the words on the envelope – ‘For my beautiful wife!’ it said.

  Very slowly she slid the letter out as if to enjoy every moment of it.

  And then, she began reading it.

  My dear Shikha,

  From where do I even begin? More than a decade has passed, and yet, it feels as if I fell in love with you only today. The spark and passion hasn’t receded, if anything, it’s only grown by leaps and bounds, with each passing day.

  What would I ever do without you? I often wonder and fail miserably to answer my question that rings occasionally in my mind. I would rather be dead, comes the only sane answer. But then, that’s not the way our love is supposed to end, my love. We’re gonna live, and grow old with each other, and die in each other’s arms, perhaps half a century later…

  A very, very happy quarterly anniversary, my dear, and here’s hoping many, many, and many more to come.

  With all my love, and then a little more,

  Your loving husband, Shekhar.

  ‘Aw Shekhar,’ she pressed the letter to her heart. ‘This is so beautiful, I love you so much.’

  She opened her arms toward me, and happily, I found myself reaching for them.

  ‘Actually…um,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘There’s a little present I’d like to give you as well.’

  We retracted slowly, and then, when she told me she was pregnant, I knew her gift was far, far better than my own.

  32. Captain’s story – 9

  1981, Nagpur

  Over the next few weeks, our happiness knew no bounds. We were on cloud nine as we were having a new member in our home. It felt all the more better as for many years it was just the two of us.

  A week after the revelation, we visited the orphanage to seek the blessing of our elders. They were all thrilled about the news and showered us with their guidance and a deluge of advice. They felt we were too young to parent a child. We never felt likewise; although, young, our maturity was at least a decade ahead of our age. Nevertheless, we had a great time there and it felt wonderful to share the news with them. The atmosphere was such as if everyone was having a child.

  Back home, I’d ensured Shikha didn’t indulge in any physical activity or work. I was assisting her in the kitchen and various household chores as much as I could, after my office hours. Not that I didn’t help her before, but after reading a load of self-help books about pregnancy, we’d become paranoid. Sure they helped, but they drove us crazy. Nine months felt like an eternity.

  During the night, before falling asleep, we’d ponder over the name of our child. We thought about various names, both male and female, of course. We also anticipated the prospect of having twins, triplets, quadruplets…

  I told you, we were getting paranoid.

  Few days later, we realized it wasn’t an easy task. Both of us had to be in agreement of it, and more often than not, it wasn’t the case. What she liked, I didn’t, and vice versa. However, just that name discussion, bought us tremendous joy.

  Those days, I felt more in love with her than ever before. After all, she was the one fulfilling my eternal dream of having a family. We loved more; we kissed more, and awaited the arrival of our long-cherished dream. And then, we planned to take that dream of five kids further, right after this one.

  In the first month itself the pace of time had slowed down considerably, and in the workplace, it moved at a snail’s pace. When I returned home, I’d reach out for her belly, running my hands over it, in anticipation of that elusive bump. Of course, I’d be disappointed. May be we were too immature for just a month had passed.

  Shikha was even ahead of me in this regard. She’d already begun shopping – clothes, toys, and whatever baby stuff she could lay her hands on. It did burn a huge hole in my pocket, but then again, I’d loved that myself. In fact, I accompanied her on those shopping sprees.

  We’d begun controlling our expenses too – no more movies, no outside meals, and whatever extra we splurged on. Of course, the flowers never stopped. The money we saved, howsoever paltry, was set aside.

  That super-excited and super-exhilarated state continued for the next month, until one day, I fumbled across an envelope in the bed-side drawer while searching for some papers. My body froze at the sight of it. On the ivory colour of the envelope, following words were carved in red ink:

  ‘SURYA ABORTION CLINIC’

  33. Captain’s story – 10

  1981, Nagpur

  ‘What is this Shikha?’ I flung the envelope on her lap. She was sipping tea on the wooden chair in the balcony. I did realize that had to be the first time I’d raised my voice on her.

  ‘SHIKHA!’ I was louder this time over her complete nonchalance. ‘I’m asking you something.’

  ‘What?’ she said, turning her face toward me, ‘Can’t you see it? I got an abortion done Shekhar, what else?’

  I was taken aback. ‘BUT WHY?’

  I shook her chair. At that, some tea trembled its way out from the cup over her legs.

  ‘Aw!’ she hopped out of the chair. ‘It’s scalding!’ She cradled her legs to assuage the pain. ‘What are you doing? What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘What’s wrong with me?’ I picked up the envelope from the floor and slammed on her face. ‘What’s wrong with you Shikha? Who gave you the right to get this done?’

  She rose from the chair and looked ahead in the distance ignoring me and my question. I followed her gaze. There wasn’t anything remotely important in comparison to what I was asking. The streets were lined with dirt and garbage with few vehicles running past it, the trees at the side of the road rustled in the wind, and few children played in the muddy ground toward our right.

  A minute later, when she continued ignoring me, I took a step forward and pulled her close to face me. ‘At least tell me, Shikha.’ I was softer this time. ‘What happened? Why did you do this?’

