each day we prayed for a miracle that would let him live longer, spend more time in this world. Other days we prayed for his pain to go away, for him to sleep peacefully throughout the night. We prayed that he would walk around the garden without tiring himself. And added to all that, my sister lived with us.
It was probably the total opposite of what Anjali expected from life. She had wanted to be an army officer’s wife with all its glamour, and here she was married to our problems and to me.
As we walked back home from the vegetable bazaar, I wondered about the past and the present. Since Prakash had appeared in Ooty, Anjali seemed more agitated, more stressed, and somehow, more happy. It was as if she had been waiting for this day, and now that it was here she was going to indulge in it. Prakash had apologized to her and I knew that it meant more to her than she was making out of it.
Seeing his wife had torn her up with jealousy. She wasn’t jealous because I thought his wife was pretty; she was jealous because Prakash’s wife was . . . well, Prakash’s wife.
I couldn’t even argue with her; after all, she had always been honest with me. Always told me her secrets, no matter how dark they were, so how could I tell her that her feelings hurt me? She didn’t even know she felt the things that hurt me. Her eyes lit up at the name of Prakash, but I didn’t know if it was with anger or with pleasure.
She had loved him once, deeply, and I was tortured with jealousy at times. Yet I wouldn’t change a thing. This is what made Anjali the woman I love. Her vivacity, her love for life, and her fierce passion made Anjali, Anjali—and I could not hold that against her.
But I was tormented nevertheless. When Komal told me an army officer came to see Anjali in school, the jolt had been worth a million volts, but I stayed calm. My wife was a lot of things; a cheat she was not. She would leave me before she cheated on me and sometimes I worried that she would do both.
Oh, I knew we loved each other and that she took her marriage vows just as seriously as I took mine. But there was Prakash in the past, and he kept peeping into our lives each time Anjali’s body remembered the Bhopal gas tragedy, and now he lived just a few kilometers away.
Anjali didn’t know this, but I had seen her first wedding photo album. It had been buried under books and papers in some long forgotten box in the attic. It had been a depressing day when I had been sifting through the junk from our pasts. The gold on red leather, the words PRAKASH WEDS ANJALI flashed, ensnared me.
She had been a gorgeous bride, all bright-eyed and fresh, and he had been handsome. He probably still was. I was considered “nice” looking, hardly the material used in men’s suit commercials on television. My hair was graying, though I still had most of it. At forty-five I was no catch, and I had been no catch at thirty-one either when I met Anjali.
Prakash on the other hand looked perfect, perfect for her. Did she feel that she had made the wrong choice with me? I wondered about that, too, but the insecurities didn’t burden my life. They raised their ugly head whenever she mentioned Prakash and I remembered the one picture from the album that was sealed in my memory. He was holding Anjali’s hand at the reception and she was looking into his eyes. She was looking at him like he was the only man in the entire world, and while they had been married, he had been the only man for her in the entire world.
I felt like I was the consolation prize. It wasn’t just about good looks. It was more the aura Anjali associated army officers with. I had met several men and women like Anjali, who thought that army officers were perfect men. Patriotic, well dressed, and more Western than most of us civilian saps. Especially after a war or a publicized border skirmish, army officers looked even better to the public. To Anjali, they were demi-gods, or at least they had been. Now
It was probably the total opposite of what Anjali expected from life. She had wanted to be an army officer’s wife with all its glamour, and here she was married to our problems and to me.
As we walked back home from the vegetable bazaar, I wondered about the past and the present. Since Prakash had appeared in Ooty, Anjali seemed more agitated, more stressed, and somehow, more happy. It was as if she had been waiting for this day, and now that it was here she was going to indulge in it. Prakash had apologized to her and I knew that it meant more to her than she was making out of it.
Seeing his wife had torn her up with jealousy. She wasn’t jealous because I thought his wife was pretty; she was jealous because Prakash’s wife was . . . well, Prakash’s wife.
I couldn’t even argue with her; after all, she had always been honest with me. Always told me her secrets, no matter how dark they were, so how could I tell her that her feelings hurt me? She didn’t even know she felt the things that hurt me. Her eyes lit up at the name of Prakash, but I didn’t know if it was with anger or with pleasure.
She had loved him once, deeply, and I was tortured with jealousy at times. Yet I wouldn’t change a thing. This is what made Anjali the woman I love. Her vivacity, her love for life, and her fierce passion made Anjali, Anjali—and I could not hold that against her.
But I was tormented nevertheless. When Komal told me an army officer came to see Anjali in school, the jolt had been worth a million volts, but I stayed calm. My wife was a lot of things; a cheat she was not. She would leave me before she cheated on me and sometimes I worried that she would do both.
Oh, I knew we loved each other and that she took her marriage vows just as seriously as I took mine. But there was Prakash in the past, and he kept peeping into our lives each time Anjali’s body remembered the Bhopal gas tragedy, and now he lived just a few kilometers away.
Anjali didn’t know this, but I had seen her first wedding photo album. It had been buried under books and papers in some long forgotten box in the attic. It had been a depressing day when I had been sifting through the junk from our pasts. The gold on red leather, the words PRAKASH WEDS ANJALI flashed, ensnared me.
She had been a gorgeous bride, all bright-eyed and fresh, and he had been handsome. He probably still was. I was considered “nice” looking, hardly the material used in men’s suit commercials on television. My hair was graying, though I still had most of it. At forty-five I was no catch, and I had been no catch at thirty-one either when I met Anjali.
Prakash on the other hand looked perfect, perfect for her. Did she feel that she had made the wrong choice with me? I wondered about that, too, but the insecurities didn’t burden my life. They raised their ugly head whenever she mentioned Prakash and I remembered the one picture from the album that was sealed in my memory. He was holding Anjali’s hand at the reception and she was looking into his eyes. She was looking at him like he was the only man in the entire world, and while they had been married, he had been the only man for her in the entire world.
I felt like I was the consolation prize. It wasn’t just about good looks. It was more the aura Anjali associated army officers with. I had met several men and women like Anjali, who thought that army officers were perfect men. Patriotic, well dressed, and more Western than most of us civilian saps. Especially after a war or a publicized border skirmish, army officers looked even better to the public. To Anjali, they were demi-gods, or at least they had been. Now
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