why I asked/why I did not say

 

I wanted to write something

deep

or honest

or worth your time

But

it is Sunday morning

when I think

about

why I asked

Will you marry me

or why I did not say

I love you

Ah

They

won’t be thinking

about

that

this Sunday morning

or

any other day.

Tell Me...

 

 

TELL ME…

(Part 4. The End. Or. The Beginning.)

 

“Why do you want to know about…that…now?”

“Why not now?”

“It’s not something parents tell their kids. All I got to know was that my parents did not meet before their wedding and, on their wedding night, my mother slept on the floor and my father on the bed.”

“That was then.”

“It feels like a death-bed talk. And, I’m not ready for that.”

“Don’t joke!”

“Don’t you have to attend German, or is it French, classes?”

“I will. After this.”

“But…”

“Look, the entrance exams are over. In a month or two, I will go to some college. We will be seeing a lot less of each other. Now might be our last chance for this talk.”

“You don’t have to make it so morbid.”

“Appa!”

“I still don’t…”

“Yeah, you won’t. I am the one who had a loving mother till the age of three. And I can’t remember any of that. There aren’t even any photos. Then, she died. And I have had only you since then.”

“Are you complaining?”

“No. What the…yes, I am complaining. I need more!”

“It’s in my stories.”

“I know the fictitious part.”

“Not all of it.”

“I know that too.”

“Ok, what do you want to know?”

“Everything, the ugly stuff too.”

“A father can’t tell his daughter the beautiful parts.”

“I will fill in those parts from your stories.”

“This won’t end well.”

“Your stories never do.”

“Where should I start?”

“How you two fell in love…”

“If ours had been love at first sight, I could have finished this off before you can say cuckoo.”

“It wasn’t? In all your stories…”  

“For two years, or was it three, we remained strangers who did not even bother to be acquaintances. I used to admire her walk. Even when we were put in the same office, we did not talk to each other for months. It might not be right to generalize but that might be true for a lot of relationships that develop into something more substantial. A few might find their one in an instant. For others, circumstances have to fit. It might be a pointless exercise to analyse tropes about falling in love. But one has to wonder if love at first sight or enemy to friend to love seems a bit too convenient.”

“Don’t go into literary criticism.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Were you…did you have someone else then?”

“I was too poor even to have friends.”

“Nice excuse. Weren’t you poor even when you got to know her?”

“You don’t have to be Sherlock spotting the faults.”

“You don’t have to dodge inconvenient stuff.”

“Not inconvenient…just embarrassing.”

“Go on.”

“There were a few I liked. But, without scope.”

“Without scope?”

“No future.”

“Problems with them?”

“Not really. Lovely girls. They were great friends. With one, I would have had to migrate. With another, I would have had to…”

“You are lying.”

“No, I swear. They were lovely girls with some inconvenience or other.”

“That might be true.”

“And, they were not interested.”

“But…you are lying about your indifference towards them.”

“Indifference? Never that. Disinterest, maybe.”

“Out with it.”

“As I said before, there are stuff a father can’t discuss with his daughter.”

“There was no sex between you and those girls.”

“Saraswathi!”

“Don’t try the prude act with me, Mr. Father.”

“I should have disowned you long back.”

“Sometimes, I feel like a fatherless child…”

“That’s my story, definitely not yours.”

“That story I know. Stick to this one. So, am I right?”

“Yes. How did you guess?”

“In all your stories, you…”

“Me?”

“The guy who is you…it’s either Jekyll or Hyde in a sexual way. Highly oversexed or pathetically impotent.”

“So?”

“By that stage of your life, you must have realized that reality about yourself.”

“What reality?”

“You won’t give too much of your time to a lady who does not interest you sexually.” 

“You make me sound like a pervert.”

“Don’t worry, I too am like that.”

“Girl, have you done something I should know about?”

“No, Appa. I have your other problem too.”

“My other problem?”

“Oversexed you might be but you don’t believe in casual sex.”

“Oh, I do! It’s the other party’s fault.”

“Yeah, yeah…don’t digress.”

“You did.”

“I know. It was a note to myself. So, you were a moping loner. How about her?”

“When I got to know her…of her…when I joined that Institute, she had a boyfriend. Then, a year or two later, she got married.”

“To that boyfriend?”

“No, to another…arranged.”

“Why?”

“The boyfriend wasn’t ready, I guess. Idiot!”

“So, she was married when you…? It’s in one of your stories.”

“In that, she is married and I have a partner.”

