Suresh and I
Part I
I wore red that day.
There were promises made, garlands exchanged, kisses withheld. We got married under the half-fallen roof of the almost deserted temple; with five rupees worth ‘kumkum’, glass bangles, a black thread for ‘mangalsutra’, and small twigs pouting up a smoky excuse – what we heartily longed to believe to be the holy-fire.
No, this is no happily ever after story, neither is it a cry for sympathy or pity or relief. This is MY story – I a Graduate, from a below average
I was twenty two, and of course my parents were worried. They wished to see me marry some ‘well-settled’ man, and have kids. They did not know I was married, I did not know how to break the news; my husband was a man no doubt (pardon my foolish attempts at jesting), but ‘well-settled’ would not be the word for him. Suresh looked good, talked better and snored best. He got into petty jobs, and got out of them in a month or two. I had known him since two years, and had loved the driver, the mechanic, the delivery-man and the salesman in him! He adapted to every role so fast you see!
There was another ‘little’ problem – Suresh was prior married and had a son of five. No, do not call our marriage illegal, we married with hearts loaded with love and desire, we legitimized our bond with ‘kumkum’ (which I religiously wore and covered with a sly hair-parting, in the name of hairstyle) and I had the ‘mangalsutra’ tied around my waist (convenience and necessity satisfied). We went the sanctioned seven rounds around the ‘fire’ and bowed before the forlorn temple-god seeking blessings for everlasting bliss. And remember, I wore red that day! We could not register our marriage though, but that is only for the weak couples who lack mutual trust, as Suresh put it, and I believed him.
Suresh said his wife was forced on him when he was merely twenty three, (Biharis marry early, it’s almost customary). Their seven years of marriage was sustaining on habit, they did not even make love any longer! He visited his family every weekend or twice a month sometimes, and for the rest of the days, he was mine. We visited temples together, cuddled in movie theatres, kissed in parks, cooked up meals in his one room shanty, and then made love: wild, passionate and painful. I was conservative, I never visited his house before we got married… we never got beyond kisses and a little bit of… oh! Let that be! (Suresh was right, I talk a little too much; he was always right).
On most days I returned home past
Part II
I remember the day we went to the fair; a huge messy affair, but Suresh seemed unusually excited. I comprehended the truth in a while when he bought a plastic cricket bat and ball, and a toy car. The look of extreme pleasure on his face while he paid for the goods made me cringe. It was his son’s birthday the coming week. For a moment I desired a curse to befall his village, some drought, or famine, or an epidemic or even fire. I wished them all dead; and dreamt of Suresh seeking comfort enwrapped in my breasts. But the thought lasted only for a moment. I hated myself then; I bought a battery robot for the child. Suresh was exhilarated; he kissed me harder and longer that night. And then I decided I needed a child.
I will never forget the look on his face when he first heard about our child. I wanted him to smile, to look jubilant, to have the same look of pride I had seen in the shop that day; I was wrong again. He looked fatally close to tears… of rage. He could not believe I had been irresponsible enough to have ‘forgotten’ the pills, and like the story line of any other B-grade movie, he wanted me to drop the baby. I protested, he panicked, I pleaded, he pledged, I cried, he screamed, I grovelled, he slapped… he slapped me hard! Suresh calmed down, apologised, and blamed his behaviour on labour-union tensions. He caressed my hair, and kissed my beaten-face. He washed my tears with his desire; he said he hated to see me cry. I believed him. I could not return home that night, neither the night next; I sat in his house all day trying to scrub off my scarred face with packs of ice.
His ‘labour-union’ tension came to light a few days later. His wife was pregnant too. Three months, almost the same as me. I failed to mask the hatred on my face. I cursed openly. He restrained from hurting me again. I forgot words. My eyes demanded answers, he gave me none. My eyes flooded, he looked away, my eyes searched his soul for a little hint, for a little assurance; he simply managed a sigh. He later called it a mistake in drunken stupor. I craved to believe him. He offered to take me to the clinic. Two children and an illegitimate child were beyond his economic prowess, he said. I barely managed to walk. I carried my pride. I threw up on his bed, cleaned the mess, hated every moment of my existence, picked myself up, and left.