  She took a slow breath. ‘Can’t you see it, Shekhar,’ she said in a tone that demanded sympathy. ‘The amount of sacrifices we’ve started making already even before the child is born. Imagine what would happen after that. You’ve stopped taking me out for dinner or movies; there are hardly any presents or surprises from you anymore. I don’t want a life where we are struggling do get even the basic needs, and of course, with a child, things would get worse.’

  I released her arms violently and she stumbled on her feet. ‘But why didn’t you bother discussing it with me first.’

  She maintained her poker-face. I glared at her, expecting a justified reasoning. But she didn’t even budge, continued looking in the distance.

  ‘At least say something, Shikha.’

  ‘Come on Shekhar,’ she said, avoiding my gaze, looking at the children in the ground. ‘You know if I had discussed it with you, you would have never allowed me to take this step. That time this is what felt right to me and so I went ahead with it. And besides’ - she swirled over and looked in my eyes – ‘it was growing inside me; I don’t need to take anybody’s permission to get rid of it, Shekhar.’

  With that, she stormed inside, leaving me alone with tears and a gnawing question.

  Was that our first fight?

  34. Captain’s story – 11

  1981, Nagpur

  The next few days the world felt a different place altogether. She seemed confused and irritated as though I was responsible for the abortion. We weren’t speaking to each other much and our eyes barely met. However whenever they did connect, I wanted to ask her the same question over and over again.

  Why did you get the damn abortion?

  I wasn’t sure I was satisfied with the answer she gave me few days back. I knew we’d stopped splurging on inconsequential activities, all those movies and outings, but then she’d suggested me that. And if she hated it that m
uch, why didn’t she ever tell me before?

  The more I thought, the more confused I became. But soon, I realized that money had to be the reason. Perhaps, she never wanted to embarrass me by being open of my ineptitude to earn enough money.

  I tried forgetting about the incident. We were still young and could pursue our family dream, even later, when we were well off. But even if I’d tried, I couldn’t avoid a crevice slowly forming in our relationship.

  The week following the abortion, I thought of befriending her again. I loved her madly and never wanted anything to come between us. We’d not spoken amiably since the day of our first fight and it felt a lifetime without her words. When I returned home in the evenings, she’d open the door for me with a cold look in her eyes. We didn’t kiss, we didn’t hug as before. We ate dinner quietly and after washing the dishes, she’d slip into the bed, her back toward me. On the other side of the bed, I’d hope for sleep to take over my soul and transport me into another world for the next eight hours, away from the sad realization of what my life had become.

  Once in a while, I tried striking a conversation with her, but they were often stilted, evoking only sighs and nods from her. I kept looking at her in anticipation of something, but was always disappointed. She had a permanent look of despondency on her face, and I was sure now she felt as bad as me about the adoption.

  Slowly, I took responsibility of all that had transpired in the past few days. As a man of the house, if you’re not earning enough to support your family, you have to be man enough to at least accept that. I brought myself to the conclusion that perhaps she meant well as there wasn’t another option. In just about two weeks, I had already forgiven her in my mind. That was, after all, the maximum I could have been mad at her.

  Meanwhile, my attempts at winning her back weren’t helping. Then one day, more than three weeks after the abortion, I’d made up my mind of sorting things with her. I planned to apologize to her for everything, from not earning enough to start a family to not being supportive with her decision, and more importantly for raising my voice at her, something I felt miserable about ever since that day. My heart thudded hard in my chest every time at the thought of it. How could I even do that?

  I slowly walked up to the kitchen. She was chopping vegetables, her back toward me. I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks in anticipation of her reaction. However my heart told me she’d forgive me and then I planned to love her more, be more caring and supportive, and forget about family planning until I was capable of it.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Shikha,’ I called out as softly as I could.

  ‘Hmm…’

  ‘Em, I was wondering…’ I said, closing the distance between us. ‘…can’t we forget what happened and start all over again.’

  She stopped moving her hands and kept the knife aside. After a quick glance at me behind her shoulder, she took a deep breath and turned toward me.

  ‘Look Shekhar,’ she said, her eyebrows arched and face curled in a deep frown. ‘I’m deeply hurt by what I did and in case you still do not realize the reason of my abortion, it’s you. You don’t earn enough even for the both of us, let alone our child. In the last two months in order to save money, we’ve been cutting costs everywhere. I can’t buy anything for myself or for the house and that’s when the child is not even born. How would we even survive after that?’

  ‘So what do you want Shikha?’ I asked politely. ‘You know I’m trying, at least give me some time.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ she sighed. ‘That’s all you can do, just t-r-y.’

  She turned over with a shake of her head and continued chopping the vegetables.

  ‘Come on, Shikha,’ I protested, pressing my arm against her shoulder. ‘You know I’m trying hard, one day I’ll get where you want.’

  ‘Yeah, right, one day,’ she said, not trying to hide the sarcasm from her words.

  I retracted back my arm. A little phase of silence fell between us. I contemplated what she said. Was I such a big loser? My own wife thinks that way. My Shikha thinks that way, my Shikha…

  ‘Shikha,’ I said, ignoring my thoughts. ‘I promise I’ll give you all the comforts of life some day, just give me time. Don’t turn your back at me like that, please don’t do that.’

