I
was sitting in the shade of the old Mango tree of her childhood, the
same tree that had appeared countless times on our bed, as she rested
her head on my then middle-aged diaphragm. I listened to all her
stories with amazement, for she always had something new to share;
unlike me, who had only learnt to survive in a loop of a few chosen
memories. In all the years we shared the earth, I have never
heard a story repeat itself! As you can already see, I have always
been amazed by her.Back in the day when I used to tell her that I
would be a story-teller someday, she must have secretly laughed at
me, not because I had any lack of passion or dearth of stories, but
because she knew what I hadn’t figured out – that she was my
story- and I was living it. Today, as I watched the ripples of the
river take her ashes away from the shore, I could not shed a tear. I
lost my wife, whom I never made love to. We have a son, who some
people say, resembles my features! Me and my wife would lay in each
other’s arms and laugh at these people. My wife’s lover didn’t
make it to her funeral. He didn’t need to. No one had to know of
his existence, because I did. But he always existed, because he
always did.
I
do not know what her expressions looked like when she was made love
to. I would never know if and how her body burned on her lover’s
single touch. You see, I was good at cooking for her a nice lamb stew
on a Friday night. I was always good at remembering significant
dates. I was really good at bringing her child up with pure love. I
was good at looking into her closing eyes one last time and convey
that she has been loved. I won’t be able to tell you whether she
felt stroking on her belly irresistible; her lover can. But I was her
husband. I was the person who took care of the bed-sheets, the next
morning.
If
you are curious about how I felt when my wife was making love to her
man, I wouldn’t know what to answer. Would you believe me if I said
that I have no recollection of those times? May be I have always preferred to believe that I didn’t exist at those times...you know,
whatever we all do to get through our lives. But honestly, I wouldn’t
know for sure! And I’m glad that I don’t know.
Let’s
pause for a second. Is it hurting your sensibilities that I am
writing about my wife’s lover on the day she left this world? But
if you wanted me tell you a story that you want to tell yourself, you
anyway wouldn’t be here. So enjoy this bizarre world. At the end,
it’s not your life. So you need not worry and can just be what
you’ve always been : curious.
On
our son’s tenth birthday, she worked all day to make it perfect! It
was a special day, of course. Any father would know what I’m
talking about. At 11’o clock, when the guests were gone, and our son
was finally asleep with his new harmonica, she looked into my eyes.
No man could miss that message in his woman’s eyes. When you love a
woman like I have loved her, you would understand why I left our
house for the night, without delay.
Me,
my wife and her lover were never together. May be this is what she preferred. My guess is, it worked well for each of us.
I
have seen some people wonder when a guy keeps living with a woman who
makes love to someone else. Some people wonder why the woman keeps
living with the man whom she doesn’t make love to. People often
wonder about these things. I wonder why!
The
first time I kissed her was long before our marriage. She was reading
an excerpt from a Dostoevsky novel. I obviously remember the name of the
story. Our story. She was midway through the excerpt. I was listening
to her, mesmerized as usual by her mere presence. I knew that except
for my love for her, there was nothing else that mattered more to me
at that moment, nothing in the universe felt more significant to my
life than being in love with her; I had always been in love with her.
I had always belonged to her. I was, like I still am, hers. I kissed
her. And when she kissed me back, her lover was born.
The
lover that died with her in the early hours of this day.
