The voice inside me was right—the tormenting little devil! I did crave something. I lay awake at nights fantasizing about it, and tossed and turned during my afternoon siesta aching for it. The more I tried to suppress my longing, the more it came back with renewed vigour.
Actually, it all has to do with my husband, Nishant. No, it’s not what you think. He’s really very nice. I think he is the most gentle, laid-back person you could ever come across. But that’s just it. He is a bit too . . . I don’t know . . . I can’t explain it. But the thing is, I don’t feel anything for him. Yes, it’s true—I don’t feel a thing! I mean, sure, he is very nice and all that, and I like him, but there’s no spark. And certainly no love!
Having grown up on a steady diet of Mills & Boon, Barbara Cartland, Harlequin Romance and our very own Hindi films, I’d been waiting all my life to fall in love.
It never happened in school, and I had barely started college when my marriage to Nishant was ‘arranged’.
To my petulant ‘I want to be in love and then marry’, my mother said, ‘Love will come. Nishant is perfect for you in every way, and soon you will find yourself deeply in love with him. That’s the way this is meant to be.’
Being the dutiful daughter that I was, I accepted my mother’s argument—there was no reason not to. I liked everything about Nishant.
But now . . . now I wonder . . . Even though I like him, why don’t I love him? He, in turn, seems to certainly love me and has proclaimed it often enough. So what’s wrong with me? Do other women who get into picture-perfect arranged marriages also feel the same way?
Delicately, I asked my best friend, Roma, ‘Do you . . . umm . . . love your husband?’
‘Of course, what a stupid thing to ask.’ She looked at me as if I had lost my mind.
‘I mean, is it real love? True love? The love they talk about in books and movies?’ I persisted.
She hesitated. ‘Of course it is real love. What you are talking about only happens in stories. Real love like what I have is much better!’ she said emphatically.
Going by what Roma told me, I tried to revise my thought process. Perhaps what I felt for Nishant was indeed love. I liked everything about him . . . perhaps it was not liking, it was love. Having never experienced the emotion, I had no idea what it actually felt like.
After that, I settled down into happy domesticity. But try as I might, the longing would not let up. Slowly, I began to go mad with the fierce desire to love and be loved, and it gnawed at my insides. Sometimes I caught myself staring unconsciously at other men. I felt terribly ashamed of myself. I would berate myself and try to be content with my life. Maybe I was abnormal, I thought.
This status quo would have continued had Milind not come into my life. He was the most vital symbol of manhood that I had ever seen. I can never get over my first sight of him. It was a lazy Sunday morning and I was lolling on the terrace, languidly flipping through my favourite book of poems, letting the sun dry my freshly washed tresses. Casually I looked up. And there he was, bending over his motorbike, wearing the shortest of shorts. I sucked in my breath as I looked at his strapping frame, his wide shoulders and his brawny biceps. He turned and seemed to look straight at me. My stomach lurched as I gazed at his chiselled face—all planes and angles. It was not cast in the conventionally good-looking mould. But the hypnotic eyes, crooked nose, full lips, overlong tousled hair, stubble dotting the obstinate jaw . . . all held an appeal that made him irresistible.
That evening I was filled with despair as I looked at Nishant. Try as I might, I could feel nothing for him. Nothing! There was no chemistry! I knew I could no longer continue like this. Milind had added a touch of reality to my yearnings.
After several weeks of torment, I decided that I had to do something. ‘After all, you only live once!’ the devilish voice inside me spoke.
Milind was the only child of our elderly new neighbours. He was probably a late-born to them, I surmised. After engineering, he had taken admission in an MBA course from one of the most prestigious universities in the country, which happened to be located in our city. I studied his daily routine and came to the conclusion that his early-morning jog was when I could get to know him. My years of yoga and exercise would come in handy now.
