“Where are you going?” Tara asked.
“As if you don’t know,” I said.
“Can’t you stay home today? I have a fever.”
“I’m not a doctor, Tara. Whether I stay or not won’t change your temperature.”
I pulled the door shut behind me and took the familiar lane toward Aditya’s house. She had her tricks—small ones, a headache, a fever, a soft reason to keep me home. Two years of marriage and she was still the same. I never stopped her from going wherever she wanted. I could never understand why she tried so hard to stop me.
Aditya opened the door before I could knock. The table was already set—my favourite vodka, one glass, waiting the way a loyal friend waits.
“You’re fifteen minutes late,” he said. “Everything fine?”
“Just a long day at the office.”
“Are you sure?”
That was why I liked him. He always knew when I was lying. I nodded anyway, and we drank.
Two pegs later, I broke.
“It was never fine,” I said. “I cannot even remember Shweta properly when Tara is around. It feels as if someone has come and sat over my memories.”
“That’s not Tara’s fault.”
“I know.”
“You chose not to tell your family about Shweta. Tara stepped into something she doesn’t even know exists. Why is she paying for your silence?”
“I’m not punishing her,” I said.
“What then?”
I stared into my glass.
“I’m punishing myself.”
Tara was at the door before I reached it.
She guided me in without a word and helped me to bed. She kept saying something about my drinking, but I could barely understand her. The room blurred and I fell asleep.
Morning arrived exactly as it always did.
Breakfast.
Office.
Her call in the afternoon asking whether I had eaten lunch.
Then evening.
Then the office cab crawling through traffic.
I remembered Shweta the way one remembers a season—not through moments, but through a feeling. We had imagined a future together. Then my father’s last wish became my duty, and I did not have the courage to oppose it.
After two years of marriage, every day had become predictable.
Tara would open the door and smile.
She would kiss me.
I would change my clothes and make my calls.
She would serve dinner and wait for me to say it was good.
I always knew her hope was never about the dinner.
Then I would leave.
Come back drunk.
And she would wait.
Still believing that tomorrow might be different.
My phone rang.
It was Tara.
“Honey, I’m sorry. My mother is not well. I’m going to Faridabad to see her. I was trying to call you earlier, but your phone was not reachable.”
I listened quietly.
“Your dinner is in the kitchen. Please don’t forget to put my clothes out for laundry. I’ll be back in a day or two. Also, it would be nice if you could come this weekend.”
“I will,” I said.
The house looked exactly the same.
Yet something felt different.
I opened the door and stepped inside.
Nobody kissed me.
Nobody asked how my day had been.
Nobody followed me into the kitchen.
I changed my clothes, made my calls and ate dinner.
Everything was exactly where it should have been.
But the frame looked incomplete without Tara.
Before leaving for Aditya’s house, I thought I should put her clothes out for laundry.
The moment I touched them, something passed through me.
I sat down.
Everything rushed through my mind in a single moment.
Two years.
Two years of her opening the door.
Calling me every afternoon.
Serving dinner.
Waiting late into the night.
Trying again the next morning.
She had done everything a wife should do.
I had done nothing a husband should do.
Every evening I sat with my friend while a woman starved for my companionship.
Throughout the day she waited for a friend to knock at the door.
Throughout the night she waited for the same friend to return.
What was I doing to her?
Was I a human?
No.
Things would be different when she returned.
I did not want to realise her worth when it was too late.
I would try to forget Shweta.
I would face Tara.
I would stay home in the evenings.
I would listen to her.
And I would let her listen to me.
A knock on the door pulled me from my thoughts.
I opened it.
Tara kissed me.
“I thought you had gone to Faridabad.”
“My brother admitted Mom to Apollo Hospital here in the city. He’ll stay with her tonight. I came back because I thought you might be feeling lonely.”
I looked into her eyes.
She looked into mine.
The same unconditional love was still there.
The same care.
The same patience.
I looked away.
Then I bent down and put on my slippers.
“Again?” Her voice trembled. “My mother is in the hospital.”
“I understand,” I said. “But I won’t be able to help her by staying back.”
I stepped outside and took the familiar lane toward Aditya’s house.
Far above the rooftops, the Pole Star was blinking in the same place where it had been the previous night.
© Amit Choudhary, 1997 (Post 21S)