What Do You See When You Look in the Mirror?

by Nikita Singh

  I clutch your hand as we sit in tight embrace, the doctor in front of us – frigid and still. I’m unable to look away from his face, staring at him silently till he looks at you and asks if we’re ready. I nod, ever so slightly, and hear you say yes. I hear the crack in your voice. I hear your heart pound in your chest. I can’t stand it. I’m the pessimist, not you. I’m the one supposed to drag you down, and you’re the one supposed to prop me up. I’m doing my part and you’re bailing on yours, upsetting the balance of our entire relationship. I know what he’s going to say even before he says it. I always knew it ends here. I don’t need confirmation. I look away from his face to yours. I follow the teardrop that escapes the corner of your eye, and I collect it on my finger. I make measured movements, afraid that moving too much will make me die faster. I hear what he is saying in your face, in your sniffs and your gentle trembles. I see it in the way you don’t look at me; I feel it in the way your fingers crush mine. I feel it in the dryness of my lips, the raggedness of my breath. I don’t want to feel it anymore, when your body shakes and heaves as you pull me closer. I fall into your desperate embrace, frigid and still.

  You said family is what’s most important to you. You told me I was your family now and assured me that your relatives would love me, your new fiancée. You brought me to your home, promising to be by my side the entire time. You lied. You disappeared right after introducing me to your parents. You went up to your old room, excusing yourself for a second to take a phone call, leaving me glancing towards the dark stairwell, giggling nervously at your father’s jokes. You told me they would love me, but I could tell that your mother didn’t. You have her dark eyes, and your father’s every other feature. Later, you sat next to me at the dinner table, and I kept my eyes lowered, out of anger and nerves. You laughed comfortably, contagiously, and soon we were all having the good time that you promised. You disappeared once again, at the end of dinner, leaving me alone with your parents a second time. But this time, the air felt warmer. You returned with your brightest smile, like your ploy had been successful. You hugged your parents goodbye and they hugged me goodbye and, once in the car, we hugged each other. You made me a part of your family that night.

  I have told you so many times that I don’t want to see anyone. I see the sadness in their eyes, but I see the pity too. I don’t want to be pitied. I am resigned to my fate. I feel that part of my meagre time with you is being robbed from me when others are present. I search for you, my eyes darting from one mournful face to another. I am alive, but they look at me as though they’re seeing my dead body. I smile weakly at my mother’s face, and my father wraps his arm around her, bringing her to me. I feel my throat close up as they sit beside me on the bed and look up towards the door. I follow their gaze to find you and your parents. I see the red bridal chunni, embroidered in gold, that your mother is holding, and the little box of sindoor in your palm. I am not interested in this drama, but have decided to endure it. I didn’t expect the flood of emotions that engulf me, surrounded by the people I love the most, grieving my death while I’m still alive. I begin to sob as our mothers fuss over me, making me pretty for my groom. I touch your face as you draw a straight line with vermilion through the parting in my hair. I do not deserve you. I never did anything to deserve someone as generous and affectionate as you. I don’t want to ever leave you, but, if I have to, I can’t imagine a better way to depart than dying in your arms.

  You refuse to let go of me, long after I’m gone. You cling to my lifeless body. You weep into my chest. You’re talking to me and I hear you, looking down at you. You tell me how you would give anything to get me back. You tell me that I was your reason to live. You talk to me about the kids we never had. You share with me the dreams that were never realized. You whisper into my heart about the beautiful nights that we spent together. You tell me how you regret the pain that I was in towards the end, how you would have happily traded your own health for my suffering. You lift yourself up, off my cold body and study my face. Your body shakes violently, your eyes the colour of faded blood. Your hair is patchy, your lips like chalk. You aren’t speaking anymore. You look around the silent room in desperation, searching for … what? Your gaze rests on my closed eyelids, willing them to open for you, to take away your misery. You hold both my hands in yours and rest your elbows on the bed. You sniff back your tears. You look up, directly at me.

