By Jahnavi Bandaru
I am not sure what propelled me to take my cup of coffee out into the backyard and gaze longingly at the rose plants my wife nurtured with so much care. Though my object of concentration wasn’t the roses themselves. It was a perfect morning. I wasn’t yet bombarded by office calls. The kids hadn’t woken up and Kusuma was preparing a batch of pooris[1]and aloo[2] curry with the aroma wafting through the entire house.
I was within the moment, cocooned in a momentary sense of serendipity that only the morning could offer. It was when I was trailing the path of a butterfly that I caught my neighbour’s wife in the backyard, her back turned to me, watering her plants. At first, I thought it was their maid, but there was always something different about the wife’s frame, bent as if she was prepared to spring into action- like a lion hunting for its prey or worse, about to be hunted.
She also appeared to be at peace, watering her plant.
I didn’t want to intrude or disturb. So, I tried to quietly move back into the house when my mug caught a branch and shattered to the floor.
Kusuma came running out and began yelling at me. The commotion caused the wife to turn around and catch my eye. A small smile passed between us as if we were sharing a joke.
*
In the following weeks, my mind was tainted with the wife’s smile. There was something appealing about it that I couldn’t wrap my head around. Was I cheating while another woman’s smile played on my mind?
A part of me felt rebellious but mostly guilt flooded my heart. My marriage wasn’t failing, it was however stagnant. I was occupied by work, and my wife with all the household work, we fulfilled our duties as parents and raised our children. Our marriage had fallen into a routine where romance wasn’t important, just occasional tenderness was. We were as happy as a married couple could be. But that evening, I took Kusuma out for a movie, telling myself that it had been a while and it was not actually because of the embarrassment I was feeling.
*
And yet my neighbour’s wife haunted my thoughts. I didn’t go out in the morning for two days straight, hoping that the feelings would eventually dissipate. On the third day, I was confident that I was perfectly fine and was prepared to go outside to test the theory, but my office called, and I had to leave early.
I saw her beautiful smile again only the next Monday.
What happened in the forthcoming weeks wasn’t intentional. But we ended up meeting up every morning. We never spoke. I paced around, savouring the bitterness of coffee while she went on watering her garden. We just shared our silences. I even went out to buy coffee bags because I was drinking so much every day.
*
I noticed that there were bruises on her face and arms, but she always managed to cover it. I never asked for fear that she might not answer or worse might stop coming outside.
But it was on a particular day, weeks after we had started meeting up, that there was a large red welt on her forehead. I didn’t question it and she worked in a hurry to go back into the house.
Was the husband hitting her? Why would he ever lay hands upon her? Should I report it to the police? Did this constitute abuse? What evidence did I have to back me up? These thoughts intruded on me all through my office hours.
When she didn’t come out the next day, I instantly knew something was terribly wrong.
I went to Kusuma, hesitant at first, and explained to her the situation.
” I think our neighbour is hitting his wife. We need to report to the police. Now,” I demanded.
I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to see her kohl-rimmed eyes, her face so iridescent in the morning sunshine, her red lips, her smile.
” What neighbours?”
” What do you mean what neighbours? The ones who live next door. Don’t be stupid,” I snapped, irritated.
” You’re the one being stupid. We don’t have neighbours. They left almost a year ago.”
“Then who’s the woman who waters the plants every day?”
“Again, what women are you talking about? That garden is as dry as a desert. No one’s been watering it since they left. What is going on?”
“Nothing. I just….” I tried to piece together what my hand had conjured up for me but it just left me with more tangible memories of her.
Who was it that I saw? She was real, wasn’t she?
.
[1] Deep fried bread
[2] Potato
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Jahnavi Bandaru is currently pursuing her bachelor’s degree in computer science. But her heart lies in writing. She is a complete book nerd and enjoys writing short stories with a good cup of coffee.
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