“A double cheat for literary effect.”

“We were not cheating.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, really. She wanted to get out of the terrible marriage.”

“It’s cheating if you have sex with another even if one’s marriage is at that stage.”

“We did not have sex then. You were not born then.”

“I don’t buy that platonic crap.”

“It wasn’t platonic.”

“Now, you are confusing.”

“We expressed our interest. We did not act on it then. That’s all.”

“When was this?”

“Late nineties.”

“Ah, the Clinton years! Now I get it.”

“Don’t be crude.”

“It’s not crude. You hiding stuff is just pathetic.”

“I’m not hiding. It’s just difficult. Come on, give me a break, will you?”

“Ok. Did you fall in love with her during the crying scene?”

“What crying scene?”

“The one you keep repeating in your stories. You finding her crying in office and you like an idiot telling her that others might misconstrue the situation.”

“That was just funny me trying to be funny.”

“Did she actually smile when you said that?”

“She laughed. She was a sweet lady. Not at all like her daughter.”

“So, was it then you fell in love?”

“Hey Torquemada, don’t rush things.”

“Then, when?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Even on her birthday, when I gave her a gift and a poem for the first time, I am not sure we were in love with each other. We were close.”

“Close?”

“Yes, very close. I knew all about her troubles. We talked about everything. Sex and all. We could have been just best friends even then. To tell you the truth, I just don’t remember.”

“You are lying.”

“No, my kid, I am not. The timeline is a bit fuzzy. Someone must have made us realize that we should talk to each other when we occupied the same office, when it was just us in that room mostly. I was just her friend for some time, a long time. Gradually, I became the best friend or confidante trying to make her marriage work. Then, I stopped playing devil’s advocate and became the best friend forever who took her problems very seriously. We became lovers…without the…”

“Just two people together due to circumstances and need…no fireworks?”

“Well…”

“See…you are hiding…”

“We did not hide our lust for each other. That’s all I can say about that.”

“Ok, I will fill in those blanks with stuff from your stories. The groping in public places, the stuff in private…”

“Don’t make it too risqué.”

“Wasn’t it? Bet there were many blue-ball moments.”

“Girl!”

“Don’t girl me. When you can’t be open. Fine, what happened then?”

“She divorced, we lived together, you happened, she died. End of story.”

“Oh no, you don’t get to finish it off that easily.”

“That’s all there was to it. Not really short story stuff with an interesting denouement.”

“I happened.”

“I agree that’s a passable climax.”

“I want more than that summary.”

“I would give you more if I could remember the details…wait…”

“What?”

“So, that’s why you want to know now?”

“Why?”

“You think I am forgetting it all. That I’m losing it.”

“It’s a risk for anyone. Even me.”

“Have I forgotten other stuff…other important stuff?”

“I don’t know, Appa. You are increasingly…”

“Forgetful?”

“By choice. That’s my problem.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, ah!”

“It’s just how it is. Even back then, I wasn’t good with dates. The day we kissed, the day she left. Even then, the events got mixed up in my head. It could be because of my writing. I mix-n-match the past for a better plot.”

“Is it just that?”

“I don’t know. Freud or Jung might say there’s something else at play. Guilt. Or whatever.”

“Guilt?”

“Imagine her situation. She was under a lot of stress when I entered her life.”

“Every girl’s life.”

“Could be.”

“Why should you feel guilty about that? You were there for her.”

“Hmmm. I was.”

“Come on, Appa.”

“We were…I was passionate. Yeah, I could be that. Don’t look so surprised. At times, we were just happy to hold each other. To sleep together. It’s the other stuff. I didn’t force anything on her. But can anyone under such stress be capable of giving consent with proper thought?”

“That way, no consent is legit.”

“But…”

“Don’t think too much about that. I’m sure she wanted to be with you, do whatever you two did.”

“Thanks.”

“But…something else happened. Something you are not telling me.”

“Nothing, really.”

“Why didn’t you two get married?”

“She had a job. I didn’t. Still doing the postdoctoral circuit. Marriage did not seem important.”

“Why was she erased after her death?”

“She was not erased. Never will be. I had to focus on you. With any reminder of her, I would have faltered.”

“In all your stories, she is the dead one who is never dead.”

“Yes, she will be that way. Always.”

“Is she dead?”

“Of course. What a question!”

“You are lying.”

“I am not…”

“Think twice before lying.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Yes.”

“But…why?”

“I don’t know. I just know you are lying.”

“I…”

“Appa!”

