It was unlike anything else. He was married, he had courted his wife before he had gotten married. she was the first love of his life.
The walking home with her, the dropping her books off home, the borrowing things, just so that they could talk again at college, the getting to know her friends, so he could spend time with her, the bribes offered to friends to fake their birthdays and invite her ... he had done all of this. His wife, was his sweetheart. The girl he had fallen in love with, when he was 19. The girl he dreamed to be with, until he was 90. He went home daily to her. He knew her. She knew him. that is what they were.
What was this then? It wasnt the love he had felt when he was 19. She wasnt his wife. What was it then? He thought long and hard about it. There was some chemistry. There was sexual tension. There was the anticipation of doing something out of the ordinary. This wasnt enough to be love though.
They shared the same interests. High pitched Edith Piaf rendering in the car; endless discussions of pre-independent India, political, apolitical discussions. Kannada songs and Hindi dialogues. Mimcry of "namma rajkumaaar ravru"
Deep down, sorrow. Grief unbearable. smiles through unshed tears. what happened that he could say things to this person, things that he wouldnt tell his wife, because she had to be protected? Why could he talk about office politics and bitch about the industry in general, and when he reached home - he had nothing to speak anymore to his wife, except listen to how well her baking classes were going?
Why did he feel guilty when his wife invited this other person into her home? Almost like the collision of two separate worlds would bring about the end of his world?
As he lay at night, thinking about her, he dialed her number without meaning to. She picked up his call. silence.
silence.
silence.
silence.
and then the beep of the phone disconnecting.
She waited for him at the blind turn.(irony). he walked down the steps and another furlong to reach the blind turn.
AC on full blast, it was a cool welcome, against the hot afternoon bangalore sun. they sat in silence. no piaf. no rafi. no vidyabhushan. this time. just silence.
Silence that sang. louder than any song. Silence.
that kiss. brief. unsure. awkward.
another kiss. probing. stronger. a little bit of teeth on her lower lip. breathing in her smell. car freshener and a woody-musky deo. rough facial hair touching the mole on her lower cheek.
Her hand on his cheek, cool fingers touching his warm earlobes. the clink of her watch with his diamond stud.
awkward drawing back of faces. longing mixed with guilt and sorrow. he walked back. the sun felt stronger now. was it the afternoon sun, or the rush of endorphin that heated up his face?
It had now begun.
The walking home with her, the dropping her books off home, the borrowing things, just so that they could talk again at college, the getting to know her friends, so he could spend time with her, the bribes offered to friends to fake their birthdays and invite her ... he had done all of this. His wife, was his sweetheart. The girl he had fallen in love with, when he was 19. The girl he dreamed to be with, until he was 90. He went home daily to her. He knew her. She knew him. that is what they were.
What was this then? It wasnt the love he had felt when he was 19. She wasnt his wife. What was it then? He thought long and hard about it. There was some chemistry. There was sexual tension. There was the anticipation of doing something out of the ordinary. This wasnt enough to be love though.
They shared the same interests. High pitched Edith Piaf rendering in the car; endless discussions of pre-independent India, political, apolitical discussions. Kannada songs and Hindi dialogues. Mimcry of "namma rajkumaaar ravru"
Deep down, sorrow. Grief unbearable. smiles through unshed tears. what happened that he could say things to this person, things that he wouldnt tell his wife, because she had to be protected? Why could he talk about office politics and bitch about the industry in general, and when he reached home - he had nothing to speak anymore to his wife, except listen to how well her baking classes were going?
Why did he feel guilty when his wife invited this other person into her home? Almost like the collision of two separate worlds would bring about the end of his world?
As he lay at night, thinking about her, he dialed her number without meaning to. She picked up his call. silence.
silence.
silence.
silence.
and then the beep of the phone disconnecting.
She waited for him at the blind turn.(irony). he walked down the steps and another furlong to reach the blind turn.
AC on full blast, it was a cool welcome, against the hot afternoon bangalore sun. they sat in silence. no piaf. no rafi. no vidyabhushan. this time. just silence.
Silence that sang. louder than any song. Silence.
that kiss. brief. unsure. awkward.
another kiss. probing. stronger. a little bit of teeth on her lower lip. breathing in her smell. car freshener and a woody-musky deo. rough facial hair touching the mole on her lower cheek.
Her hand on his cheek, cool fingers touching his warm earlobes. the clink of her watch with his diamond stud.
awkward drawing back of faces. longing mixed with guilt and sorrow. he walked back. the sun felt stronger now. was it the afternoon sun, or the rush of endorphin that heated up his face?
It had now begun.
