Homecoming (VII)

It was a peaceful night for the family.

The children had already slept, and the wife was, though content with how the day ended eventually, a little too tired to try and keep up a conversation with a little too forthcoming husband. She tried to sing her husband to sleep, and when convinced of her success, paused for a bit and went out to get herself some water. She was not thirsty. She just did not want to sleep at that very moment. A glass of cold water, she thought, would keep her alive for a few minutes. While there was no particular reason for her not to have slept – she had a taxing day at office – she tried hard to find one to stay awake and let the night sink in. It was one of those feelings when one tries hard to think, but the questions do not arouse enough curiosity or simply keep evading; like a playwright who just bought a fiddle and cannot put it away, because he has an insatiable desire to play it, but does not know a thing about it.

She seated herself on a stool in her kitchen, a luxury not infrequent for her, but rather tasteless. Having gulped half the glass, she put it in the wash basin, and looked with contentment, how clean the place looked. There was not much in that kitchen and she preferred everything orderly, which is every woman’s wont, I would think. And she was just another woman, just not besotted with excesses. She had a small frame, not frail but bulky enough to suggest that she was already a mother of two, and a kind face, within which dwelt a spirit so at tranquil with self that it was hard to imagine, from her ever placid demeanor, that anything could ever disquiet her. While women of her ilk are oft found complaining about so many things, which, in the writer’s opinion, renders the whole exercise futile, she had lived her part as a graceful housewife with as much poise.

Much of her wanted to know about her husband, but the rest quelled that inquisitiveness with a strong protest – that was not her business, so long as he came back every day, satisfied. She could not worship him, and neither did she admire him a lot. It took a long time for her accept a marriage to someone she did not know, but that was something she had to make do with. Raised in modest household with precious little choices in life, and so deeply entrenched in societal values, marriage was one choice she could not have made. So it was another one of those accidents in her life, and naturally, she took her time to realize that. After six years, all she, or they, could manage to come up with was respect for each other, or concern, at best. All she knew about him was through his stories, which she never disputed or questioned because, perhaps, she thought, it might rankle him. That she could not have been married to him on his past laurels had, by now, become more or less apparent to her. What she did not want, though, was it to underline their future. We don’t love people for what they aren’t, or what we want them to become, but instead who they are. She knew that she was married to a peon, who was now a sweeper, and she had to be at peace with it.

She walked into their room. He was still sleeping. After a brief moment of indecision, she decided not snoop around his belongings – he would not have anything of interest. Instead, she went up to their bed, stroked his forehead gently, and lied down, with myriad thoughts struggling for space within her. She could not think of another transient phase in their lives where they would have to scrape for livelihood, and yet, did not want him to abandon his never-quite-settled-down quintessential self. She did not want the children to make a hero out of their father based only on his stories, and yet, could possibly not think of an alternative. Perhaps what he said today might, but she could not have been sure.

I must admit, as would she, that nothing changed with the hours of the clock, of what they had made of their marriage – it still made as little a sense to her as his fables. She had never quite made much out of a relationship – brought up in an environment where discipline superseded love (emotion) – and here, there was little effort on his part to have been able to change that. On their part, they did all they thought they knew about making something work – respecting, maintaining restraint, raising kids. Her children were her life, though, just as she was an indivisible part of their everyday. From waking them up in the morning to dropping them to school and then getting them back home, she was the only family they had seen most of their lives. What more could they have done, wondered she, as the night wore on.

The fleeting excitement, by then had already crumpled, strangulated by thoughts of a deeper dwelling. Satisfaction started giving way to uneasiness. Were they always what they were today, so oblivious to the little joys of life that just another story from the raconteur would cause a flutter in in her heart, seem a matter of immense, or provide a sense of fulfillment that was missing hitherto? She had to find that out for herself.

Six years after marriage, after all, is not the best time try and put some sense into a relationship, which thus far, had been much abused in the garb of normalcy.