I lie on my back as the saree wraps around me like a rope, suffocating my existence in the heat and humidity of the summer night. I remove the upper part to remind myself I can breathe again as I watch the whirling fan make a noise above our bed. Honestly, the circulating hot air doesn’t seem to reach the bed or my sweaty skin, and the open window and barely moving curtains indicate the gloomy weather outside the house. I can hear Mrs Bagchi’s AC machine’s outer unit whirling over our sunshade, drops of cool water trickling from it right outside our window. ACs are expensive, and so are the electricity bills, even after you struggle to pay the EMI. I remember your words as I grunt inwardly and turn to face you. I have shared this bed with you for almost two decades now. The room seems to smell of our sweat, dampness and the incense stick I hurriedly burnt before getting into bed to scare away the mosquitoes. Half an hour till they return to sing a lullaby in my ears while you snore away blissfully. You move, and I stiffen almost in a reflex, shutting my eyes, pretending to be in deep sleep. I fear you will catch me lying awake, enquire about my health, suggest some medicines for acidity that I don’t need and eventually start talking about increasing expenses. I do not have conversations with you anymore. Now I am not sure if it is the room I am smelling or the odour of your skin, are both the same, or have I forgotten to differentiate them? You move, switching your position from facing me to turning your back towards me, and I can breathe again. Like I exist beyond how you see me, what you expect of me, and what I am supposed to be. I open my eyes again and a car passes by in the street below, its headlight coming like a flood through the open window and lighting up the room for a few mere seconds before I hear you snoring in the darkness again. I sit up carefully enough not to wake you as I tiptoe across the room to the open window and stand there. My braid is messy from twisting and turning in bed, and the vermilion on my hairline has faded. I am careful enough so that my bangles don’t make noise as I stare out at the empty road and sleeping city and sigh. I wonder how many women like me are awake in some lonely corners of the city, waiting for our existence to melt away with the sunrise into roles we play to keep others happy. Although the room is dark, I can see the outline of the furniture and the bookshelf. I stare longingly at my dusty notebooks, wondering when was the last time I sat down and wrote two lines? Mused on something or someone? The thought made me look at you, sleeping peacefully, perhaps dreaming of the ways to impress your boss for the next promotion. Remember, back in college when I used to muse on you? How every story I wrote, every poem I recited had your name written in between the lines of my words. You used to say I would be a great writer someday, you would take care of the home and money. I believed in those idyllic dreams. I forgot how the world works. Wrong. I was not ready to accept how the world works. When was the last time I mused on you? The last time I wrote about us? The last time I read those wordy love letters that are now gathering dust somewhere under the bed?
I find it strange to admit even to myself that I don’t feel for you anymore. Don’t get me wrong. I care. I care as much as a dutiful wife cares for her husband. Enough to feed you, clothe you, and keep your house clean. But that is it. I am not in love with you. Staring at you scratching your beard while you yawn at the TV screen where the primetime news host seems excited about something trivial and deeply upsetting, I place down the steaming cup of tea, in the stained steel cup you are accustomed to and can’t help but wonder, is love all about this? A daily routine to be accustomed to, a safe space to be at? Perhaps this is love. Or perhaps I was never in love with you. I was in love with the idea of being in love, getting married, and settling down, as my parents put it. If that makes sense. Don’t get me wrong, I have no complaints about your shortcomings. Most men don’t know how to keep a woman happy. They just assume our entire existence is engulfed in theirs.
When was the last time your touch did not make me repulse? When was the last time I looked forward to our time away from the children or our parents? I pretend to be tired whenever you approach me, hoping that the children need me when they have a nightmare. At first, I was scared that you might have an affair if I kept refusing you. But you don’t seem to understand how repulsed I feel by your mere existence now, how your breathing down my neck suffocates me. Deep down, I wish you had an affair, I wish I could find out about it and scream and shout and blame you. That would be my liberation from this hamster wheel of a life that I have now. Perhaps I can get back to you by having an affair myself. By finding a man to muse on again, this time I would be careful enough with the three words I said so easily to you back then. The three words that trapped me for life. Perhaps we would just take pleasure from the conversations that go beyond the economy and politics of the world. Into the deeper meanings of life. Philosophy, history and literature. Perhaps we would feel a sensation run down our spine and hit the pit of our stomach when we touch each other. Would I shy away from the touch of another man after so many years? The mere thought of it made my cheeks warm as I blushed briefly, hiding my smile with the edge of my anchol. Why was I even thinking of such a sin? What would the children do in a broken home? What would my mother say? I have a perfect life, according to her, everything I ever wanted. A college sweetheart I married, two beautiful children, a home, your stable job, and their reputed schooling. But what about me? What about the fact that every time the sun rises, my existence vanishes with the darkness? My thoughts have no space in my day as I run from the moment I get out of bed. To make breakfast, prepare tiffins and lunches, go to the market, take the children to school, do the grocery, clean the house, bring them back, bathe them, feed them, listen to how their day was, start preparing for dinner, help them with homework, wait for you to ring the bell, make snacks, feed the children, serve you dinner, clean the kitchen and dishes and finally again coming back to bed. Would things have been different had I chosen a different life?
I stare at the picture on the wall now. The perfect happy family. We, our parents, our kids. You gave me the most wonderful children I could ever ask for. But will I be put on trial if tonight, in my deepest thoughts, I admit to myself that I did not want to be a mother as much as I wanted to be a poet. I did not want to be someone’s wife as much as I wanted to be me. It is not a crime, is it? Yet, why do I feel so guilty? Why do I feel that every time I could scream these thoughts out loud, before the engagement, before the wedding, before the children, before I stopped writing… All I could imagine was the shock, disbelief and hurt in the faces of those I deeply care for. I wonder if I were a character in someone’s story. I would sound like a tragic heroine or a privileged good-for-nothing complaining about the slightest inconveniences in life. Or perhaps they would portray me as someone lost, someone whose purposes remain unfinished. A villain, perhaps? What else was a woman ever portrayed as, if she was not a good wife or mother? What happens to those souls whose identities are a struggle every night, witnesses? I suddenly feel a rush of emotions engulfing me. I am not afraid anymore. You can shout, throw tantrums, and scare the children; they might hate me for this. I turn on the light, which blinks to stillness, and the room is flooded with light. You wince a little, moving in your sleep. I drag the chair noisily across the room, throwing away your perfectly pressed clothes, towel and undergarments on the floor, making room for me to sit. The noise makes you stop snoring. It is when I realise I have been so used to it that I barely notice you snore anymore. Like white noise. I take the pen from your drawer and open my notebook. You are now sitting up, rubbing your eyes in disbelief, staring at the clock that shows a time past 2 AM. I don’t turn back to acknowledge you as I start writing the story of my life. The story of all those women whose existences fade in daylight. I was waiting for you to ask what was wrong, if I was sick if I needed anything. What would I do if I lost my mind, and I had forgotten about your meeting tomorrow? I glance over my shoulder, holding the pen up in my hand as you stop blabbering at my unfamiliar, cold stare.
Freedom. I seek my freedom. I can’t gather the strength to utter those words. But I don’t ask for it from you or anyone. I want to snatch it from dawn, as for the first time, I wait for it, eagerly, confident about my choices.
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