He was not a great looker; he never considered it necessary perhaps to cultivate that side of his personality. As things worked out, however it didn’t matter much. He had a brilliant, if rather eccentric mind and she was young. In-fact they both were. There was a chance meeting perhaps at the bus stop, through common friends, or was it in the Max Mueller Bhavan, over some boring German textbook. It is still rather unclear. But the fact is they did meet, outside of parental knowledge, and even perhaps approval. Neither of them perhaps very sure of where it was heading. It could not have been love at first sight; both were too sensible for that. It could have been the love for the written word, which kept them in one another’s company. Those yellowing copies of the classics, and the lines scrawled in fading blue ink. She had a habit of writing long dedications, in her large loopy handwriting. Flowery would probably have been her style. His was a more controlled hand, with precise lettering and equal spacing. Romance never came easily to him. But then he had won her over with his dry wit. For yes, ultimately he did win her over. She said it was his academic excellence.
She was pretty, even beautiful in her days. Long hair and a round moonlit face. A young woman, liberal but not a risk taker. Her potential not any less than his. The only thing she perhaps lacked was a certain amount of will power. She was all too eager to give in. The marriage took place at the expense of a good job, which she had ventured into. They were settled. In spite of the well hidden anxiety from both parties. The event was a mega hit. All present could wish the couple nothing but well. She talks fondly of the large attendance at the wedding and of the shehnai, and the food. The photographs show a tall gawky dark young man, in loose fitting dhoti, awkwardly encircling a demure thing in red. Compositionally that photograph is worth a second glance, but it hardly brings out the best in them. She looks radiant and he, nervous. A contrast that prevails through out the length of the album.
Was it a happy marriage? How much can possibly go wrong when you are 24? He was successful, earned well, supported her and bought her impulsive gifts. At a glance, theirs would have been the dream marriage. A companion to spend the rest of your life with is not a petty gift, but with the unending interference of relatives, the harmony frequently got strained. He was too young to be a father. He was not unpredictable, in-fact he was infuriatingly constant in losing his temper and being unreasonable. But he was not aware of this, or of the fact that a better balance was possible in marriages, where just because old and ignorant relatives may advise, the new bride need not be forcibly kept from visiting her own folks. He does not hold such a view any more; he probably hasn’t since his own daughters grew up. Those were his impatient years and her timidity, lengthened them unnecessarily. But it was not a loveless life. In his own strange way he loved her, and also the ‘little bundle’ that had arrived.
She had mentioned once how she had to find own way to his house, unescorted by him: when they finally decided to make their engagement official. She has resigned herself to this and many other such incidents of thoughtlessness. He has always been like that. He was brusque, rather inconsiderate but stopped at nothing to make his family comfortable in a land far away from home. Her and the ‘little pack of bones’, who was now seven and had lost her front teeth to the tooth fairy. A piano, was his gift to her. Something he knew she had wanted as a child growing up. Such lavish display of emotion was not verbally expressed. He truly was a contradiction. Those years abroad were formative and their relationship reached a new unhampered equilibrium. Things were perfect. He was always the angry young man and she was his sedative. Inching towards the 30s , they were visited by another bundle of joy. Then the decision to come back home.
They eventually settled in Delhi as the little girl, now 10, did not take well to Kolkata. He took up a new job, that paid considerably less to allow his little girl to study and grow up in a more suitable environment. He was bringing her up to believe that she would have full right to visit her folks after she was married. He was slowly and unknowingly instilling in her his obstinate will. This one act of throwing away security and comfort, to start a new life somewhere else, somewhere where he was sure the talkative 10 year old would feel at home, impacted his wife deeply. In-fact she mentions this gesture frequently. “Your father,” she tells me, “did what very few would have done; to simply get up and get away, to not think of his own prospects, all he thought about was to give you and your sister the best.” A mother is grateful if her children are loved. It is the natural order of things. And she is still the mistress of her home and the sole person who can reason with her husband. She is his life, whether she knows it or not. His early morning coffee. His sounding board. His confidante, his partner. She is all that.
Dad has never been mushy, a trait that I have inherited. I am sure that he has never told mom that he misses her. Only if she were to want to come away and see me in my hostel for a few days, he comes up with a chain of reasons as to why it is not a good time. The truth is that he just cannot get along with out her. He calls her up from work a dozen times, to talk about nothing in particular. I know for a fact that he does this. Like teenagers who call up their girlfriends or boyfriends at least 20 times a day, to merely ask what the other is doing. When I was still in school and living with my parents, their outings would more often than not include us. My sister and I would accompany them almost everywhere. I cannot remember a single movie that they might have gone to without us, or a dinner party they attended without us in tow. In any case they both hated social gatherings. In-fact we would celebrate their anniversaries at my sister’s favorite restaurant where dad would get a complimentary anniversary cake by virtue of being a regular customer. And he would bring back flowers from office on their anniversary, saying with a mischievous air that his subordinates gave them to him. He would refuse to register our presence after a hard day at the office, when sitting in mom’s company, channel surfing and drinking coffee. Mom and dad. Fighting over what to watch at regular intervals, but neither of them too keen to watch anything. Moments.
Mom came to see me, soon after their 21st wedding anniversary. I asked her what they did to celebrate. Nothing she said very matter- of- factly, it was too cold in Delhi, on the 20th of January, she explained. “People in cold countries do not celebrate anniversaries you mean to say?” I teased. Mom only laughed. A marriage beyond a point, needs no celebration. Really? A marriage going through all the turmoil that it did, surviving the tests that life puts your way…needs no celebration? The concept is unfathomable to me. I made a mental note to tackle my father about his lack of romantic sensibilities. But I knew what he would say, “your mother didn’t want to go..she said it was too cold and foggy to drive so I didn’t force her.” He is perhaps not aware that she worried about him having to drive at night.
The last four years or so have seen my father and I get into frightful quarrels, neither of us willing to budge. Mom has always been the mediator. Dad has always had to make his peace with me through her. He resents her for this, but secretly I know he is grateful. At least he ought to be. My mother says I love my father more than her. Perhaps if I am to be brutally honest, I do. But she should be the last to worry, what with my dad loving her the way he does, and feigns he doesn’t, I don’t think she can handle more.
P.S: On the 20th of January 2012, their 30th wedding anniversary, dad messaged me and asked me if I had wished my mother on their anniversary! And without mincing his words, warned me off the gold watch that he had gifted mom. He knew she had called me up to ask if I fancied the beautiful watch that she had felt too old to wear. Dad obviously thought otherwise!
Amrapali Hazra is a design, art, literature and life enthusiast. Now pursuing a career in design, visual art, and occasional writing, she finally feels she is ready to take the plunge into her first novel. A self-proclaimed philosopher, she ponders history, anthropology, mythology, esoteric and metaphysical questions. She keeps her eyes, ears and mind as open as possible, and hopes for a day when only the connections between human cultures will matter and not the differences.