A Breath of Fresh Air by Amulya Malladi Page A

position I was in when I divorced Prakash, though my situation had been worse. Society forgave widows for their husbands’ deaths, but they didn’t forgive women like me, who let their husbands go on purpose.
    My parents had gone berserk and so had Prakash. No one could believe I was divorcing him. Prakash had even refused to give me a divorce and had relented only when I told him I would start naming names of women he had been with to make a case for divorce on the basis of adultery. After that, he hadn’t protested much and I had gotten what I wanted, freedom from my husband.
    Komal, on the other hand, had not wanted to be free of her husband. She had not wanted him to be run over by a city bus. She was alone in the world. She didn’t have children, her husband was dead, and she was stuck with us.
    “Would you like to go to the temple now?” I asked patiently. “Sandeep should be home soon and he can take you.”
    Komal looked at me with something like surprise in her eyes. I didn’t like seeing that. Did I really come across as some bitch who wouldn’t let her widowed sister-in-law go to a temple on her husband’s death anniversary? I didn’t even tell her what to do or what not to do. Her life was hers, but I knew she couldn’t understand that she was free to do what she wanted. How could she? She had listened to her father, then her husband, and now she felt she needed to listen to Sandeep because he paid the bills. I felt sorry for her, but I knew she wouldn’t have it any other way. Komal was raised, just the way I was, to obey the men in her life.
    “He is here? In Ooty?” Sarita squealed.
    I made a hissing sound to silence her. “Yes, and he had the nerve to come to school to talk to me.”
    We were in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on our dinner. Sandeep and Gopi were on the veranda with Komal, and Amar was playing with Sarita’s children.
    Sarita’s oldest, Ajay, was Amar’s age and Shalini was a couple of years younger. Ajay and Shalini understood that Amar was sick and came by whenever they could to keep the “sick boy” company. I was glad they did, but it felt like charity, nevertheless.
    “I also met his wife,” I told Sarita. It was a pleasure to gossip with someone. I was, after all, a woman and I had to talk about what was going on in my life. Sandeep knew all of it, so there was no point in telling him.
    “What was she like?”
    “Pretty, pretty.”
    “Not prettier than you,” Sarita claimed, and I laughed.
    “I don’t want him, Sarita,” I told her, as I sprinkled chopped coriander on the dum aloo .
    “I know, but you know what I am trying to say,” she said.
    “I know,” I said, and sighed. “Can we talk about something else?”
    “How was the doctor’s appointment? Any improvement?” Sarita asked.
    I shook my head. “No, the lung inflammation is not getting any better and his heart is the same. To make it worse, the scar tissue has started to spread in his lungs.”
    “If only the heart operation had worked. He is such a smart boy,” Sarita said.
    Tears filled my eyes. “Yes, and today he said that sometimes he wanted it all to be over. The corticosteroids shot makes him sick and . . . there is nothing I can do to make it better.”
    “Ice cream,” Sarita said firmly. “Children always feel better if you give them ice cream. I have some pista kulfi at home; Gopi will get it right away.”
    I tried to stop her, but what was the point? Sarita never listened to anyone.
    The kulfi did help. Amar was grinning from ear to ear as he ate the homemade pistachio ice cream, despite the cold weather.
    After dinner, Gopi dropped off his kids and put them to bed and came right back. The four of us did that often. We sat and talked late into the night. Komal stayed with us for a while and then usually left.
    And it was like the old times again. The four of us, together, alone.
    “I know you don’t want to talk about this,” Gopi began, and I was on alert.