Never Together Ever Again

We were glad when our son got admission to our daughter's college. The kids moaned and protested about having each other "breathing down the neck again". The senior promised to let loose her batchmates on the fresher. Boys or girls, his only doubt.

When we dropped them off at the college, we stayed in that town for three days. The last night, the four of us had dinner at the Chinese restaurant near the college gate. We tried to be cheerful and tried harder not to cry.

I was the first to cry. "Dragon Chicken always makes me cry," I said.

She nodded with tear-filled eyes.

The kids did not seem embarrassed. I expected some remark from my son. At least, "Bet your parents were tougher." Instead, he kept his head down and chased a button mushroom on his plate with a fork. His sister did not have to kick him.

We did not take the bus from the gate to the hostel complex. It was a long, silent walk. She held her son's hand. My daughter slipped her arm through mine.

"Do you have to go tonight?" my daughter asked. Tough guy couldn't ask that, of course.

Farewell was a quick affair. Quick packing, quick hugs. Silly jokes, nervous laughter.

I think both of us noticed that the kids had the same expression when we got into the taxi and waved goodbye. They had the look that says we will never be together ever again.

En route to the airport, we did not talk. I rubbed my left upper arm, took deep breaths, stared blankly at the road. Next to me, she too must have done something like that.

Every kid has such moments. I had mine when my parents were in their eighties. Not when they were around fifty, like us.

But then, it was not the first time for our kids.

About five years back, they went out of town for a week for some cultural or sports competition. They seemed out of sorts before they left with their school team.

"Will you be here when we come back?" my daughter asked.

"Of course, idiot," I laughed.

"Both of you?" my son probed.

We were shocked. But, we made it seem like a good joke.

Two years back, just before our daughter left for college, we had gone on a short trip to Trichy. We stayed in adjacent rooms in the best hotel in town, with very thin walls. The TV in the kids' room was on till midnight. After that was switched off, we could hear them talk. We were still awake around one.

"He should have a heart attack or something really critical," my son said.

"Shut up," his sister growled.

"Every book and film suggests that," he continued.

"That's fiction," she said.

"Are you saying that even that won't make them love each other?"

She did not reply.

"Stay together?" he pleaded.

"Without us, not even that," she sounded very sure.

I do not know how they reached that conclusion.

If we were shocked then, or earlier, it was because we thought we had managed to deceive them too. Everyone, even our parents and siblings and close friends, thinks we are the ideal couple.

We are good at that. Like the best actors, we never draw attention to ourselves. The roles and the play are more important. It helps that we can be natural with our kids. With each other, to the outside world, we let small touches and brief glances do the trick.

Long back, when the kids were little, we were in Bangalore walking on M.G. Road. I remember the way people looked at us. Maybe, I had slipped an arm around her waist or we had leaned towards each other to share something or she had held my hand. We were one helluva couple. That's what their looks said. That was much before these social media days. Now, at least online, every couple appears so.

We engaged in explicit PDA only once. We were in a movie-hall. We had left the kids with our parents. A much-younger couple in the row before ours were kissing. Some men protested about that. "Ee vrithikkedu evide paadilla (This filthy behaviour isn't allowed here)," they snarled menacingly. Lots of people shook their heads, in agreement or otherwise. I do not know what came over me. "Malayalathil ethiney vrithikkedu yennano parayunnathu (Do you call this filthy behaviour in Malayalam)?" I asked the men politely. "Englishil snogging yennu parayum (In English, it is called snogging)." Then, I turned to her and kissed her, she returned it long and deep. A few couples joined us in that counter-protest. The men left the hall. That turned out to be the best part of that movie-show.

We do not know how the kids figured it out. Inevitable, I guess, given close proximity. They are smart too.

They have never talked to us about these doubts, or conclusions. (Even we have never talked about it.) I don't think it has anything to do with respecting our privacy or whatever. It must have seemed a pointless exercise.

"Do you love each other?" the kids could ask.
"Define love," we will reply.
"Without us, will you two remain together?" they will come to the point.
"Can't think of a life without you kids," we will evade like practiced politicians.
"Are you passionate about each other?"
"Passionate as in fiction?"
"Come on, you know what we mean."
"Come on, don't be schoolkids."

They could ask better questions.

"Do you consider each other as priority number one?" or "Do you race back home from work to be with each other?"

We will have good answers. If nothing works, we will say, "Get real."

Or will we say:

"We are too old to be romantic (Kids, romantic, not romance, ok? The latter's an easy act, the former is a philosophy.) and we are too young to love for senior citizen benefits."?

Maybe, the kids are right. Maybe, we need a lesson on mortality. We have had our ups and down, nothing drastic though. Not too sure a critical situation will change anything.

Will they ask, "Was it always like this? Surely, you two must have been different when you got married?"

"Can't remember."

We were like every other young couple. Curious, excited, ambitious, principled but with rational pragmatism (which love story admits that last one?).