Soon enough, I was jogging alongside him and managed to strike up a tenuous friendship. I was delighted to find that I thoroughly enjoyed my conversations with him. He was intelligent, aware, articulate and vibrant. The hour-long jog would magically whiz past in his scintillating company. It was just so much fun! I truly came alive when I was with him. These mornings became the high point of my existence.
Truth be told, even though age-wise I was supposed to be . . . umm . . . not that young, inside I never felt not young! My body, mind and heart seemed to believe that they were just about sixteen. Actually, the Bryan Adams song, Eighteen Till I Die, was my anthem and I believed that it should be on my epitaph, if I ever had one. I wondered whether other women—people in general—felt this way. We grow in years but remain the same kid inside. In my head, the others were ‘aunties’ and ‘uncles’, but I was a young girl. God, too, had connived with me on this, and ensured that I looked incredibly young, which was all the more reason for me to feel like a teenager. For, whenever I looked into the mirror, the almost-child-like face that smiled back looked innocently endearing. And this is no exaggeration, I swear.
I wondered if what I was doing was wrong. But I could not help myself. I was falling for Milind and didn’t want to stop. For the first time in my life I was feeling excitement and euphoria for another person. Was this what was called love?
Perhaps . . .
Whatever it was, it was exhilarating, intoxicating, and I did not want to let it go. I was becoming addicted to this giddy feeling that Milind aroused in me.
Meanwhile, I could see that Milind, too, was smitten with me. I would catch him looking at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. He would drop in at my house on some pretext or the other and call up several times. He even made friends with the children . . . Both the children began to idolize him somewhat, for he seemed like a cool dude to them. Very often, when Milind was not out with his university friends, the four of us would play cricket or some game in the evenings, or just put on some music and dance. Nishant always came home late from office—and that suited me just fine. More and more, Milind preferred to hang out at our place, for his parents preferred a quiet house. Several months went by, and the happy friendship between us became deep and seemingly permanent.
One day while jogging, I twisted my ankle. The searing pain took me by surprise, and I sat down moaning in the middle of the road. Milind stopped and looked at me, worried.
‘I’ve twisted it,’ I mumbled.
‘Here, lean on me. We’ll rest for a while under those trees nearby,’ he said gently.
As he helped me up, the pain shot up again. I sank to the road again with an involuntary ‘Ouch’.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll carry you,’ he said, looking very concerned.
He lifted me into his arms. With my arms around his sinewy neck and back, I felt like a girlish Mills & Boon heroine. With lowered eyes, I gazed at the faint perspiration dotting his upper lip. I don’t know whether it was the ankle or the proximity to him, but I began to feel faint. I rested my head against his shoulder. He shivered. As he was about to lower me on the dewy grass, I looked straight into his eyes, letting him look deep into my soul. He inhaled sharply and leaned into me as though about to kiss me. Then, coming to his senses, he jerked back and laid me on the grass. His breathing was fast and shallow. He lowered himself next to me, careful not to look at me.
After what seemed like an eternity, I broke the silence. ‘Milind,’ I began, my voice throaty.
He turned towards me.
Looking at his compelling face, I was unable to speak further. I only knew that I had these mad feelings for him. I wanted him to be mine—and reason, logic, society be damned.
He saw the
emotions flit across my face.
‘I’m in love with you,’ he said gravely.
Hearing the words, a fierce, ecstatic joy coursed through my entire being. I felt as if the very depths of my soul had become submerged in a sea of happiness. This is what I had been yearning for, this was what made life meaningful, what would make my life complete, my mind chanted.
‘I love you,’ I whispered.
At these words, Milind leaned towards me and took me in his arms. Gosh! I felt aroused, content, safe, secure, satisfied, comforted and excited . . . all at once. I was home at last.
Keats’s words washed over me from deep within my subconscious:
Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;
Their lips touch’d not, but had not bade adieu.
‘But your husband?’ Milind broke the spell.
‘I have never loved him.’
Milind nodded.
