I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath. "Ten, nine, eight, seven..."
I knew he would reach the door before I reached one. He is a man of habit, my husband. Sometimes when I am talking to him about something urgent while he’s shaving or in the shower – that’s the only time he lets me talk to him – I feel as if he has counted the number of times he will run the razor over his cheeks or scrub himself with loofah.
“Whose key is this in the lock?” he is yelling at me, just as I expected. “I have my house keys. And how would I know? You’re the one who wakes up first. It’s the second day today that that has happened,” I say, with an innocent look on my face.
He scowls as he flings the key inside the house and leaves, banging the door shut behind him. I put away the key for another day and make myself my princely breakfast of toast and tea. It is about time; my phone should ring any minute. And it does. It is him. “I forgot my phone at home. Will you look where it is?” I look at my tea for a while and say, “where you always leave it. How come you forgot?” as I pull his phone from under the cushion of the couch I am sitting on. Then I feel I am being too harsh so I add: “Don’t worry; I will go give it to Manish (our neighbor and his colleague) right away if he hasn’t left for office yet.” And as promised, I finish my breakfast and take my own sweet time to go next door. Of course, Manish has left for office.
I spend my days cleaning the house _ Rishi likes the floor so clean you can see your face in it __ and cooking. He also doesn’t like an outsider touching our things so I don’t have any domestic help. I do everything on my own. Around lunch time, he calls every day so we can discuss the menu for dinner. Rishi is a complete foodie and he likes home-cooked meals. So I try finishing the rest of the chores before his call.
I used to be a fairly social person but that seems like another lifetime now. I did have my facebook account, like everyone else. But Rishi didn’t like my chatting and slowly I felt cut off from the rest of them. Even people I had known all my life drifted away when I stopped going out. Nobody ever visits us so I see faces other than my own and Rishi’s only on the weekends when he takes me out. What we do on the weekend is up to him.
Today, his call comes at noon sharp. He makes his ‘suggestions’ and I write everything down so I don’t forget before I get on with the cooking. He likes things his way and even a small digression annoys him.
I should be glad that we don’t have kids yet; despite being married for a good four years. Also, despite how for Rishi having sex is like some would have warm milk at night; we have been at it almost every single night since we married. He insists that sex keeps couples ‘connected’ and I wondered initially if he was punning but then Rishi is a man of few words, unless he is screaming. In fact he’s not a man of few words out of choice. Over the years, I have realised he hasn’t read enough to be able to say the same things differently. So sex is demanded with a “Come here,” every night.
I am drifting so let me get back to work. I cook, do the dishes, wipe and mop before getting laundry and folding or ironing them, as need be. Once I have put them away, I have to check one last time that I have finished all my chores of the day or Rishi will blow his fuse.
After making sure everything’s in its place, I set off to deck up for him. Rishi likes me well-dressed. I cannot be sloppy, not even when I am sick. In fact, I cannot be sick because it unnerves him. He complains and sulks.
Today I have picked a red blouse and black jeans. We bought the blouse when Rishi was in a particularly generous mood and had taken me out shopping. When he’s like that he can buy me an entire store. The only condition being that I praise what he likes. I have to appreciate the fabric, the stitching and how it complements my complexion or he sulks.
I shower, and get ready. I apply foundation, blusher and lipstick. Then I go back to the kitchen to make tea for us. I am pouring the tea when I hear his key turn in the lock. He walks in, and takes his ten steps towards the chair where he will oh-so-delicately place his satchel. Then he will take his 12 steps to our bedroom where he will change into the ironed clothes I have laid out for him.
Five minutes later, he joins me on our balcony where I have brought the tea and a bowl of snacks. I seem dressed to go out while he has changed into his pajamas. But that’s not a point of debate. That’s how he likes it and that’s what he gets. He leans against the railing and lights a cigarette. He looks at the tray and says: “Whatever happened to the mugs we had? Why did these strange ones come from?”
I look up and ask: “What are you talking about? I don’t go shopping on my own, you know that, so where will I get new mugs from?” He obviously doesn’t believe me and goes to the kitchen to rummage through all the drawers. Soon enough he is back, describing some mugs to me. “Those were beige and white and had black lines criss-crossing. These are in solid colours,” he says. I give him a blank look.
We finish our tea in silence, like we always do, both of us lost in our own worlds. Then I go back inside the house while he carries on smoking. I put away the clothes he has flung carelessly on the couch in our room. Then I sit down to plan tomorrow’s breakfast and also what prep I need to do tonight. He likes typical Indian breakfasts and as you would’ve understood by now, in our house, Rishi gets what he asks for.