Part III
My parents did not look shocked when I first shone the light of knowledge in their confused world… they looked devastated. But my father did not feign a heart attack, nor did my mother slap me, neither was I pushed out of the house disowned and forlorn. He called up the family doctor and pleaded a personal visit, while she silently went to the kitchen to warm me some milk! The doctor arrived; my story was re-narrated (of course leaving out the ‘unnecessary’ details) and advice was sought. He examined me and assured that the abortion would not be very painful, and would of course be a complete secret (thanks to the amount my father had agreed to pay). I screamed.
My mother stood by me like a wall, guarding me, assuring me, engulfing me in her canopy. She put me out a ‘saree’, brought out her old ‘mangalsutra’, and fished out a decent pair out of her collection of ‘shankha-pola’ and decked me up with care. She put the ‘sindur’ last, her face giving out nothing, only her eyes taking in the effect of the vermillion, as it settled comfortably on the careful parting of my hair, with measured pride, pleasure and magnified pain. She took me out to the neighbourhood that night, to every house known and unknown, where the unprepared faces took no time to smirk in the sly, or to let out a call to usher in the sweets as I had brought home ‘good news’. I became the most talked about girl in the neighbourhood who ran away (the smirk began) and got married to a ‘Bihari-engineer-husband’ (smirk widened) who was staying out of Kolkata for job purposes, (smirk accompanied by a wink and a twinkle in the eye) and of course, I was pregnant (smirk widened into a full-teethed smile). I did not care. I had learnt not to.
Smriti and I
Part I
Smriti was born on a sultry summer morning of July and she weighed a little more than four kilos. I opened my eyes to a feeble cry, looking at tiny red-skinned hands almost beckoning my milk. I cried. I saw Suresh stand there, knowing not how to react. I saw my mother stand a little apart, clearly not very appreciative of his presence amongst us, but seething with overwhelming emotions nonetheless. My father was not there. Suresh had begged his way back to my life. The neighbourhood would sober up on their gossip over evening tea for some time now, my mother thought. Divorce was almost out of question though, his family would disown him, Suresh explained. I did not bother much, my baby daughter had the face of an angel; her face devoured me whole.
Suresh’s visits were steady in the beginning, Smriti had grown very fond of her father, he always bought her a gift whenever he came, and my clever princess somehow realised how essential it was to keep the man happy for an assured flow of gifts forever, even when she was barely six months old. Her father was the only person who could trim her nails without her managing more than a few occasional whines; he was the only man who was allowed to bathe her, to touch her toys and to hold her tight when the time for her injections arrived. My father never came near me or my daughter, my mother did all she could to ensure us a perfect life, and slowly Suresh’s visits became rare.
It was now time to put Smriti into a Montessori school. The questions in the admission forms, the demands to interview both parents, irritated me. I did not want to call on Suresh for any favour; I cooked up stories praying not to get caught. My daughter started going to school, I went around looking for jobs. On one such day he arrived.
Part II
He was a widower of forty. He needed to start a family. He was my father’s acquaintance. He agreed to marry me and name my child his own. We got married on a sunny morning in a registrar’s office. There were no holy fires, no ‘kumkum’, no red ‘saree’ and no garlands exchanged. And yet we were man and wife legally permitted by society to live in a four-walled apartment and to make love whenever the animal instinct took over. I detested his body, his pale yellow skin, the smell of sweat under his armpits, the dirt in his nails, the way he belched, the sound of his snore… I hated his existence, I longed for Suresh, I craved for his warmth, I hated myself, I died every night.
Time fled, Smriti now joined a reputed convent school, I proudly went to the interview with her father, we displayed our mutual skills and well-being, and the admission was a cakewalk. Smriti was now registered as his daughter, we registered our marriage legally much after her birth - we claimed; the authorities looked a little unsure, but our easy charm and his easy money did much of the talking. Suresh returned.