‘But yes, he is, of course, my husband—the father of my children.’ There was no denying the cold reality.
He put a finger to my lips. ‘It’s okay, I understand,’ he murmured, reaching down and placing a gentle kiss on my forehead.
This simple gesture made me feel cherished in a way I had never experienced before. Words were unnecessary. There seemed to be an ethereal, yet tangible bond between us that was way beyond our mortal selves.
Now my life goes on as before—peaceful and serene—except for my passion for Milind. And whenever anybody comments on my good fortune, I can truthfully agree and say, ‘Yes, I really am the luckiest woman in the world.’
10
Untold Affection
Aarthika Mathialagan
Selva stared into the void as he pressed the receiver of his landline to his ear. He felt as if his heart would explode; he could feel it thumping in his mouth.
Come on, Selvadurai, talk to her . . . Say something. Anything. Just talk.
Selva was boosting himself up, and then ‘click’.
Somebody picked up the phone.
‘Hello?’
It was her. He struggled to breathe. He tried to talk. It was as if his tongue was stuck. He slammed the receiver down, and slowly walked to the terrace of his house and climbed up the water tank. He lay on the Pattamadai mat, staring at the moon. Selva had lost count of how many times he had tried to talk to her—in school, over the phone and so many other ways. But he just couldn’t. He had even tried to prevent himself from falling for her and maintained distance from her, but all his efforts had turned out to be in vain. The more he tried to stay away from her, the more he yearned to see her and be near her. Her absence only sharpened his feelings for her. He tried to sleep. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to.
The next morning, even before the rooster’s call, Selva was awake. All the women in his neighbourhood had started with their morning chores. As usual, Selva, on his terrace, was waiting for her to come out, so he could look at her as she slowly made the dots and gracefully joined them for her kolam*. Then he would leave for school early and wait for her to come.
He loved waiting, for her.
Selva had understood that the pain in waiting really had some pleasure in it. Then he saw her. With the tinkling sound of her anklets filling the silent dawn, she came to their vaasal (threshold) and started placing the rice-flour dots for the kolam. Selva’s day was incomplete without seeing her design the kolam. It had been like this for three years, since Selvadurai fell in love with her. Bhavani.
It was in Class VIII that Selvadurai first saw Bhavani. It was not love at first sight. There was no attraction, no fast heartbeats or butterflies in the stomach. Conversations were easy, no awkward silences and no waiting. Bhavani was just his classmate then. It was in Class IX that he started seeing her differently. She was not the same girl any more for him. Something about her had changed. He couldn’t place it exactly, but things were definitely not the same between them. He slowly started to look at her during classes, missed her when she was absent, and smiled when she laughed. He thought he just liked her, that he was merely attracted to her. Then slowly this attraction and infatuation turned to love—sheer one-sided love.
Like every morning, Bhavani had washed her hair, plaited some of it and left the rest down. Selva loved the way she tucked some of her lustrous locks behind her ear. She always had this small smile on the corner of her lips. Maybe she knew he was watching her. At least Selva thought she did.
‘Bhavaniiii!’ he heard her mother call her. She hurriedly joined the dots and ran inside. This was the moment that Selva thought made all the waiting worth it. Every morning, Bhavani threw a small glance at Selva as she drew the kolam; it was not even for a full second, but his stomach flipped and it was as if his whole world depended on that one microsecond glance. One look from her was all it took to make Selva go crazy. In these three years, all the songs were about her, everything reminded him of her, all he did was to impress her, to get a second glance from her. He was so much in love.
And then, ‘Selvaa . . . come down now or you’ll get it good from me.’
It was Selva’s mother. He ran down to get ready for school.
Moorthi, Ramesh, Jawahar and Selva were ‘the inseparables’ of Class XI. All the three knew about Selva’s affection for Bhavani. At first, when they knew, they teased him mercilessly and called out his name when they saw her, even pushing him towards her in the corridors. But as days passed, their teasing changed into cheering and they started encouraging him to talk to her. But never once did Selva have the guts to. Not that he never tried, but just looking at her made him sweat and go tongue-tied.