  ‘Shekhar, come on.’ Her face was contorted when she turned around again. ‘We both know that day will never come, let’s not fool ourselves.’

  ‘Why are you saying that?’ I said, holding both her arms. ‘Don’t you trust me? And when did money become so important anyway. God, why are we even having this discussion? Do you not love me anymore?’

  ‘Of course money is important,’ she said, widening her eyes. ‘We’re not kids anymore, Shekhar, living in that orphanage. We’re adults now. Please be reasonable. We cannot survive with love alone; we need to be practical now.’

  ‘Alright Shikha,’ I said, tightening my grip on her arms. ‘I understand what you’re saying. I had promised Baba and I’m promising you, we will become well-off someday soon.’

  ‘Oh God,’ she cringed. ‘Don’t even get your Baba in all this, what did he do, huh? All his life he tried and tried, but eventually died a poor man. Even your fate would be the same.’ She let go off my hands and wagged her finger menacingly at me.

  ‘You’re just a loser like him after all.’

  35. Captain’s story – 12

  1981, Nagpur

  When did money become more important than love?

  As I slowly sipped my whiskey, the following evening, I grappled with the question ruffling in my mind. I sat in the balcony and couldn’t stop the damn tears leaking out from my eyes. I didn’t want Shikha to see them, she was inside, somewhere, or perhaps outside, I didn’t notice. My heart welled with anger as much as I tried to forget what she said yesterday.

  You’re just a loser like him after all…

  Why Baba? I rolled the glass churning the yellow liquid inside and then gulped it down in one sip. I hated its taste, but my fellow colleagues - losers like me - in my workplace told me it makes you forget what you want to forget. So, yeah, what the heck?

  I had never imagined I could ever be so angry with Shikha. She shouldn’t have said that those words, she should never have…I poured some more whiskey in the glass and topped it up with soda.

  Behind me, I heard a woman rant. ‘Yes, now, that’ll make you rich!’

  I turned round and Shikha was staring down at me in repugnance. I clenched my fingers around the glass and my lower lip trembled. My head wobbled and in a fit of a rage I hurled the glass few inches away from her evoking a loud, clattering noise when it hit the wall beside her. She recoiled away from it.

  ‘Shut up! And get the hell out of here!’ I roared.

  And then I passed out.

  When I awoke, the sun had already set and given way to the moon. It hung low in the cloudless sky, offering plumes of white to the ebony backdrop. Crickets chattered close by and the birds had begun their evening trill. I rose to me feet slowly, feeling the piercing pain in my head, and plunked down on the bed in our room.

  Few days passed this way in an alcoholic haze. I was still not able to get rid of her bitter taunt and was mad at her for denigrating my father. He wasn’t a loser. If anything, he was a man of stout character and perseverance. He sacrificed all his comforts of life for mine. In fact, he even gave place to her and her father when they needed it most.

  And now she thinks he was a loser.

  Everything is money, I decided those days, the biggest virtue of humans. Love, compassion, affection only follows it. My own wife taught me that, someone whom I thought would be the last person in the world who’d think that way. But then, I have myself to blame. That’s what happens when you love someone more than life itself…more than yourself; you blur the reality and live in a world of fantasy.

  Things were changing now. Slowly, but steadily, we were drifting apart, more so in my mind. This time I never felt of sorting things with her. I was deeply hurt
by her callousness and complete disregard to my feelings. I constrained myself in my own world of thoughts and alcohol. She too, never bothered, by the way.

  The following weeks it got even worse. On most of the days, she’d stopped cooking for me feigning a headache or fever. I’d return tired from the office only to find her sleeping or resting on the couch.

  ‘Did you cook anything today,’ I asked her one Friday evening. ‘I’m starving.’

  She was cradling her temples and her eyes were shut. At my presence, she scrunched up her face as if she was in deep pain. ‘No, I’m not feeling well today.’

  ‘Shikha!’ I said irately. ‘Cut the crap OK, this is the fifth straight day you haven’t cooked anything. Stop giving me that pained expression, always. I can’t be looking after my work and your work at the same time. I am tired when I return and need some food before I sleep. What did you do all day today apart from lying there?’

  She perked up and glared at me. ‘So you married me to have your food cooked and have someone to look after your house, is it? Why didn’t you get a maid in that case who could do all that for you?’

  Funnily enough, her pain seemed to vanish while she said those lines.

  I shook my head. ‘Just go to hell!’ I yelled before marching to my room.

  Arguments like these that our home had never seen hitherto became a routine paradigm. We often fought, seldom spoke, and never shared a cozy moment. Maybe all that hogwash they say about wife and marriage is true. There can be no such term as a happy married man. If there was, then his wife would be dead.

  In the days that followed, I wouldn’t say I tried improving our relationship, but yet, I never faltered in my duties. I still worked and, dutifully, at the end of the month handed over my entire salary to her, of course, after separating my share for the alcohol. The thought of cheating on her never occurred in mind and I remained loyal as ever. There were days when I cooked for her and yet other days when I got the groceries and other stuff for the house after her continued pretence of headache or body ache or fever or whatever.