Not Exactly An FF

How could he not have got her a present too? He wasn't a great shopper; usually he would tell the old store owner or salesmen his budget and how many gifts he needed and unless something was really objectionable he would go with their seasoned advice on what was in and what was out. This time, as he entered the store he saw one of the salesmen pleating a silk sari into even folds and swirling it across for the Limca-sipping ladies on their tiny swivel chairs to admire its luxurious fall. It was a wonderfully rich purple; something in him began wanting to drape it just that way on his wife. His wife of a few weeks more now; those crosses on Shravani's calendar had looked ugly and menacing. Who'd have thought she of all people, so mild and friendly at one time, and apparently so devoted to Sachin, would profess such a sudden love for him, and take such a strong dislike to Archana? Could she not see Archana's incredible generosity of spirit? Could she not see their unhappiness? What would it have cost her to be courteous for some more time?

It wasn't as if he could back out from this second marriage now, having given his word. What if some miracle set him free? What a beautiful colour that was. He could see it against the softness of Archana's skin, its folds running curving and graceful from her hip to her shoulder and cascading down again over her left arm. He told the salesman to pack two shirts and any two saris from the heap they'd made and walked over to the other counter where the Limca ladies were debating which saris to buy. They looked up at him surprised, but smiled at each other when he said he liked one sari in their pile. They'd never have let any woman take it away from them, but this tall and handsome man, hesitantly saying he wanted something special for his wife on padwa day... who could resist him?

He looked down at his plate, now full of the simple food she had cooked and began to eat: rice fragrant with just a smidgeon of ghee, hot aamthi with greens in it and boiled shengdane that would burst, bitten, into soft nutty explosions of taste, potatoes in a piuli bhaji, his childhood favourite, bhoplya cha bharit, cool and sweetish on the tongue, and on the side, a generous pinch of spicy garlic chutney, drizzled dark and moist with oil. He couldn't remember ever enjoying dinner as much as when she went about the kitchen in her brisk and practiced way, turning the homeliest ingredients into meals fit for gods.

What was it about everything she did that was so right for him? In all the fuss over the baby, would anyone else ever remember how much he loved piuli bhaji, or that it was sesame oil he liked on his chutney? Would anyone else sometimes secretly keep a little vati of charoli-laden basundi on the table next to his bed, knowing how he savoured its thick sugary milkiness at the end of a long day? In how many ways could one adore and need and want a woman? Such a woman.... who knew his heart, who spoke the truth unafraid, who tempted his senses, who forgot herself in loving him, who gave him her rich and willing sweetness in all things - save one, dear god - and who he could never hold, to whom he could never make fitting return ?