That morning, the three boys were eagerly waiting for Selva. Jawahar raised his eyebrows enquiringly as Selva arrived. Selva answered them with a shake of his head. All three of them sighed. Selva sat with them and again thousands of ideas were given, along with hundreds of criticisms, and while they were talking, Bhavani came into class. She usually sat on the first bench and Selva on the fourth. The teacher was taking their attendance and it was now that Selva watched her. He just sat there and looked at her. He felt ecstatic just looking at her. He loved looking at her. But in these three years, not once had Bhavani turned around to look at him. All Selva could see was the back of her head, but still his eyes never moved. He hoped to see at least some part of her face.
The teacher continued calling out the names when suddenly, Bhavani turned and looked at him. All this time he had yearned for that look and now that it had happened, he didn’t know how to react. His stomach flipped. His legs shook. The space between the collar of his shirt and his hairline started burning. He looked at his friends to see if they had seen what had just happened. But nobody seemed to have seen her looking at him. He wondered if he had started hallucinating.
Why did she look at me? Did she really look at me? Am I imagining it?
It was as if he was going to get a panic attack. There was this ticklish, yet stinging feeling in the area between his stomach and his chest. On the other hand, he was floating. That whole day all Selva could think about was that moment when Bhavani had turned to look at him.
‘Maybe she’s giving you a sign, da,’ Ramesh told him while almost choking on his medu vadas.
‘But what if it’s just a coincidence?’ said Moorthi.
‘I don’t think it’s a coincidence. If it was, why would she look at Selva? She could have looked at me.’ Jawahar, as usual, was feeding Selva optimistic thoughts. Selva was tuning his father’s new Pagaria radio to a new station. It was playing his recent favourite from the newly released film, Roja.
Thendral Ennai Theendinaal Selai Theendum Njaabagam;
Chinna Pookkal Paarkkaiyil Deham Paartha Njaabagam; Velli Odai Pesinaal Sonna Vaarthai Njaabagam.
(The touch of the breeze reminds me of your sari,
Small beautiful flowers remind me of your body,
The silver stream speech reminds me your words.)
The song was too much for him. He felt his heart wrenching. He loved her so muc
h that it had started to hurt. These were feelings nobody would understand. He also knew that this feeling would be his and his alone, and that it could not be shared. But that was the nature of unrequited love—giving it your all and expecting nothing in return. What if she never returned his love? What if he was unable to stop loving her? These questions frightened him. But he couldn’t stop thinking about her, and he knew his feelings were true.
He decided to do it. That night, he decided to tell her how he felt about her.
He dialled her number and waited. It rang a little longer than usual. Just when he was about to hang up, someone picked up. It was her. But there was no usual ‘hello’. Just breathing, long and deep breathing. Both of them stood in their houses with their receivers pressed to their ears and listening to each other breathing. Neither of them spoke. As Selva tried to match the rhythm of his breathing to Bhavani’s, she spoke. ‘Selva . . . meet me tomorrow in the chemistry lab after class.’ And disconnected the call.
Selva just stood there. She had just spoken to him and it still hadn’t sunk in.
She knew? For how long? How did she know it was me?
He would have to wait until tomorrow for answers. He went to the terrace and tried to sleep. However, he knew it was in vain. All he could think about now was what she was going to tell him tomorrow. He closed his eyes and recalled how his name sounded on her lips, the way she pronounced it . . . and slowly drifted off to sleep.
The next day in school was painfully long. Every minute took hours to pass. He felt as if a big boulder had been placed on his chest. As time passed, it became difficult for him to breathe. The final bell rang and it was as if an adrenaline shot had been administered to his body. The boys as usual fed him ideas of how to talk to her, and sent him off.
You Are All I Need Page 7