“Fu…”

“We don’t use such words in this house.”

“That’s my line, lady.”

“Well? Are you going to tell me or not?”

“Why do you have to be like me in such situations and not like her?”

“Don’t even try evading.”

“Oh God…”

“That bad?”

“I think this is the end of a beautiful friendship.”

“Please…no Casablanca…now…”

“She is not dead.”

“What?”

“She is not dead.”

 

“You are joking, right?”

“Huh?”

“Appa…”

“She left us when you were three.”

“Left…?”

“Went abroad.”

“Didn’t she like having me?”

“Don’t ever think that.”

“Then, what?”

“She loved you a lot. She loved me too. But…that does not make up one’s life, does it? You have seen me when I can’t write.”

“You are miserable then.”

“Yes, my dear Saraswathi. She was good at her job. Very good. She had lots to do in that field. She would have been wasted out here.”

“You could have gone with her.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Not even for me?”

“Not even for you.”

“You were both selfish. Why didn’t she take me?”

“Then, I would have had to go with her.”

“So, stay here with you and me and screw her career. Or, take me and drag you along against your wish. Or, leave me with you and chase a career.”

“Sums it up.”

“And you still love her?”

“Not in the old way. Anyway, now, it’s all water under the bridge. She is still the best woman I knew…”

“Best, my foot! Left a kid for a career?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Saraswathi.”

“Me idiot? Left motherless and I am the idiot?”

“Idiot for spouting nonsense.”

“Really?”

“Family, parenting, dreams…life is complicated. Don’t apply rules.”

“But there should be.”

“Yes, we followed one rule. You were and are our top priority. She knew I would be there for you. And I knew she would be there for you if I could not be there. But…”

“But?”

“But we have our lives too. We accepted the best compromise. For you. You may not agree. Now.”

“Will she accept me now?”

“Ah!”

“Ah what?”

“She has…a family.”

“Wow, she’s only getting better.”

“What did you expect? Yes, she went there. Yes, she is a wonderful lady. Yes, she was lucky to meet the right guy there. Yes, she has kids with him. Yes, if you go to her now, she will love you and fit you in.”

“Without you.”

“I will be here for you.”

“Why didn’t she want to be a part of my life after going abroad?”

“She wanted to. I didn’t think it was a good idea. I wanted you to have a steady life. I knew we would have our separate lives. She with some new man, new family. Me with someone.”

“But, you never…”

“My problem.”

“Didn’t find the right girl for Hyde?”

“Jekyll probably decides everything now.” 

“Not because of me?”

“Never.”

“Liar.”

“Any other lies you need to know?”

“This will do for now.”

“Good.”

“Old man, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”

“Bah! Casablanca sounds better from me.”

“Bah!”

 

Part 3: https://justoneavatar.blogspot.com/2022/06/tell-me-part-3.html

Part 2: https://justoneavatar.blogspot.com/2022/05/tell-mepart-2.html

Part 1: https://justoneavatar.blogspot.com/2022/05/tell-me-part-1.html

 

 

live the eternal death

 

"Insp. Shokie, the kids (and I) would like to know if you ever get time for poetry."

"Have you watched your love's execution?

When it's time to #cave in for that deed,

The scene's never pretty, never stink free,

It's you who will live the eternal death."

"Insp., kids!"

#vss365

Tell Me... (Part 3)

 

"Lazy idiots love love at first sight. Look at us..."

"But, we are not in love. You are married, I have a partner. We are not even attracted to each other."

"Exactly! What will make us fall in love with each other?"

"Oh..."

"Isn't that worth a thought?"

Tell Me... (Part 2)

 

I talk too much 

When I should be silent,

I laugh too much 

When I should be crying,

I joke when I should be serious,

I tease when I should not,

I remember the day you cried

(not because of me)

In our shared public space,

And all I had to say was,

"Do you know what others will think

if they caught us like this?"

It made you laugh.

Is that when I fell in love with you?

I guess not.

Tell me... (Part 1)

 

The day I feared has come,

When you ask,

"Tell me about you and Ma."

If you were a son,

I would try,

"Don't be stupid"

Or

Senseless empty verse

With admirable phrases

And great vocabulary.

He wouldn't buy that

But that's the way

With fathers and sons.

Not with you, 

my dear girl,

Image of our love 

And my darker self.

You won't say it

But your look says,

"Seasons are just 

Six-letter words.

As for four-letter ones,

Fu*k, su*k, li*k and lu*k

Are better than love.

Tell me what it was."

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?