Kalyaana Maalai

“Azhagaana manaivi, anbaana thunaivi, amaindhaale per inbame…”

I jerked my head like trying to get rid of an irksome fly in my ear. The spring potato stall, one of the thousand that now littered the once bare-boned beauty that was Besant Nagar beach, had the audacity to ruin my angry ruminations by playing loud music. I had to admit though, if I was in a better mood it was actually the perfect setting to play melancholic, bittersweet melodies that carried into the breezy air. Despite the obvious over-crowding that happened at the beach nowadays even on a weekday evening, there was no denying the immediate calm that wafted in the air the minute you set foot on the sand. This calmness was trying to force it’s way into my tense body and grumpy mind — but I wouldn’t have it. If I had to see my soon to be ex-wife, I would be in a decidedly thunderous mood.

“Pattoos, I’m hooooome! Hi my babies! How’ve we beeeeen, how was our daaayyy, did we miss mummmaaa, let me tell you….”

Not three seconds into entering the house and she was already talking to me and our two cats, Basanti and Mogambo — without waiting for any kind of response. All three of us immediately gravitated towards her though, the minute the lock clicked open.

I didn’t know how she could be so intensely happy so often. I certainly couldn’t, and didn’t want to. There were days when her chirpiness was irritable to me but for most part, I enjoyed the warmth it wrapped my world in. I marvelled at being able to live with her infectiously hopeful energy.
She made the house sing, even though she had a voice that was so guttural and was so tone-deaf that you would have to really pay attention to the words she was singing to identify the song. Not that it stopped her from singing, just like there was no stopping her from living like she was in a movie.

Sometimes I’d wake up to her cleaning the house while singing a made-up song like in a musical with jaunty steps to match. An adorable clown on Adderall. Other days she was in a full-blown Karan Johan drama, vehemently waving the spatula while taking on an imaginary foe like an overbearing mother-in-law, or society, with a powerful monologue. One other time she was standing dead-centre in the living room doing a spirited performance of “Satisfied” from Hamilton, and another, when she was very poorly imitating a hip hop dancer.
Some days I’d find her tearfully talking to the mirror — of course on these days I wouldn’t know if she was play acting or really breaking; it took me a while to distinguish between the two. Her feelings — both imagined and otherwise — were so often on display that sometimes I forgot to take her seriously.

A fact that she pointed out in therapy and one that I vehemently argued against.

We were entering our fourth year of marriage and sixth month of therapy. Did we give up too soon? Or had she given up far earlier and was just going through the motions so she could feel like she had given this an honest shot? I didn’t know because for me, this was my last desperate attempt to get her to stay. I had a very passive aggressive way of showing it.

“It’s not that he openly flirted with someone else that I have a problem with doctor, it’s that he’s been on such a high horse about these things. I mean, I don’t know if he’s slept with someone else and the truth is I don’t care. I only care about the fact that he always pretends to be so righteous, looking down on people who are either in open relationships or are experimenting… I just think we should be able to have these conversations about the relationship evolving without being judgemental about — ”

“If you want to fucking sleep with someone else just do it, don’t pretend to be some fucking martyr I’m so sick of you making me feel like you’re better than me all the fucking time — like you’re better than all the rest of us, like you’re some precious pristine little angel and the rest of us are swine. It’s all a fucking act, doctor.”

Of course I got told off for getting so aggressive. She was asked to leave, I had to stay on for the rest of the session. She didn’t say anything in response but her face fell as I was talking. Deflated. Paled. Her lip quivered, I could see tears beginning to sting her eyes but she bowed her head and silently walked out of the room, not making eye contact with either me or the therapist.

I never knew why I came down on her so hard. It was true that I felt inadequate with her. That I felt like I could never aspire to be someone as good as her — but it’s also true that my feeling that way wasn’t her doing. She wasn’t going out of her way to make me feel small. She wasn’t pretending to be good towards the world, but I was somehow determined to convince her that she was.
She was just being herself. And that got under my skin so much because I could never be as genuinely kind, unadulterated, and naive as her. It was her naivety that made me angrier.