  I watch you from above. I feel cool air blast from behind me, throwing my hair into my face. I turn around to a tall, dark figure staring down at me. I glide backwards, only to find myself trapped, without an escape in sight. I see the dark figure approach me, I see you on the other side. I can’t come back to you. I don’t know where to go. I wait. I watch.

  I freeze when it comes closer to me.

  I have a choice, it tells me.

  I know I do. I had heard you say anything too.

  I have a decision to make.

  I can go back, live.

  I can live, but you have to die.

  I can’t live if you die, no.

  I bargain for your life.

  I can live, if you lose your legs.

  I watch.

  You will feel my faint heartbeat under your palm. You will jump up in shock, exhilaration. You will squeal, leap and sprint till someone hears you. You will inform them of the miracle. You will follow the doctor back to my room and watch her confirm your belief. You will hold me till the world pauses for us and time ceases to exist. You will plant your forehead against mine, as tears flow freely down our cheeks. You brought me back to life and you will nurse me back to health. You will feed me, you will bathe me, you will read to me. You will be at my service, day and night, yielding to even my smallest demands. You will hold my hand and shiver with euphoria when the doctors tell us that I will be fine. You will be buoyant, dear husband. You will be the happiest man on the planet. You will arrange for all my belongings to be brought over to your house – our new home. You will animatedly recount our blessings to our friends and family visiting us at the hospital. You will wipe the sweat off my forehead when I wake up in the middle of the night, haunted by a nightmare, a curse. You will take me to our new home. You will lose your legs.

  I will see it happen. I will agree with you when you express disbelief that a fall that minor claimed both your legs. I will express my shock at your paralysis. I will drive you to the hospital for repeated tests, till they figure out what’s causing your bones to freeze. I will roll your wheelchair to the doctor’s desk. I will adjust the blanket over your lifeless legs and clutch your clammy hands. I will scream at the doctor and blame him for this tragedy. I will cause a scene and threaten to sue the hospital. I will do it, so you don’t have to. I will do it for as long as you need me to. I will stop when you grow tired. I will take you to our new home. I will feed you, bathe you, read to you. I will be at your service, day and night, yielding to even your smallest demands. I will work from home, so that I can be with you whenever you need me. I will buy you the exorbitantly priced wheelchair we read about online. I will not tell you the truth behind my miracle and your catastrophe. I will know with every bone in my body that I couldn’t live without you. I will stand by your side. I will make love to you when you lie awake at night. I will let you be powerful in the dark. I will let you hurt me. I will rest my palm on your heaving stomach and whisper to you about your strength as you fall asleep.

  You will stop smiling. You will spend your days in front of a bright screen, your ears covered in giant headphones. You will use them as a shield against me, to tune me out. You will play football with your thumbs. You will play cricket with your fingers. You will attend concerts on your computer screen. You will not let me bathe you. You will refuse to let our friends visit. You will repeatedly ignore your mother’s phone calls. You will continue to prove your masculinity at night. You will not look at me. You will leave purple blotches on my neck. You will read about your disease and then erase the browsing history. You will stay awake
, curling inward from the phantom pain in your numb limbs. You will pretend that I am not there, lying awake next to you. Your hands will slide inside your pants at the sight of naked anime characters on your screen. You will thank me for breakfast. You will hate yourself. You will tie my limbs to the bedposts with the straps you ordered on the internet. You will wash your hands in your plate after dinner. Your fingers will close around my throat till I can’t smell the cheap latex anymore. You will tell me that you love me. You will pull me to you and rest your head against my swollen belly. You will kiss it. You will tell me that I am your everything.

  I will come dangerously close to telling you. I will refrain at the last moment, aware that admitting the truth wouldn’t change what has already occurred. I will stare at my reflection in the mirror, counting the purple patches on my skin. I will not risk you leaving me upon learning the truth. I will believe that you can’t live without me, and I can’t live without you, so I will wait patiently, month after month, for the real you to resurface. I will walk out of the door – light, free. I will take my time, deliberating over different brands of soap to buy. I will always come back to you. I will wear my brightest smile; the smile I learned from you, when you were you. I will cherish your good days, when we will watch cricket together. I will clutch you by your armpits and pull you on to the toilet seat. I will conceal the marks on my neck with make-up. I will pull you up from the floor, back on the bed. I will wait for you. I will look at you touching yourself to anime characters. I will clutch my belly. I will realize that I lost you a long time ago, to a miracle. I will ruffle your hair. I will kiss your lips. I will walk out of the door – light, free.

