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Authors: Preeti Shenoy
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the night.
Sandeep, a creature of habit, always stops watching television at eleven pm. If he is in the mood for sex, he initiates it. There is no foreplay, no conversation, no sweet-talk. He claims it like it is his right. He reaches straight for my breasts and I can predict exactly what he will do next. But I have learnt, over the years, to just give in to whatever he wants. He is usually in a better mood then the next day. I look at the fan rotating and think of the next day’s chores as he finishes his act, grunts in satisfaction, rolls over and falls asleep.
I usually read after that to take my mind off the niggling feeling that if our society was as conscious of women’s rights as they were in the West, what Sandeep did would probably be construed as marital rape. But, here in India, where people hush up even rape and do not speak about it, how do things like ‘marital rape’ even stand a chance to be discussed. Fact is, I hate sex with Sandeep. But I do my duty as a wife. How can he have no clue as to what I really want? How can he be so darn insensitive to my needs?
The phone call puts an abrupt end to all these thoughts racing through my head and it also wakes up Sandeep, who sits up in surprise, rubbing his eyes. He is beginning to go bald and without his glasses or shirt, with a burgeoning potbelly, looks so comical I almost laugh.
But when I answer the phone, any mirth I am feeling dissipates. It is Vibha.
‘Diksha,’ she says haltingly as though she finds it hard to speak. I know instantly from her voice that something is wrong. Terribly wrong.
‘It’s all over,’ she says.
‘Huh? What are you saying? Mohan wants a divorce?’ I ask puzzled. As far I knew, things between her and Mohan weren’t that bad. Sure, he had been complaining that Vibha was always busy and barely had time for anything other than her work. Vibha herself had mentioned this to me many times. But that definitely didn’t warrant a divorce, that too so suddenly.
‘No. He passed away an hour back,’ she says and I can hear her breaking down.
‘Oh my God. How? What happened?’ I ask.
But she is unable to answer. Her father-in-law comes on the line and says that the funeral will take place the next day at three pm. It was a cardiac arrest, he says.
I am too stunned to ask for any more details.
The phone rings almost as soon as I hang up. It is my parents calling from Dubai where they now live with Rohan’s family. They tell me that Rohan will be flying to India to attend the funeral. My father and mother will not be able to travel. Mother’s arthritis has been plaguing her and Papa’s treatment for prostate enlargement has just started, due to which he is constantly tired, has spells of dizziness and pounding headaches. For them to travel from Dubai to India for the funeral and fly back is difficult. Also Rohan’s wife is expecting their second child and they help her look after his first who is a year old. Mother explains to me, at great length, why it is not possible for them to come.
I haven’t asked for any explanation. But perhaps she feels guilty as Vibha is her niece and wants my assurance. But the way my parents have treated me over the years—never forgiven me for my one stupid silly slip-up at sixteen—has left in me an enormous bitterness towards them. Every action of theirs over the years, ever since the day they pulled me out of school and sent me to an all-women’s college in Kerala, away from Tanu, away from Ankit, as though in exile, and then the way they forced me to get married even though I was only in the second year of college, has killed something within me.
Their act has created a permanent fence in my heart, with Rohan and my parents on one side, and me on the other. Even after all these years, I have never ever really come to terms with it and the scars of that hurt still manifest themselves in my lonely moments, though I pretend outwardly to be fine. I have tried to compensate for my
Sandeep, a creature of habit, always stops watching television at eleven pm. If he is in the mood for sex, he initiates it. There is no foreplay, no conversation, no sweet-talk. He claims it like it is his right. He reaches straight for my breasts and I can predict exactly what he will do next. But I have learnt, over the years, to just give in to whatever he wants. He is usually in a better mood then the next day. I look at the fan rotating and think of the next day’s chores as he finishes his act, grunts in satisfaction, rolls over and falls asleep.
I usually read after that to take my mind off the niggling feeling that if our society was as conscious of women’s rights as they were in the West, what Sandeep did would probably be construed as marital rape. But, here in India, where people hush up even rape and do not speak about it, how do things like ‘marital rape’ even stand a chance to be discussed. Fact is, I hate sex with Sandeep. But I do my duty as a wife. How can he have no clue as to what I really want? How can he be so darn insensitive to my needs?
The phone call puts an abrupt end to all these thoughts racing through my head and it also wakes up Sandeep, who sits up in surprise, rubbing his eyes. He is beginning to go bald and without his glasses or shirt, with a burgeoning potbelly, looks so comical I almost laugh.
But when I answer the phone, any mirth I am feeling dissipates. It is Vibha.
‘Diksha,’ she says haltingly as though she finds it hard to speak. I know instantly from her voice that something is wrong. Terribly wrong.
‘It’s all over,’ she says.
‘Huh? What are you saying? Mohan wants a divorce?’ I ask puzzled. As far I knew, things between her and Mohan weren’t that bad. Sure, he had been complaining that Vibha was always busy and barely had time for anything other than her work. Vibha herself had mentioned this to me many times. But that definitely didn’t warrant a divorce, that too so suddenly.
‘No. He passed away an hour back,’ she says and I can hear her breaking down.
‘Oh my God. How? What happened?’ I ask.
But she is unable to answer. Her father-in-law comes on the line and says that the funeral will take place the next day at three pm. It was a cardiac arrest, he says.
I am too stunned to ask for any more details.
The phone rings almost as soon as I hang up. It is my parents calling from Dubai where they now live with Rohan’s family. They tell me that Rohan will be flying to India to attend the funeral. My father and mother will not be able to travel. Mother’s arthritis has been plaguing her and Papa’s treatment for prostate enlargement has just started, due to which he is constantly tired, has spells of dizziness and pounding headaches. For them to travel from Dubai to India for the funeral and fly back is difficult. Also Rohan’s wife is expecting their second child and they help her look after his first who is a year old. Mother explains to me, at great length, why it is not possible for them to come.
I haven’t asked for any explanation. But perhaps she feels guilty as Vibha is her niece and wants my assurance. But the way my parents have treated me over the years—never forgiven me for my one stupid silly slip-up at sixteen—has left in me an enormous bitterness towards them. Every action of theirs over the years, ever since the day they pulled me out of school and sent me to an all-women’s college in Kerala, away from Tanu, away from Ankit, as though in exile, and then the way they forced me to get married even though I was only in the second year of college, has killed something within me.
Their act has created a permanent fence in my heart, with Rohan and my parents on one side, and me on the other. Even after all these years, I have never ever really come to terms with it and the scars of that hurt still manifest themselves in my lonely moments, though I pretend outwardly to be fine. I have tried to compensate for my
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