C h a p t e r 2 - T u C h a h i y e
Seven had always been an unlucky number for him. He had been seven when he lost lost his grandparents. Twenty-seven when Shagun left him. Thirty-seven when he struggled not to let Aditya move out. Seven was his jinx. Seven years had he been married to Shagun. Seven years had he spent in self hate and loathing. Seven years did he spend with Ishita in which none of which he could keep her happy. Was he unable to love he once wondered. Did she really want to be with him, an alter ego would ask. If she did, then why did she push him away? He never understood her beyond her curt smiles and obligatory gestures. She loved him family, he knew. She loved his kids, she knew. He loved her, she knew. Then why did she feel the same? Why didn't she ever tell him she loved him?
On rare days would he find her humming sweet melodies to her self as she oiled her hair. He would watch her take a part of her hair, then oil and move on to the next. Her leisure would turn into haste as she stopped her tunes and fastened her pace to move on and about and finish the task at hand. She would then tie her hair up in a neat bun and call the kids over for a massage only to be met with a scowling Ruhi and a smiling Adi who would do anything as long to keep Ishita happy.
Ruhi over the years had grown up to more of a brat than expected. It was in her teens dad she realized that she could no longer play the motherless child trump card that she retaliated heavily. "You aren't even my mother," she one screamed at Ishita in her temper tantrums. Only when she snapped out of it had she noticed the hurt in her eyes. "But all my friends say it to their mom's," the teenager had justified herself instead just pushing Ishita further into her shell. "Subbu was right Amma, you can't expect some else's child to love you as much as you expect your own child to," he had heard Ishita weep in her mother's arms; their apology cake and letter long forgotten. "It's not that I don't love Ruhi, I do. But it's just that she's growing up and she doesn't love me anymore. Not as much as she once did. I sacrificed my life for her, is a little love too much to ask for?"
That had been the first and the last time he had seen her place her cards on the table. Ishita Bhalla wasn't super human, she was human like all of them. She was self-preserving, jealous, broken, expectant and forged this need for acceptance - she was human. But it hurt. They hadn't spoken about it but it ate her up - he knew. In the months that came she quit her job, stayed at home and focused on herself. He could see her reading up, being extra careful yet maintaining her distance from the kids and the emotional distance between the increased even further. She no longer chastised Ruhi, monitored Adi or even interfered with the family. Instead she would make sure her bit was done, that his parents were taken care of and siblings fed and then retire to her room.
He would find her leaning the window sill, her arms crossed over hugging her legs as she would stare into blank space. She had lost life and everyday it just seeped further. And on one of those days in a mad rush for office documents did her find piles of medical reports. Weekly tests that all came in negative; and she who had walked in snatched them away from him.
"Why?" he had asked her, the office files long forgotten.
"Because you do not care," she had accused him.
He had looked at her dumbfounded. He did care.
"We do not need more kids, Ishita," he had said to her.
"You do not want a kid," she had said, her talks soon giving rise to a storm of chocked tears. "You do not want kids with me, why would you? I do not have the perfect genes. I'm not Shagun. I'm not pretty like her or.. I don't know. Maybe you're right, we shouldn't have kids."
He had held her in a hug, letting her tears soak his three-piece suit.
"Our kid will be the prettiest kid on the block," he had whispered to her, "It isn't that I don't want us to have a kid. That would be the greatest gift I could ever ask for but I would never wish for it if it was to put you though such torment. It's a gift, Ishita. Not a demand. If it's to happen, it will. One day." He had just pulled her closer, taking the opportunity to hold her for even longer.
"But I want a kid, Raman. I want a kid who will love me, only me. Who won't question me on my parenthood. Who would look back at me with your eyes and my smile. I want a kid; I want my own damn kid. Why is it so hard?" she had wept. Only then had he realized that Ruhi's tantrum had affected her far more than it should have.
She had been his - his guiding light. She had been his wife, companion and lover but he didn't know anything about her. He never knew her family other than those in Delhi, he didn't know her friends, her classmates or her background even. She refrained from using social media and was more introverted than the rest when it came to those matters. Yet he stumbled across her accounts. He could see her smile, her grin and laugh. He could see her happy, enjoying and cherishing life and not just living it. And like everything else that had disappeared with her smile in those picture so had the constant - Subramanian.
She was a sad tale, times told over. She laughed no longer, smiled rarely and opened up on occasions rarer than the rainbow. He hadn't known what killed her but he had known that wasn't the one to save her.
"Why can't we go out?" she had asked him one night, wrapped in a sheet post coitus, as her roaming hands played with his little guy down south.
"Where do you want to go?" he had asked her.
"Away from everything," she had said. "For a little while."
They had never been able to bring it up. From someone picking on the finances, to the siblings teasing, to everyone's expectation for a child and his workload she had never asked that of him again. They lived in a joint family, it was understood.
"One city, family and kids. There's nothing else to life Rachana," she had laughed. Only he had known it wasn't as heartfelt as it sounded. She was a kid burdened with responsibility just because she chose to stay with him. Why?
"Her looks and caliber are wasted on a man and family like him," said the ladies who visited the lady rivaling his mother in parties.
"Baanj," the other would laugh.
"Well, God doesn't give you everything,"
And all he wanted to do was take her away. And when he did, he could remember the grin on her face as she played in the snow, red as shade of favorite saree she wore, as she aimed a snowball at him. A month. That's how long he lived with her in an unknown nation sans responsibilities as they indulged in hot chocolate, pleasure and life. She was unabashed around and gave him her all - but her heart which she protected with most fervor. He had watched her grin at him, glare at him when mad and then pout at him to have him oblige. They had done it all - kissed under a mistletoe, set up the tree and taken part in every Christmas celebration. They had their own Christmas romance and how in those moments had he wished that they were born again - him with the assurance of meeting her and how he would have lived life better, given her something better to return to than a shell and loved her with all due. How had he wished that he was the first man she met and fell for and how he wouldn't break her heart. But he did the day he handed her the the return tickets. She had smiled at him in acceptance - her fairytale ended her. And when they returned she went back to the plaster smiles and pecks engrossed in duties more than responsibilities and obligations more than love.
Then had he realized he had forgotten to ask her - did she love him?
Edited by -Ara- - 9 years ago
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