Once I have warmed the dinner, I call out to him. He looks at the clock and says: “It’s only 8 pm. Don’t we eat at 8.30 every evening?” I say: “You told me we will eat early today!” He looks at me, defeated.
I serve him his soup and sandwiches. He looks up in disbelief and yells: “Didn’t I tell you to make pulao and kofta?” I pick up my notebook from the kitchen slab and open it for him. I turn to today’s page and show him: “See, you gave me this notebook because I always forget so I have been writing everything down, with the date. See for yourself.” He doesn’t need to look so he eats silently.
I sit down with my plate but he has already finished his dinner so he gets up and leaves for his position on the balcony. The exact spot where he has been standing for his after-dinner smoke ever since I can remember. I put away the leftovers and go off to change.
I have a whole collection of lingerie. That’s one thing Rishi loves buying for me. In fact I think I have more of nightwear than anything else. That’s also because, like Rishi points out, it’s for his eyes only. He also told me why he married me. It wasn’t for my wit or my degrees that had me working at a big corporate house. He married me for my figure.
I am done but I remember I haven’t brushed my teeth so I saunter off to the bathroom. I close the door and turn towards the basin when the door opens and he walks in. “What are you doing?” he asks. We don’t have bolts or locks on our doors. That’s because in his world, there’s nothing like privacy amongst family members. Anyone can walk into the bathroom, you could be peeing but your dad can come in to shave. Your mum could be in the bath and you could walk in to brush your teeth.
He stands there watching as I brush my teeth and he goes: “Come here” as soon as I am done. So I go.
A few hours later, I am literally hauled off the bed so my eyes open wide and he asks: “You know my cigarettes are gone! There’s not even one left in the packet now. What will I do tonight?”
I look at him again and ask: “You always get a new carton when you are down to two packets. No one comes to our house so where can cigarettes go?” He clenches his teeth but leaves my arms and goes to prowl all over the house. I go back to my corner on the bed and sleep.
When I wake up the next morning, he is gone. I know he has gone to get his cigarettes so I make our morning tea. I have just sat down with my tea and Marie biscuits when he is back. He takes his mug out of the microwave and thunders: “I don’t believe this. A different mug again?” I look at him and say: “What is happening to you? You asked the same question last evening too!” He says: “Come on! I wouldn’t be caught dead drinking from an orange mug!” and he goes through the kitchen drawers again. And I sip my tea peacefully.
Six months on, Rishi’s condition has deteriorated. He looks at everything with suspicion. He has started forgetting a lot. He says something to me; asking me to cook this or wear that, and then denies ever having said it in the first place. His work is also suffering because some days he forgets to take his cell phone, on other days it’s his car keys or his watch. I am getting worried now so I have called his parents over. They are taking him to a psychiatrist today.
I have tidied the kitchen. I am putting the tea mugs in place when they come back. They give some pill to Rishi and put him to sleep. They sit me down and tell me: “The doctor says he might be schizophrenic. Such a brilliant boy and he is so sick. We know what a dedicated wife you have been. You have always done whatever he told you to. But we have to look out for you too. You are still young; we cannot allow you to spend your life with an ill man. Rishi will have to be put in a mental asylum so there isn’t much else you can do for him. So why don’t you move on in life?”
A week later, I have packed my things. My in-laws live in another town so there is no point in retaining this apartment. They are leaving in the evening and are taking Rishi along so I have gone through the house with a fine-toothed comb. I have sorted everything out. I have regularly been throwing away Rishi’s cigarette packets that I was pilfering, in the trash bin. My mother-in-law has been extremely sympathetic; almost regretting the fact that they aren’t doing much for me. I touch their feet before I step out.
I don’t stop the tears of joy streaming down my face as I leave my gilded cage. I fling the duplicate house keys into the bush. Then I yell for my neighbour on the ground floor as I wait for the cab to arrive. Prerna comes, hugs me and says: “Where will you go now that your husband is a certified freak? I have known you for so long and it bothered me that you weren’t even allowed to be friends with anyone.” I hope I look shattered when I tell her: “If I can leave my own household, what’s there to hold me back. I could go anywhere!”
I fish a carefully wrapped packet out of my bag and offer it to her. “You could’ve kept these tea mugs. I told you I have a whole collection. But you didn’t listen. You’ve been borrowing mugs from me for so long now. You won’t take your own tea mugs back, those beige and white designer ones? Somehow I cannot believe your husband let you swap them.”
I manage a tight smile as I get into the cab that has just arrived. Before leaving, I tell her: “It took me this long to learn but in our house, Rishi always gets what he asks for.”
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