One week married, four days alone

Disclaimer: This is again from that folder with old writing – others’ writing (in earlier blogs, I posted the one on writing [http://newnonentities.blogspot.com/2010/06/on-writing.html] and the other on football [http://newnonentities.blogspot.com/2010/06/brazil-1986-heroes-death.html]). How old was she when she wrote this? 25 or 26? This is not really a tale or a blog. It is not even Xmas eve or Monday. But, it is a grey evening. And, her thoughts float in the still lonely air.

Xmas eve. Monday. Grey evening. Harpestry on FM radio. Romantic?

It would have been so if I had his company. One week married and four days alone. A loud cousin had warned me about Monday weddings. Not that I listen to such gobbledygook. Not last week.


The wedding was a success. My brother and uncles had done a splendid job. Even he smiled.


By that evening, things started to change. The reception at his place was too sober, too silent. I didn’t mind it because I was scared of the moment when my people would leave and I would be left all alone to fend against his crowd. Should I go to the bedroom or the kitchen? How long can I hide in the bathroom?


These worries turned out to be unnecessary. Soon after my folks left, his folks went to some club to relax, leaving us with a few of his friends. There I was alone in his house while he entertained his friends. The friends left around half past ten.


We had a quiet dinner at eleven. I thought I fell in love with him that night. He was great. We had not planned to do it. Around two, both of us rolled against each other and it just followed naturally. Couple of months back, I had asked myself “How long will a guy and a girl stay together in a room without sex?” Two hours, it seems.


The next day went by fast - another party, visiting those deemed near and dear and then packing. On Wednesday morning, we left; a heady experience that - leaving behind the known and the loved with a new love on a silent train. Most of our relatives assumed that we were going on a honeymoon. I wanted to be with him, wherever. At the station, there was the usual mixture of tears and naughty comments. Heard one of his cousins suggest, “Be tough with her.”


Around five pm, he received a call on his mobile. Without any change in his expression, he told me at the end of that conversation, “Have to go to headquarters tomorrow evening. Hope you will understand?”


“Yes.” A disappointment doesn’t become one till it is mouthed, does it?


On Thursday, we used the few hours available to set up the house and clean. We tried to make love. But neither of us seemed too keen. Around seven pm, he left.


On Friday, I joined for work. I got complimented. I hid my thoughts from my boss and colleagues. I got through the day half there half elsewhere. A lonely Friday, a lonely weekend, a lonely Monday followed. And more to come, I suppose, sans compliment, sans thought, sans dream. But I understand, don’t I? I shall understand. I am not the first woman in that state, right?


On Saturday evening, I was walking on Main Street, watching couples walk past me. And, the spinsters; I was one of them a week back, the sadness or the naughtiness or the determination in their eyes. No more of that, just blank eyes, mechanical pragmatic moves, chores.


Have I already started hiding skeletons in the closet?


On Sunday afternoon, I went to a mall, to spoil myself, to ward off a nasty depression. There, I met Praveen. He asked me to have coffee with him at ‘our old joint’. I thought it would be childish not to go. Over mundane conversation and sugarless coffee, I realized how much I loathed him. I had actually forgotten. The sentences became more and more blunt. By the time of the cordial ending, we knew we would never talk to each other again. My first long love, my first long torture, my first long mistake, I think I could not suppress my mirthless laugh.


That night, I did not even think about my husband. I was busy trying to stay away from self-pity, my unmarried days’ companion. Self-pity and pragmatism do not mix well.


This morning, close to lunch-time, I received a call from Atul, half way around the world. He was a ‘brother’ a decade back, then a stranger worth three meetings. I told him about my wedding. He replied curtly, strangely perturbed, and I knew what was coming. “I always thought we had something going.” He must have been between dances, lonely for ten minutes at a party.


Not really skeletons, are they?


Today, I unpacked my cassettes. This book, too. Back to the old days, right? No. I love my husband. I really do. I do understand him and why he had to go. If there was a chance, he would have stayed. I suppose so. I suppose I do love him.