Being the dutiful daughter that I was, I accepted my mother’s argument—there was no reason not to. I liked everything about Nishant.
But now . . . now I wonder . . . Even though I like him, why don’t I love him? He, in turn, seems to certainly love me and has proclaimed it often enough. So what’s wrong with me? Do other women who get into picture-perfect arranged marriages also feel the same way?
Delicately, I asked my best friend, Roma, ‘Do you . . . umm . . . love your husband?’
‘Of course, what a stupid thing to ask.’ She looked at me as if I had lost my mind.
‘I mean, is it real love? True love? The love they talk about in books and movies?’ I persisted.
She hesitated. ‘Of course it is real love. What you are talking about only happens in stories. Real love like what I have is much better!’ she said emphatically.
Going by what Roma told me, I tried to revise my thought process. Perhaps what I felt for Nishant was indeed love. I liked everything about him . . . perhaps it was not liking, it was love. Having never experienced the emotion, I had no idea what it actually felt like.
After that, I settled down into happy domesticity. But try as I might, the longing would not let up. Slowly, I began to go mad with the fierce desire to love and be loved, and it gnawed at my insides. Sometimes I caught myself staring unconsciously at other men. I felt terribly ashamed of myself. I would berate myself and try to be content with my life. Maybe I was abnormal, I thought.
This status quo would have continued had Milind not come into my life. He was the most vital symbol of manhood that I had ever seen. I can never get over my first sight of him. It was a lazy Sunday morning and I was lolling on the terrace, languidly flipping through my favourite book of poems, letting the sun dry my freshly washed tresses. Casually I looked up. And there he was, bending over his motorbike, wearing the shortest of shorts. I sucked in my breath as I looked at his strapping frame, his wide shoulders and his brawny biceps. He turned and seemed to look straight at me. My stomach lurched as I gazed at his chiselled face—all planes and angles. It was not cast in the conventionally good-looking mould. But the hypnotic eyes, crooked nose, full lips, overlong tousled hair, stubble dotting the obstinate jaw . . . all held an appeal that made him irresistible.
That evening I was filled with despair as I looked at Nishant. Try as I might, I could feel nothing for him. Nothing! There was no chemistry! I knew I could no longer continue like this. Milind had added a touch of reality to my yearnings.
After several weeks of torment, I decided that I had to do something. ‘After all, you only live once!’ the devilish voice inside me spoke.
Milind was the only child of our elderly new neighbours. He was probably a late-born to them, I surmised. After engineering, he had taken admission in an MBA course from one of the most prestigious universities in the country, which happened to be located in our city. I studied his daily routine and came to the conclusion that his early-morning jog was when I could get to know him. My years of yoga and exercise would come in handy now.
Soon enough, I was jogging alongside him and managed to strike up a tenuous friendship. I was delighted to find that I thoroughly enjoyed my conversations with him. He was intelligent, aware, articulate and vibrant. The hour-long jog would magically whiz past in his scintillating company. It was just so much fun! I truly came alive when I was with him. These mornings became the high point of my existence.
Truth be told, even though age-wise I was supposed to be . . . umm . . . not that young, inside I never felt not young! My body, mind and heart seemed to believe that they were just about sixteen. Actually, the Bryan Adams song, Eighteen Till I Die, was my anthem and I believed that it should be on my epitaph, if I ever had one. I wondered whether other women—people in general—felt this way. We grow in years but remain the same kid inside. In my head, the others were ‘aunties’ and ‘uncles’, but I was a young girl. God, too, had connived with me on this, and ensured that I looked incredibly young, which was all the more reason for me to feel like a teenager. For, whenever I looked into the mirror, the almost-child-like face that smiled back looked innocently endearing. And this is no exaggeration, I swear.
I wondered if what I was doing was wrong. But I could not help myself. I was falling for Milind and didn’t want to stop. For the first time in my life I was feeling excitement and euphoria for another person. Was this what was called love?
Perhaps . . .
Whatever it was, it was exhilarating, intoxicating, and I did not want to let it go. I was becoming addicted to this giddy feeling that Milind aroused in me.
Meanwhile, I could see that Milind, too, was smitten with me. I would catch him looking at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. He would drop in at my house on some pretext or the other and call up several times. He even made friends with the children . . . Both the children began to idolize him somewhat, for he seemed like a cool dude to them. Very often, when Milind was not out with his university friends, the four of us would play cricket or some game in the evenings, or just put on some music and dance. Nishant always came home late from office—and that suited me just fine. More and more, Milind preferred to hang out at our place, for his parents preferred a quiet house. Several months went by, and the happy friendship between us became deep and seemingly permanent.
One day while jogging, I twisted my ankle. The searing pain took me by surprise, and I sat down moaning in the middle of the road. Milind stopped and looked at me, worried.
‘I’ve twisted it,’ I mumbled.
‘Here, lean on me. We’ll rest for a while under those trees nearby,’ he said gently.
As he helped me up, the pain shot up again. I sank to the road again with an involuntary ‘Ouch’.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll carry you,’ he said, looking very concerned.
He lifted me into his arms. With my arms around his sinewy neck and back, I felt like a girlish Mills & Boon heroine. With lowered eyes, I gazed at the faint perspiration dotting his upper lip. I don’t know whether it was the ankle or the proximity to him, but I began to feel faint. I rested my head against his shoulder. He shivered. As he was about to lower me on the dewy grass, I looked straight into his eyes, letting him look deep into my soul. He inhaled sharply and leaned into me as though about to kiss me. Then, coming to his senses, he jerked back and laid me on the grass. His breathing was fast and shallow. He lowered himself next to me, careful not to look at me.
After what seemed like an eternity, I broke the silence. ‘Milind,’ I began, my voice throaty.
He turned towards me.
Looking at his compelling face, I was unable to speak further. I only knew that I had these mad feelings for him. I wanted him to be mine—and reason, logic, society be damned.
He saw the emotions flit across my face.
‘I’m in love with you,’ he said gravely.
Hearing the words, a fierce, ecstatic joy coursed through my entire being. I felt as if the very depths of my soul had become submerged in a sea of happiness. This is what I had been yearning for, this was what made life meaningful, what would make my life complete, my mind chanted.
‘I love you,’ I whispered.
At these words, Milind leaned towards me and took me in his arms. Gosh! I felt aroused, content, safe, secure, satisfied, comforted and excited . . . all at once. I was home at last.