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Authors: Amulya Malladi
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hadn’t known that the effects of that deadly night in Bhopal would lead to a child with a weak heart and weak lungs. She hadn’t known and because of that even though I wanted to blame her for our son sometimes, I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair and above all else I wanted to be a fair man.
But how could a husband be fair, when his wife’s eyes brightened at the mention of the man who was to blame for their son’s hasty life?
Anjali came into the kitchen and wrapped her arms around me, her face leaning against my back.
“Are you angry?” she asked.
I shook my head and turned around. I kissed her softly on the mouth and shook my head again. “About what?”
“About his wife?”
I wrinkled my nose in affected confusion. “I should be angry that he has a wife?”
She stuck her tongue out playfully and genuinely laughed. That’s what I was good at, at making her smile even when she didn’t want to, even when she thought she couldn’t. It didn’t matter that Prakash was in her past when I held her in my arms. This beautiful, wonderful, strong woman was mine. She was my wife and I loved her, loved her for who she was, and who she wasn’t.
“Do you want me to cook tonight?” I asked, as I usually did on weekends, and she shook her head, as she usually did.
I would do anything for her, but I didn’t think she realized that. If the time came and she wanted to leave me for a better life, I wouldn’t stop her. For all that she had been through, I wanted her to be happy. But happiness was elusive; like a chimera it slipped through our fingers. A year after we got married we had Amar. The ecstasy of having a child was shadowed by the pronouncements of the doctors. We had spent all our savings, everything we had, which was not much, in finding better doctors in the hope that they would tell us that Amar was all right and that the other doctors were wrong. But the writing was on the wall; Amar didn’t have much time. So we dragged each minute as long as we could and hoped for that unlikely miracle to occur—for Amar to wake up one morning and say, “I am fine,” and mean it.
She leaned away from me, frowning. “Why don’t you hate him?”
She had asked that question several times before. I hated Prakash, I most certainly did. He had touched my wife’s lithe body, he had kissed her wide mouth, he had caressed her breasts. The possessiveness of those acts made me cringe with jealousy. Prakash had married her in a lavish wedding; I hadn’t. Our wedding had been a simple, sign-on-this-piece-of-paper affair. She had seemed happy, enthralled, but I wondered if she compared the two weddings. And if she did, did I fail miserably?
“Hate is a very strong emotion,” I said calmly. It was not a complete lie. I would hate her first husband, whoever he was, but I didn’t know if I hated Prakash, the man. He had been young, just twenty-five when he married her. Being married at a young age, even though by the standards of society he was old enough to be married and have a couple of children, must have been difficult. But he had made more mistakes than his age could excuse. Adultery was not something I condoned, but hate was too strong an emotion to subject oneself to, even for adultery.
“Do you at least dislike him?”
I kissed her again, hoping she would let the matter slide. Her obsession with making me admit that I hated Prakash led to my obsession with being fair. It would be grossly unfair for me to hate a man for marrying her before me.
“Do you?” she prodded.
“I will dislike anyone you want me to dislike.” I kissed her. “I will hate anyone you want me to hate.” I kissed her again. “And—”
“Even at this age . . . you two.” Komal saved me from saying anything more. Her eyes were full of reproach as she came into the kitchen. Anjali and I had been married thirteen years now and Komal couldn’t understand our intimacy. Couples were not supposed to be this amorous at our age. It
But how could a husband be fair, when his wife’s eyes brightened at the mention of the man who was to blame for their son’s hasty life?
Anjali came into the kitchen and wrapped her arms around me, her face leaning against my back.
“Are you angry?” she asked.
I shook my head and turned around. I kissed her softly on the mouth and shook my head again. “About what?”
“About his wife?”
I wrinkled my nose in affected confusion. “I should be angry that he has a wife?”
She stuck her tongue out playfully and genuinely laughed. That’s what I was good at, at making her smile even when she didn’t want to, even when she thought she couldn’t. It didn’t matter that Prakash was in her past when I held her in my arms. This beautiful, wonderful, strong woman was mine. She was my wife and I loved her, loved her for who she was, and who she wasn’t.
“Do you want me to cook tonight?” I asked, as I usually did on weekends, and she shook her head, as she usually did.
I would do anything for her, but I didn’t think she realized that. If the time came and she wanted to leave me for a better life, I wouldn’t stop her. For all that she had been through, I wanted her to be happy. But happiness was elusive; like a chimera it slipped through our fingers. A year after we got married we had Amar. The ecstasy of having a child was shadowed by the pronouncements of the doctors. We had spent all our savings, everything we had, which was not much, in finding better doctors in the hope that they would tell us that Amar was all right and that the other doctors were wrong. But the writing was on the wall; Amar didn’t have much time. So we dragged each minute as long as we could and hoped for that unlikely miracle to occur—for Amar to wake up one morning and say, “I am fine,” and mean it.
She leaned away from me, frowning. “Why don’t you hate him?”
She had asked that question several times before. I hated Prakash, I most certainly did. He had touched my wife’s lithe body, he had kissed her wide mouth, he had caressed her breasts. The possessiveness of those acts made me cringe with jealousy. Prakash had married her in a lavish wedding; I hadn’t. Our wedding had been a simple, sign-on-this-piece-of-paper affair. She had seemed happy, enthralled, but I wondered if she compared the two weddings. And if she did, did I fail miserably?
“Hate is a very strong emotion,” I said calmly. It was not a complete lie. I would hate her first husband, whoever he was, but I didn’t know if I hated Prakash, the man. He had been young, just twenty-five when he married her. Being married at a young age, even though by the standards of society he was old enough to be married and have a couple of children, must have been difficult. But he had made more mistakes than his age could excuse. Adultery was not something I condoned, but hate was too strong an emotion to subject oneself to, even for adultery.
“Do you at least dislike him?”
I kissed her again, hoping she would let the matter slide. Her obsession with making me admit that I hated Prakash led to my obsession with being fair. It would be grossly unfair for me to hate a man for marrying her before me.
“Do you?” she prodded.
“I will dislike anyone you want me to dislike.” I kissed her. “I will hate anyone you want me to hate.” I kissed her again. “And—”
“Even at this age . . . you two.” Komal saved me from saying anything more. Her eyes were full of reproach as she came into the kitchen. Anjali and I had been married thirteen years now and Komal couldn’t understand our intimacy. Couples were not supposed to be this amorous at our age. It
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