In the early years, we even wasted time on dumb charades with the usual reasons for insecurity: "the other", suspicion, possessiveness. I think I used to tease her with some Zahroof. Or was it Matthew? She wasn't teasing, definitely not amused, whenever she poked me with Faru.

But, long before we had our daughter, we realized that that was just a smokescreen or diversion. Filling the void with something. Temporary relief. Before emptiness swallowed us whole.

With each passing year, was it disillusionment or plain realization? Just another blow to the chin. Face it, bear it, move on. One of many dreams to be left behind with our youth.

If we were bitter or angry or stifled or dissatisfied, it wasn't for long. Role-play, complacency, lethargy and resignation took over. Lethargy is the best of the lot.

We are still attractive. I think it's pointless to look elsewhere. If she won't do, no one else will do either. It's really not about her. I don't know if she too thinks so. I don't know if she has had other lovers. Or if she wants to. Unlikely. I might not notice. Her kids would. But then, those rascals might let her. They are our kids after all.

We are good parents. No doubt about that. Strangely, I might be a good husband too. I care for her. I worry about her. I might die for her. (But then, strangers die for us every day in some foolish tussle for god-knows-what.) We talk. Discuss. We gel well. But my thoughts end there.

What is missing? Imagination? Is that what love is all about?

Maybe, that's just simplifying matters.

We got home, or what should be home. The empty nest felt really empty.

We immersed ourselves in work and social functions and books and movies. Thank god there are these streaming channels for binge-watching. News help too. We hate the same people. We are alike in lots of ways. (Oh, we are different in lots of ways too. But, that's expected.) Maybe, that's one reason. We know each other a bit too well.

Days and weeks passed. We are experts in procrastinating about anything that has to do with just the two of us.

The kids call frequently. At times, they seem surprised. More often, just resigned. Lethargic to do anything different. Like us.

A few days back, she said, "How about a trip?"

Maybe, we are playacting as usual. After all, everyone 'happy' is busy travelling, 'experiencing new places together'.

Europe? Sri Lanka? Far East? Mauritius? South Africa? Machu Pichu? Kashmir? We laughed. We cursed. We laughed again.

We chose Kodaikanal. It is nearby. We had gone there for our honeymoon.

Why not say goodbye where we first said hello?

We checked in at the hotel by the lake. Was it the same old suite?

The food is good. Real-estate development has spoiled the place but we are not too disappointed. We walked around the lake the first day. Just one helluva couple.

She woke me up at 5:30 am the second night.

"What?" my hangover mumbled.

"I want to go for a jog," she said. Was she recreating our honeymoon?

"You crazy or what?" I remember asking her that then. Not this time though.

Then, on that early morning of our honeymoon, we got into a race instead of a jog. I chose a type of interval racing--sprinting and walking. She stuck to the pace of a mile-runner. We managed to cover five kilometers. She came first.

Twenty or so years later, we settled into a slow jog at first. I can walk fast but when it comes to jogging, I have a handicap.

After two hundred meters, she increased the pace. She used to be a long-distance runner. I was a sprinter.

Not again, I thought.

I accepted the challenge and sprinted ahead, saying "Bah" to her. I had to walk after four hundred meters. She caught up with me after six hundred meters, replied with her own "Bah!" I continued to walk. I let her increase the lead by two hundred meters. I sprinted again. She increased her pace. We collapsed around the mile mark.

I felt like vomiting. She too looked a bit green in the gills.

"Bloody old age," we cursed.

The hotel staff did not laugh at us when we got back. One helluva couple. Strays must have dragged in better stuff.

We collapsed on the bed. Took hot shower an hour later, separately. We were fine at breakfast. When we returned to our room, we collapsed on the bed again.

I raised one leg. Tried to stretch it. I told her to get up and lean against it, to push it towards my chest.

"Your tummy is in the way."

"Jokes will be very injurious to your health."

She helped with one, then the other leg.

I groaned. She too groaned.

"My bloody back," I said.

"I am going to the Spa for a massage," she said.

I don't know what got into me. I sat up.

"Let me."

She seemed unsure. Stared at me for a long while. Then she lay down on her tummy.

I started with her neck, ears, scalp. (I 'cracked' the cartilage of her ears. I learned that from a barber up north. She did not let me 'crack' her nose, or her neck.) Then shoulders, arms. I removed her blouse. I worked on her back. I rubbed, pounded, even kissed. I removed the bra. I moved lower. Removed her trousers. Worked each toe, calves, ankles, thighs. Removed her panties. Kneaded her bottoms.

It was time to say, "Turn over."

On our honeymoon, I asked her to turn over. When I massaged her front, facing her, me naked too by then, by her side or straddling her, something had happened.

If only I could remember it exactly. Should I ask her if she remembers what had happened that day? Or will she hold that against me? Does that matter? If it was good, why didn't we try it again the last twenty odd years? What happened then? Or did something happen even before I asked her to turn over? Was it something she or I imagined then? What is the point in remembering that? Did I imagine anything now? Did she?

When she turns over, will we stare blankly at each other?

Or, will we see a spark of imagination in our eyes?