  Good for Nothing

  When the light turns green and I begin to accelerate, my scooter lets out a familiar, dull growl. I draw comfort from this familiarity as I feel the worn-out rubber handles under my palms. I indicate left, check the rear-view mirror and wait for an opening to turn. My reflection stares back at me. I look like a child in my round yellow helmet, a thin cotton scarf draped around my face and neck, with only my eyes showing, like a cocoon, in a puny attempt at insulating myself from heat and dust.

  Heat and dust don’t frighten me. Nothing that’s not a part of me has that ability. I’m only afraid of what’s inside of me. My memories, my nightmares, the incompetence of my body, the fear of history repeating itself.

  We got excited too early the first three times. The first time we didn’t just get our hopes up, we didn’t even consider another possible outcome. We took it for granted, as if it was a sure-shot thing. We were reasonably young and in good health, so if we tried to have a baby, we would have a baby. End of story. Not end of story. The story didn’t end that way. The story ended with us having three miscarriages within the frame of nineteen months.

  The first time I miscarried, we were shocked. We froze, became alert, processed what had happened. Then we read about it. We found out that among women who are aware that they are pregnant, about one in eight pregnancies end in miscarriage and manymore miscarriages happen before a pregnancy is even discovered. The doctor couldn’t give us a reason for my miscarriage. It’s just something that happened. She also did not give us any reason to stop trying.

  We didn’t recover from the second miscarriage that quickly. Only 2 per cent of women experience two pregnancy losses in a row. We were an anomaly. This was out of the ordinary. It took us far longer to move on from that. When we did, Talha did it with care and hesitation, I did it with a vengeance. I was terrified and a burning need to prove something festered within me – a bad combination.

  The third loss shattered me. Only about 1 per cent of women experience three consecutive pregnancy losses. I was in the 1 per cent. Talha and I spent innumerable nights awake in bed together, our hearts aching, bodies curled into each other, protecting and protected.

  The doctor told us that my body was suffering. It needed rest, proper recovery. She told us to wait. That news didn’t have any significance. It didn’t affect our plan, because we didn’t have a plan. We weren’t even thinking about next time. We were mourning this time and the two times before this. We clung to each other to survive, and, if we succeeded, that survival would be enough for us.

  In the end, the loss didn’t rip us apart. It fused us together into a unit, strong and unwavering. Our love for each other expanded and filled the holes in our hearts. We cherished each other as the most precious gifts we’d ever had the honour to receive. And that was enough. That was more than what most people have in a lifetime.

  And then, there was another gift. My body recognized its presence immediately. I was terrified. I began moving with care; every step I took was deliberate, vigilant. I did all the right things the doctors, books and YouTube videos tell women in their first trimester to do. I did them without thinking about them, from muscle memory, as a force of habit. I braced myself for the impending doom, and spared Talha. I had to suffer, but if I could protect him, I had to do so. I owed it to the person I loved the most.

  Only, things went differently this time. I waited for the doom, but it never came. Now, on my way back from the hospital, where the gynaecologist confirmed that the baby is in perfect health, my mind is buzzing with all that needs to be done. We’re out of the risk zone. I can allow my shoulders to slacken, my jaws to unclench, my heart to open up, and accept the joy and hope. If fortune continues to favour us, our family will welcome a precious new member before my thirty-fifth year around the sun.

  I am ready to leave the past, with all its gloom and suffering, behind and start anew. I hadn’t expected to feel this way, so the moment this thought hits me, I am taken by surprise. I didn’t think there was that much in my past that I needed to leave behind. Until this moment, I had thought I already had moved on from those things.

