school or college. I know most people would find my existence to be a lonely one, but I was fine, really!
I am glad that his mother is going back tomorrow. Hisbrother left just after the wedding. His mother stayed around till we got back from our honeymoon.
(Oh, it was bliss! Seychelles is pure heaven on earth! I particularly enjoyed the lovemaking sessions under the canopy of stars on our very private deck. And my treasured memory is how we skinny-dipped, and how Samir had laughed in shock and delight! Oh, I adore him with all my heart and am so, so, so happy I found him. He truly makes me feel like I am the luckiest woman on earth!) His mother is nice and non-interfering. But somehow, I cannot connect much with her. Maybe secretly she disapproves of me—I don’t know. Samir says it is all in my head. But I do have to wear a salwar-kameez when she is around. (How could I refuse Samir when he asked so sweetly between kisses whether I would wear a salwarkameez when his mother was around?) I would have thought that staying in London she would be a little more Westernized, but she seems to have regressed into being more Indian. Anyway, it’s just until tomorrow , and then she goes back.
Samir resumes work tomorrow. I sure am going to feel strange being all by myself in this huge apartment. Samir somehow felt my continuing to work in office would not be good for his image. How can his wife be his secretary?!I did not like how he implied that a secretary’s job was something menial. But I did not want to argue with him. I guess he does have a point after all.
It remains to see how I will pass my time. Maybe I will learn to cook and read!
With a Little Help From My Friends
R eading the journal has brought back a flood of memories. It is as though a door which had been closed has suddenly opened, and you have discovered an entirely new room in your home which you had forgotten existed. It is like I want to retrace every single thing that happened ever since Samir and I got married, to examine and see if there were signs or warnings of something amiss in our marriage all along. Till Samir walked out, I never knew what pain really feels like. Never had I felt like this—not even when my father died. This pain—it feels like a vicious beast attacking me, baring its menacing claws and teeth when I am bound and gagged, and it will get my throat any moment now. Mostly, I feel helpless.
There is nothing I can do. And I think it is mostly my outrage at the injustice of it all that is making me want to wail out loudly. Tears stream down my cheeks and I get up to wash my face. Then I make a cup of tea for myself. And I settle down on the rocking chair in the balcony with my journals again.
It is funny how eight years change you, make you forget the tiny details. But when you open that door, it suddenly comes back crystal clear. It is as though the journal is the key to my past. It is as though by looking back, I can make some sense of the pieces that my life now lies in.
The next entry in the journal is on November 11, 2001.
It is just a very short entry which reads:
There are certain things that change after marriage, things which nobody will understand till they get married. Non-issues suddenly become issues. Now your spouse has a say in who your friends can be and who should remain strictly off limits. Your spouse can now also pass judgements about people whom they know little about, but most of all people who have been longer in your life than they have. I think it is very unfair.
Chetana and Akash came home today.
I wish now they had not.
The entry ends abruptly there, and I think back and recall that day in vivid detail.
It had been three weeks since I joined the baking and cooking course. I had told Samir that I was beginning to get bored at home after ten days of staying put, and that I was contemplating joining some cooking course.
‘You are going to cook?’ he had asked smiling.
‘Come on! I am not that bad
I am glad that his mother is going back tomorrow. Hisbrother left just after the wedding. His mother stayed around till we got back from our honeymoon.
(Oh, it was bliss! Seychelles is pure heaven on earth! I particularly enjoyed the lovemaking sessions under the canopy of stars on our very private deck. And my treasured memory is how we skinny-dipped, and how Samir had laughed in shock and delight! Oh, I adore him with all my heart and am so, so, so happy I found him. He truly makes me feel like I am the luckiest woman on earth!) His mother is nice and non-interfering. But somehow, I cannot connect much with her. Maybe secretly she disapproves of me—I don’t know. Samir says it is all in my head. But I do have to wear a salwar-kameez when she is around. (How could I refuse Samir when he asked so sweetly between kisses whether I would wear a salwarkameez when his mother was around?) I would have thought that staying in London she would be a little more Westernized, but she seems to have regressed into being more Indian. Anyway, it’s just until tomorrow , and then she goes back.
Samir resumes work tomorrow. I sure am going to feel strange being all by myself in this huge apartment. Samir somehow felt my continuing to work in office would not be good for his image. How can his wife be his secretary?!I did not like how he implied that a secretary’s job was something menial. But I did not want to argue with him. I guess he does have a point after all.
It remains to see how I will pass my time. Maybe I will learn to cook and read!
With a Little Help From My Friends
R eading the journal has brought back a flood of memories. It is as though a door which had been closed has suddenly opened, and you have discovered an entirely new room in your home which you had forgotten existed. It is like I want to retrace every single thing that happened ever since Samir and I got married, to examine and see if there were signs or warnings of something amiss in our marriage all along. Till Samir walked out, I never knew what pain really feels like. Never had I felt like this—not even when my father died. This pain—it feels like a vicious beast attacking me, baring its menacing claws and teeth when I am bound and gagged, and it will get my throat any moment now. Mostly, I feel helpless.
There is nothing I can do. And I think it is mostly my outrage at the injustice of it all that is making me want to wail out loudly. Tears stream down my cheeks and I get up to wash my face. Then I make a cup of tea for myself. And I settle down on the rocking chair in the balcony with my journals again.
It is funny how eight years change you, make you forget the tiny details. But when you open that door, it suddenly comes back crystal clear. It is as though the journal is the key to my past. It is as though by looking back, I can make some sense of the pieces that my life now lies in.
The next entry in the journal is on November 11, 2001.
It is just a very short entry which reads:
There are certain things that change after marriage, things which nobody will understand till they get married. Non-issues suddenly become issues. Now your spouse has a say in who your friends can be and who should remain strictly off limits. Your spouse can now also pass judgements about people whom they know little about, but most of all people who have been longer in your life than they have. I think it is very unfair.
Chetana and Akash came home today.
I wish now they had not.
The entry ends abruptly there, and I think back and recall that day in vivid detail.
It had been three weeks since I joined the baking and cooking course. I had told Samir that I was beginning to get bored at home after ten days of staying put, and that I was contemplating joining some cooking course.
‘You are going to cook?’ he had asked smiling.
‘Come on! I am not that bad
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