The confidante
She sat lazing in the warmth of the
Delhi's wintry sunlight. Utterly
contented in the coziness of the light shawl that she had draped hurriedly, as
soon as the sun yawned tiredly through the gloomy clouds in the February
morning."Ah...this is bliss...this is what contentment is". Her
husband joined her on the terrace, strapping gait and looks easily belying his
50 years of age. While she sat idly scrutinizing her mate, he went pottering
around the bonsai jungle that he had planted. His pride and joy; the plants
were always in display and the subject of many a discussion whenever they had
hosted a cocktail. A huge bevy of female friends her husband had, all owing to
the blasted dwarf plants with their vulgar looking fruits. And she did nothing
to hide her displeasure at both - the gaggle of friends and the plants both.
Her husband of course thought she was jealous for the wrong reason."You can never be like them so all you can do is show your anger. Even that you don't do with any passion. You just sulk in corners and vent it out on the food, which is getting to be worse with every party. Next time I'll have to call in the caterers" The caterers were supposed to be her death knell. She was supposed to be good at only one thing - the one thing which endeared her to her family and children – her gourmet cooking . But she didn't care now. Not anymore.
Her children were grown up, studying abroad. She had devoted 20 years of her life to her husband already, ensured that he had in her a dutiful wife, who fulfilled all her duties. Now; it was her time. She no longer wanted to do things for him or her or them just so they could praise her or find her indispensable, but be herself. If that meant sitting looking shabby, wearing mismatched salwar and shirt so be it. She was comfortable and content this way.
Her husband irked "How can you sit like this? Look at you! Yellow shirt, red salwar, black shawl. You are looking like a freak. You don't go to any friends nor invite them over. You don't like to visit relatives nor invite them for any Diwali or Holi parties. You are an anti-social animal. Human beings should link with each other, socialize. Really now!”He harrumphed and would have persisted if she hadn't pretended to fall asleep and snore loudly. Completely disgusted at his wife, he left with his sermon on “No man is an island “unfinished.
She smiled to herself after he left and opening her eyes, returned back to her musings. He didn't know, wouldn’t ever know. She was not some anti-social pathetic creature. Her friendships did not depend upon bonsai jungles or make-up or latest accessories or Fendi bags or Gucci shoes. She could be cloaked head to toe or be stark naked. The appearance did not matter. Wherever she went, she could befriend people and they gave them the ultimate gift one can give only to a true friend - their darkest, deepest secrets. She had that power - perhaps the look of complete trust in her face, the look of intelligence that she KNEW – what was hidden inside a person’s mind or soul. The invisible hand that seemed to reach from her to the next person. They all confided in her - From the sweeper in the street, to the maids, to her husband’s friends, their wives, even the flock of preening "friends" of her husband's.
She knew exactly who had made indecent propositions to whom and where, who had stolen from her husband, who had married for money and not love, who had passed off the Gardener's son as her husband’s , who had lied about her age to get married and not die an old spinster. She knew which of her husband’s friends was visiting her husband’s best friend’s daughter at her hostel ,pretending to be an “Uncle” , while indulging in sweaty nights at the nearest available hotel room with her. Oh yes, she knew it all. Dark stories of lust, greed, the veritable platter of sins on Satan's plate. If she wished she could use this power anytime.
Her husband of course thought she was jealous for the wrong reason."You can never be like them so all you can do is show your anger. Even that you don't do with any passion. You just sulk in corners and vent it out on the food, which is getting to be worse with every party. Next time I'll have to call in the caterers" The caterers were supposed to be her death knell. She was supposed to be good at only one thing - the one thing which endeared her to her family and children – her gourmet cooking . But she didn't care now. Not anymore.
Her children were grown up, studying abroad. She had devoted 20 years of her life to her husband already, ensured that he had in her a dutiful wife, who fulfilled all her duties. Now; it was her time. She no longer wanted to do things for him or her or them just so they could praise her or find her indispensable, but be herself. If that meant sitting looking shabby, wearing mismatched salwar and shirt so be it. She was comfortable and content this way.
Her husband irked "How can you sit like this? Look at you! Yellow shirt, red salwar, black shawl. You are looking like a freak. You don't go to any friends nor invite them over. You don't like to visit relatives nor invite them for any Diwali or Holi parties. You are an anti-social animal. Human beings should link with each other, socialize. Really now!”He harrumphed and would have persisted if she hadn't pretended to fall asleep and snore loudly. Completely disgusted at his wife, he left with his sermon on “No man is an island “unfinished.
She smiled to herself after he left and opening her eyes, returned back to her musings. He didn't know, wouldn’t ever know. She was not some anti-social pathetic creature. Her friendships did not depend upon bonsai jungles or make-up or latest accessories or Fendi bags or Gucci shoes. She could be cloaked head to toe or be stark naked. The appearance did not matter. Wherever she went, she could befriend people and they gave them the ultimate gift one can give only to a true friend - their darkest, deepest secrets. She had that power - perhaps the look of complete trust in her face, the look of intelligence that she KNEW – what was hidden inside a person’s mind or soul. The invisible hand that seemed to reach from her to the next person. They all confided in her - From the sweeper in the street, to the maids, to her husband’s friends, their wives, even the flock of preening "friends" of her husband's.
She knew exactly who had made indecent propositions to whom and where, who had stolen from her husband, who had married for money and not love, who had passed off the Gardener's son as her husband’s , who had lied about her age to get married and not die an old spinster. She knew which of her husband’s friends was visiting her husband’s best friend’s daughter at her hostel ,pretending to be an “Uncle” , while indulging in sweaty nights at the nearest available hotel room with her. Oh yes, she knew it all. Dark stories of lust, greed, the veritable platter of sins on Satan's plate. If she wished she could use this power anytime.
For her hapless victims could never
lie to her, she sympathized and empathized so nicely. She even knew who had
tried to grope for her husband's hand and more during the last blackout during
one of their cocktails and whom had her husband tried to fondle back. She was
the ultimate confidante. But need her husband know about it? No, never- this
was her little secret. Any day, anybody tried to ruin her paradise, she could
let a small snake of her own into that person's Eden. For now, she had nothing
to fear. She smiled to herself."Ah...this is bliss...this is what
contentment is".
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