  There’s a lot I need to do in these six months before my due date. Talha is travelling for work, so the good news will have to wait till he comes home in four days. I can’t bear to tell him over the phone. After everything we’ve gone through, all the difficult times, we deserve a happy moment in each other’s embrace when I tell him.

  We will tell our families together. I will have to talk to my boss at the newspaper and negotiate a maternity leave. We will have to plan for the baby’s arrival, accumulate everything it will need. I try to make a list in my head, but there are too many ideas, broken fragments of sentences, spinning around in there. I can’t put them in order; not yet. Not till I address the most pressing issue first.

  When I reach Navlakha Square, I turn on to Azad Nagar Road, towards Jyoti’s house, hoping I could borrow her car. Depending on how difficult the task at hand proves to be, I might even need Jyoti to come with me and help. I hope she’s home and available to help me abduct a grown man and hide him away in my bedroom.

  ‘Aunty Ji, sab theek hai. All is well. You don’t worry about me. Talha will be back very soon,’ I say as nonchalantly as I can. ‘Thank you for bringing this … dish for me. Did you say it’s gatte ki sabzi? Is gatta a vegetable?’

  My neighbour, who is appropriately distracted by that foolish question, guffaws. ‘Hey bhagwan! No, it’s not a vegetable, it doesn’t grow on trees! Gatta is made from besan. The way to do it is you take besan and mix in spices like heeng, haldi, dhaniya and mirchi powder. You can also put ajwain, but I don’t like the taste personally, so I toh skip it. Then you mix it together with water …’

  As she gives me the step-by-step recipe of gatte ki sabzi, a dish I’ve cooked a hundred times, I slowly lead her in the direction of the front door. The layout of my flat is quite unusual. It’s built in the shape of a square. You enter through the front door into a small room with four more doors. The wall directly in front has two doors, one leading to the living room and the other to the bedroom. To the left is the kitchen and to the right is the bathroom. All the rooms are really small, but I’m thankful for the privacy the walls offer, which makes it feel like we have more space than we actually do.

  I rest my hand
on Aunty Ji’s back and lead her from the kitchen to the entrance, away from the bedroom. She chirps happily about the amount of oil and curd needed to achieve the perfect gatta consistency, and I smile and nod along politely.

  ‘That doesn’t sound too difficult,’ I comment, just to have something to say.

  ‘No, no, not hard at all. You’ll get it the first time only, pakka se, absolutely. Don’t worry. And if you have questions, you can just knock on my door right here!’ She laughs good-naturedly.

  ‘How convenient!’ I force my smile to not be as tight, as I look at the distance between my door and hers. They are far too close. Our flats are far too small. Everyone knows what goes on in everyone else’s lives every day. If I have to keep her ignorant about the presence of a tied-up man in my bedroom, I have to be extra vigilant.

  ‘Kam se kam you can untie my hands at least. This situation is just cruel.’ Amir’s back slumps against the headboard as he grumpily glares at me when I walk into the bedroom carrying a plate of food.

  ‘I will untie you when you prove to me that you deserve to be set free,’ I say merrily. I set the plate in front of him on the bed. I tear a piece of roti, dip it in the gatte ki sabzi and carry it to his mouth. As inconvenient as the uninvited guest had been, I’m actually quite pleased that I didn’t have to cook today. The overwhelming smells in the kitchen have been difficult for me to endure since the pregnancy. This wasn’t something I had experienced in my first three pregnancies, and I take the new symptom as a good sign. I look for good signs all day; I can’t help it.

  ‘Are you serious? You are going to feed me with your hands? Just untie me.’ Amir looks in disbelief from me to the bedpost. With Jyoti’s help, I had carried him to the bed and tied his wrists together with a rope. Then, for extra security, I tied them to the bedpost. I know that he won’t hurt me, that’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried about him hurting himself, or finding a way to run away. If he runs away this time, I can’t think of a way to save him. Soon, I will be too pregnant. And once I have a baby to care for … I don’t know what to expect.