Part III
Suresh came on a morning when I was hurrying to get Smriti ready for school. Her father was out early that day, and it was on me to drop her to school as she had missed the bus already. We were running late, we were running… when the doorbell rang.
Smriti did not go to school that day; she was left all alone to play with her doll house while we made love in my bedroom. I later wondered where all my concern and worry for the little one disappeared suddenly that day. I did not think of her trying to jump out of the veranda in her glee, I did not worry about her playing with the switch boards or tampering with the gas lighter. All that was left in the world was Suresh’s smile, which I gobbled up in a trice even before we managed to reach our bedroom. I did not ask him any question, he never gave any explanation. My trance broke when I heard a faint cry outside the door. My daughter was hungry; I had lost count of time.
Suresh’s wife preferred to stay with her parents as none of Suresh’s parents were now alive. Suresh had sold off his parents’ property to start off a business of his own. He was doing well, earning enough to sustain his family and to spare a little more to bring gifts for his ‘pari’. Smriti did not remember him from her past, she simply liked the new-found ‘uncle’ who brought her toys. Smriti’s father came to know Suresh to be an old friend of mine; he had grown pretty indifferent of late, his work more than exhausted him, much to my relief, and his inability to spare time for his family made him accept any ‘uncle’ whatsoever, without much-ado of an inquiry about his roots.
I was pregnant, it was Suresh yet again I was sure. My marital life hardly provided much of sexual endeavours to talk about; Suresh was a regular in that area. I had a normal delivery, Smriti’s father was overjoyed to have a son of his own; we named him Shubho.
Shubho and etc
Part I
Being a mother of two has not helped the journey. Being a mother of two who have been born out of wedlock (almost technically) has been rather unnerving, and being a mother of two who have been born of a man other than her husband is disastrous, I swear by it. Smriti has grown up to be her mother, she has my face, she has my heart, she is what I was all those years ago... (how long has it been now? I seem to forget... I forget a lot these days). Shubho is his father's darling. No, I am not talking about the 'sperm donor'(his disappearance act did not take long, I hear his sons are doing well in life now; whatever!) my husband found a piece of his life in Shubho, he bestowed him with all that he deprived Smriti of... Smriti has grown up to be a loner. She works in a reputed construction firm now; she is some Business Associate there. She is in love.
Shubho is in college, his father has taken great care to put him in the best (and costliest) of places. He studies engineering in
Smriti had brought over her beau to the ceremony. He was an architect in her firm. He sat near my feet and silently watched the ceremony burn itself out. I was meeting him for the first time. I stared at him long, I heaved a heavy sigh. Sometime ago, after the last guest was seen out of the door, Smriti came and sat beside me on the bed. I was silent for a while. She talked of things here and there and struggled to drop the question. At last she managed to say nothing, but only what broke my heart, "Maa, does he not remind you of Suresh uncle? I don't know why he does that to me..."
Wise people (or perhaps the extremely unwise ones) often say that daughters look for their fathers in the life partner they choose. My unaware daughter is now treading that (un)wise path. She has set off to do what her mother had done in her youth. She is all ready to break her heart, shatter her existence.
The Final Lap
Smriti has to know. She needs to know that the father she has been mourning, the father whose ignorance and indifference often shattered her dreams, the father whose death bed she decked up with a thousand tears, incense sticks and flowers, the father who never even gave her a pat on the back to say a calm word, was a man her mother had never managed to love. He was our saviour, but not her father... not Shubho's father... I had intended to let him know the whole story, but I never gathered the courage to crumble his universe. I did not love him, true, but all these years of living together made me learn to tolerate him, to maybe, like him a little, at the most. She has to bear the burden of her mother's life, she will be the sole soul who has to let go of her life for her mother's sin; she has to suffer. She has to know that the man she has planned to marry is none other than her own half brother... Suresh's eldest son. She has to die a thousand deaths henceforth...every night, forever.
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