A Breath of Fresh Air by Amulya Malladi Page A

way. I was his wife and this is what I had to put up with. My mother was right, damn her.
    He moved on his own accord in a few minutes. He slumped on the bed on his stomach and opened his eyes to look at me.
    “Good night,” he said politely, and fell asleep.
    I stared at him, hoping he wasn’t sleeping. Was this it? This was sex? Where was the romance I was promised in the Mills & Boon novels? I wanted an explanation! But he started snoring, and all my shaking him did was stop the snores for a while.

SEVEN
    ANJALI
    It was a Sunday when I saw her again. In the market, wearing the same woolen coat. This time, she carried a small dark leather hand purse and Prakash was not with her.
    Sandeep patted my shoulder. “Do you want to buy bhindi or not?”
    I looked at the plump okra and nodded. “Two kilos,” I mumbled at the vendor, and picked up the weights he was using to check if they were lighter than they were supposed to be.
    “I am not a cheat, Memsaab .” The vendor smiled, showing his cracked and yellowed teeth. “Everything here is—”
    “I know how everything is here,” I snapped. “And put that bhindi you took out back on the plate.”
    I felt unsettled. The market was turning into a “meet your past” carnival booth.
    Sandeep put the okra in a cloth bag and paid the vendor. We surveyed the other shops and avoided banana peels and rotten vegetables on the cobbled stones as we walked around the market.
    “Fruit,” I said, when Sandeep asked what else we needed. “Amar asked for an apple yesterday and we didn’t have any.”
    “Sure . . . where are the apples?” Sandeep asked, looking around.
    “There,” I pointed out.
    “Where?” he asked, not looking exactly where I was pointing.
    “There,” I said in exasperation. “Can’t you see? Are you blind?”
    Sandeep stopped me from moving by putting his hand under my elbow. “What is the matter with you? You were fine a minute ago and now you are the incarnation of Durga Ma.”
    I swallowed uneasily. How much could I tell him? Should I tell him? I knew I would eventually tell him the truth, one way or the other.
    “Are you okay?” he persisted, so I decided to tell him what the problem was.
    “I . . . just . . . saw his wife.”
    “Where?” Sandeep looked around and I jerked my eyebrows in her direction. “Very pretty,” he said, then turned toward me. “Of course, she doesn’t hold a candle to your beauty.”
    “Of course,” I said sarcastically.
    “They live here, Anjali. We are going to keep seeing them in the market, the cinema, somewhere or other,” he cautioned. “Are you going to be in a bad mood each time it happens?”
    I understood what he was saying, but I didn’t think he understood how I felt. It was envy, pure and simple. That was supposed to be my life. I was supposed to be an army officer’s wife. I was supposed to be wearing the pretty saris and carrying the expensive purses. I was supposed to be going to all the parties and living the frivolous life; instead I was living a life that didn’t compare to what I had thought I wanted. I felt guilty as soon as I thought that. I loved Sandeep and I was thankful that I was not married to Prakash anymore. That was reality. In my head, however, I wanted to be someone else; I wanted to have flights of fantasy like I did when I was twenty-one.
    “No, I am not going to be in a bad mood because of her or him,” I said, and went toward the apple vendor.
    Sandeep and I walked back home in silence. I knew he was angry—he only fell that silent when he was angry.

EIGHT
    SANDEEP
    I never understood why Anjali was still so obsessed with Prakash.
    She said she hated him, didn’t feel any warmth for him, and most of the time she believed herself, I think, but deep down I knew she missed her life with him. Life with me was simple and predictable. I was a professor. I talked about math and I talked about making ends meet by tutoring rich children on the side. Our son was sick and