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Authors: Amulya Malladi
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probably boggled her mind that we even had sex . . . with each other.
Anjali tried to withdraw from my embrace, but I held her tightly. “Yes, even at this age,” I said to Komal in a “no nonsense” tone she recognized. This was none of her business. My relationship with my wife was ours alone—no one told us how to live our lives.
I looked down at Anjali and she was trying her best not to laugh by pursing her lips tightly. Komal made a disgruntled sound and left us.
Anjali burst out laughing as soon as Komal was out of earshot, and I joined her, drawing her close to me.
NINE
SANDEEP
When I first met Anjali, I barely noticed her. She slipped past my eyes. If it weren’t for my colleague and friend Professor Gopalnath Mishra, who we all called Gopi, I wouldn’t have known her at all. He introduced us on the side of a road, on a hot day in July, when you could smell the sweat on human bodies from miles away.
She had the sun in her face and when she looked at me she shaded her eyes with her hand. It had been a chance meeting. We were on our way from the department building to the canteen to get a cup of tea and some university gossip. Gopi knew Anjali well. He had been a friend of the family.
She was working on her master’s in education, while Gopi and I taught at the Department of Mathematics and Statistics at the Hyderabad Central University.
We talked aimlessly for a short while and then I suggested we go to the canteen, “before one of us has a sun stroke.”
She said she was tired and would like to go back to her hostel. Apparently she was taking some summer classes. I wanted to ask her why she wasn’t going back home for the summer, but decided it was none of my business. I had no idea, then, how much of my business everything about Anjali would become.
I was thirty-one, past the social average age of marriage. There was no one to question me. My father died when I was eighteen and my mother passed away when I was twenty-five, just when I was finishing my Ph.D. I spent the next six years building a career and arranging my sister Komal’s marriage.
That done, I lost my taste for marriage. Komal’s wedding had been a damned negotiation. Her heart was set on marrying a bank officer and Jaydev was a bank officer. He said he would like to marry Komal right after the bride-seeing ceremony. But his parents warned me that their boy was a catch, and as such demanded a high dowry. I was against the idea of perpetuating the despicable custom, but Komal insisted.
“All my friends are married and they all had to give a dowry. Why do you have to start a crusade now? You don’t have to take any dowry when you get married, but I want to get married. Now.” She wailed for a long time, and finally I gave in.
I sold our parents’ house, added my savings to the money I got from the sale, and married Komal off. It was a relief to see her go. She had become a thorn in my side—living with me, nagging me. She was like the wife I never had, and with her gone, I didn’t feel like replacing her.
And even if I did want a wife, the path to marriage seemed to be cluttered with too many obstacles.
There were two ways to get married: either your marriage was arranged or you fell in love and got married. I didn’t really believe in falling in love—it seemed like it was part of a book or a movie, not real life, and arranged marriage seemed to be a gamble I wasn’t ready to risk my life on. I wanted to marry—I didn’t want to be celibate and alone for the rest of my life, but I wanted to know the woman before I married her. It didn’t seem too much to ask, did it? I just wanted to know the person I was to spend the rest of my life with, before I committed myself to spending the rest of my life with her.
Gopi always told me that was a “charming” idea, but I would have to move out of the country to do that. I had seen friends and others fall in love and get married. The idea of meeting a woman and falling in
Anjali tried to withdraw from my embrace, but I held her tightly. “Yes, even at this age,” I said to Komal in a “no nonsense” tone she recognized. This was none of her business. My relationship with my wife was ours alone—no one told us how to live our lives.
I looked down at Anjali and she was trying her best not to laugh by pursing her lips tightly. Komal made a disgruntled sound and left us.
Anjali burst out laughing as soon as Komal was out of earshot, and I joined her, drawing her close to me.
NINE
SANDEEP
When I first met Anjali, I barely noticed her. She slipped past my eyes. If it weren’t for my colleague and friend Professor Gopalnath Mishra, who we all called Gopi, I wouldn’t have known her at all. He introduced us on the side of a road, on a hot day in July, when you could smell the sweat on human bodies from miles away.
She had the sun in her face and when she looked at me she shaded her eyes with her hand. It had been a chance meeting. We were on our way from the department building to the canteen to get a cup of tea and some university gossip. Gopi knew Anjali well. He had been a friend of the family.
She was working on her master’s in education, while Gopi and I taught at the Department of Mathematics and Statistics at the Hyderabad Central University.
We talked aimlessly for a short while and then I suggested we go to the canteen, “before one of us has a sun stroke.”
She said she was tired and would like to go back to her hostel. Apparently she was taking some summer classes. I wanted to ask her why she wasn’t going back home for the summer, but decided it was none of my business. I had no idea, then, how much of my business everything about Anjali would become.
I was thirty-one, past the social average age of marriage. There was no one to question me. My father died when I was eighteen and my mother passed away when I was twenty-five, just when I was finishing my Ph.D. I spent the next six years building a career and arranging my sister Komal’s marriage.
That done, I lost my taste for marriage. Komal’s wedding had been a damned negotiation. Her heart was set on marrying a bank officer and Jaydev was a bank officer. He said he would like to marry Komal right after the bride-seeing ceremony. But his parents warned me that their boy was a catch, and as such demanded a high dowry. I was against the idea of perpetuating the despicable custom, but Komal insisted.
“All my friends are married and they all had to give a dowry. Why do you have to start a crusade now? You don’t have to take any dowry when you get married, but I want to get married. Now.” She wailed for a long time, and finally I gave in.
I sold our parents’ house, added my savings to the money I got from the sale, and married Komal off. It was a relief to see her go. She had become a thorn in my side—living with me, nagging me. She was like the wife I never had, and with her gone, I didn’t feel like replacing her.
And even if I did want a wife, the path to marriage seemed to be cluttered with too many obstacles.
There were two ways to get married: either your marriage was arranged or you fell in love and got married. I didn’t really believe in falling in love—it seemed like it was part of a book or a movie, not real life, and arranged marriage seemed to be a gamble I wasn’t ready to risk my life on. I wanted to marry—I didn’t want to be celibate and alone for the rest of my life, but I wanted to know the woman before I married her. It didn’t seem too much to ask, did it? I just wanted to know the person I was to spend the rest of my life with, before I committed myself to spending the rest of my life with her.
Gopi always told me that was a “charming” idea, but I would have to move out of the country to do that. I had seen friends and others fall in love and get married. The idea of meeting a woman and falling in
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