I got home that day and opened the bedroom door to find her standing in front of the mirror, unclothed. Her face was glazed with silent tears.

“After the first time we slept together, you took me up to the mirror in your room. You made me stand naked in front of it while you held me and you whispered into my ear how beautiful I was. You told me that I should look at myself in the mirror everyday… Run my fingers across myself, marvel at my body, at my beauty. You told me I should never forget my beauty. That you would never let me forget it.”

Her body started to shudder in earnest.

“But you lied. The mirror lied. We haven’t had sex in over a year, I don’t remember the last time we even hugged, and I’ve never felt worse about myself, or my body. We could argue about a million different things, but at least we could still desire each other. At least we could still make love.”

She took a deep breath like she was steeling herself and turned to look at me. There was fear in her eyes but also determination.

“I slept with Mervin.”

Self-pity and self-righteous anger reared it’s head inside me like a snake. In that moment all I felt was an ugly triumph — that despite being a terrible husband to her in so many ways, I now had something concrete to disgrace her with. Something everyone would take my side for. I would win.

My hand convulsively tightened around the water bottle in my hand and I flung it with all my might at the mirror which instantly shattered. I don’t know why I didn’t register this then, but she didn’t so much as flinch, even as fine shards of glass fell on her naked body.

“SLUT!” — I hurled at her, far harder and venomously than the actual physical object I hurled that missed her by inches, and walked out of the house. Basanti hissed at my ankle as I slammed the door.

“Sorry I’m late. Basanti refused to come out from under the bed for her medication, it was a whole thing.”

Oh man, she looked good. Fuller. Happier. She sat down on the sand next to me and handed me a greasy newspaper with some bajji’s wrapped in it. “I know you hate the spring potato thing”, she smiled, as she unwrapped her own and took a big bite.

She reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope.

“Whenever you’re ready. I’ve already signed.”

“Wow, not even a how are you first?”

She grinned.

“You always told me to get to the point.”

That forced an involuntary chuckle out of me.

“Touche”

I took the envelope. I wouldn’t look into it, not here, not yet. We ate silently for a moment. “How’s Mervin?” She smiled a little sadly, now looking straight ahead. “No, we’re not doing that. We’re not friends, not yet. I’m not going to talk to you about that.”

“Little Miss I’m-Assertive-Now, huh?” I balked as soon as I heard the taut bitterness in my voice.

She finished her last bite, wiped her hands, and crumpled up the newspaper. She stood up and dusted herself off. Small flecks of sand took flight from her jeans.

She looked me right in the eyes and smiled. “I’ll see you at the lawyer’s office next week. Take care of yourself.”

And with that, she turned around and walked away. I watched her go.

Wedding night — four years ago

She was curled into my bare chest as I straddled her in my arms. “I’m sleepy, but I don’t want to sleep. I want to burn this day, this night, into the back of my eyelids so it’s the first thing I see every time I close my eyes.” she muttered into me.

I smiled and kissed the top of my head.

“My cute little mental girl. Promise you’ll always be this hopelessly, hopefully romantic.”

“You’ll see, won’t you…No choice now we maaarriieed…” she mumbled, slowly drifting away, her body loosening in my arms. I hugged her tighter, resolving to never let her go, and sang —

“Azhagaana manaivi, anbaana thunaivi, amaindhaale per inbame…Madimeedhu thuyila, sarasangal payila.. Mogangal aarambame..
Nalla manaiyaalin naesam oru kodi.. Nenjamenum veenai paadume thodi..
Sandhosha samraajyame…”

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After a lot of creative lamenting, Arjun Mohan and I have decided to hold ourselves accountable for writing everyday. We take turns giving each other a prompt, and we have 24 hours to write using it.

Today’s prompts have been used in the story, in bold.

VERY rusty writing after a very long time. The hope is to stick to it and to find the familiar ease.