The gas cylinder man, the maid, and the delivery boy in our Gurgaon housing complex (on the edge of New Delhi) still think my husband and I are the perfect office couple. We leave together in the morning and come back at night, throw out the trash on the right day, arrange shoes neatly by the door, water the balcony plants on Sundays, and order spicy masala noodles. They don’t know the sole accurate thing about that ninth-floor flat: our two pillows have never touched in fifteen years.
There is no lock on our bedroom door. The door swings open and closed like the kitchen door and the balcony door. But there is a river that runs through the mattress that you can’t see. His lamp is tall and has a bright white light. My lamp has a gentle yellow color and has a thin fabric shade over it. When the monsoon rains are heavy, I curl up on my left side and listen to the rain hit the tin roof. He moves to the right, puts his back against the wall, and breathes lightly as the water flows down.
I
He frequently said, “The company is working on a big project.”
We got married in Sawan, which is the rainy season in North India. It rained lightly that night of the wedding. After the meal, my mother-in-law took off her hairpin and said to me, “The daughter-in-law is the one who keeps the fire going in the house.”
But the fire inside me died down, like an oil lamp running out of oil. That first night, dad put fresh sheets on the bed, put my favorite book by the headboard, and said, “You’re tired; go to sleep.”
He
I assumed it was only the first night. But every time I got closer, whether it was the second, tenth, or hundredth time, he pulled away. Not harshly, but as if he were going around a stone he already knew by heart.
He was still a kind husband. He mixed bottles early in the morning, remembered the anniversary of my mother’s death before I did, and went around Delhi’s Dawa Bazaar to get medicine during the epidemic. My mother would say nice things about him, like “You are truly blessed.”
I grinned cruelly and thought, “Blessed for whom?”
I wrote a divorce petition by the ninth year and saved it as der_late.docx. Deleted and wrote again and again. I printed it out and put it in front of him on the thirteenth. He read and then looked up: “Give me some time.”
— How long do you have?
He looked at the coat rack and said, “After this season.”
What time of year? The monsoon? Mango flower? Or the time of year when patience runs out?
I tried everything, from anger to being very honest to getting help. The therapist said, “Do you have trouble with desire?”
He nodded his head.
— With direction?
He nodded again.
— With trauma?
This time, there is silence.
At supper, I wanted to break plates merely to hear the sound burst through the silence.
Fifteen years. I stopped crying. Tears flowed like dishwater, but the oil never went away.
One day, I came back early. There was an unexpected downpour in Delhi. When I opened the door, I heard him talking in the study:
— Hey, Aarav?
Aarav—my best friend from high school. He and Aarav drank beer every Saturday. He got home late, with his breath smelling like alcohol, but his eyes kept clean. I never felt envious. That day.
— She filed for divorce again, my spouse said with a sigh.
— Divorce? Aarav seemed horrified.
He laughed cruelly and said, “Fifteen years, Aarav.”
— What now?
— I won’t get a divorce. I promised.
— I hate that promise. Who did you make a promise to? To me or to him?
– To both.
I froze. He kept talking softly:
– I still hear the brakes shriek that night.
Then there was stillness.
— It’s our fault. I have to let him sleep at night. You are the one who gives me strength.
I shook in the kitchen.
That night, I asked him in person, “Do you love Aarav?”
He said, “I love promises.” From you. Aarav.
…
I took some luggage and a cactus and opened his desk drawer before leaving for my mother’s place. I found inside:
A big life insurance policy with me as the beneficiary. “If marital status changes within twenty-four months, the contract is no longer valid.” Date signed: September 23, two years ago.
A receipt for chemotherapy from the hematology ward.
A picture from a long time ago of myself with a boy at the gate of Delhi University. He was holding a helmet and smiling. Rohan was my first love. I thought he had died in a crash on a wet night.
I had scribbled on the back, “Rohan, this season always starts with showers.”
Next to it, a piece of paper that said, “I’m sorry.” – V.” (Vikram, my spouse).
I looked for Aarav. He handed me a letter from Vikram. The insurance files and hospital bills are within. Aarav said, “Vikram had lymphoma.” He kept it a secret so the policy would work. Signed on September 23.
Then he looked me in the eye and said, “And…” Rohan did not die. Vikram’s automobile stopped that night and hit Rohan’s bike. His face was messed up. He couldn’t stand you seeing him. He disappeared. He told Vikram that he would let you marry him, keep you safe, and never touch you.
I was shaken up. Aarav took off his glasses, which showed a small scar. He said in a low voice, “I am Rohan.” I chose the name Aarav. I stayed close to you for fifteen years, but I was someone else.
…
When I asked Vikram about it, he nodded and said, “I kept my promise to Rohan.” I never laid a hand on you. I only waited until the insurance took care of your future.
He gave me his form for donating organs. Name of the donor: Vikram Sharma.
Vikram was weak and sick in the hospital by September 23. He delivered me divorce papers that he had signed.
— If you want to, sign them.
I put the pen down and said, “You sign first.” I’ll make a decision later.
A month later, when the policy was approved, we officially got divorced. Vikram moved to an apartment close to the hospital. I went back to my mom’s house and bought a new bed with just one pillow.
Aarav—Rohan—called a few times. I picked it up once.
— He never asked anything. He just said, “I’m Rohan.” The coward who fled away.
I said, “My name is Aarav now.” You need to learn how to say that. And also call yourself.
We met beside the Yamuna River. He told me about his years in exile while looking at me through a tea stall window. I listened closely, as if I were hearing a story from another woman. I said, “I don’t know if love is still there.” I feel thankful, angry, and sorry. But I want to learn how to lie in the middle of a bed.
Rohan shook his head and said, “This time I’ll wait.” Right here. I won’t run away again.
…
When I got back, Vikram had left a message and a bank slip that said, “15 years rent—Vikram.”
“I did my part: I let go of the brake and let out my breath.
You do your part: burn the divorce papers, purchase flowers, and put a cushion in the middle of the bed. As a neighbor, I’ll come over if you ever need help hanging curtains.
Vikram: “The man who didn’t touch you, not because he didn’t love you, but because he was afraid of loving you wrong.”
I turned on the yellow light and put the spherical cushion in the middle of the bed. I picked myself for the first time in fifteen years.
