The Story of a Long-Distance Marriage

by Siddhesh Inamdar

  ‘Yes,’ I say with a smile. ‘Can you tell?’

  ‘Your shoulders did suddenly look slightly broader than usual,’ she says. ‘They have been for a few days actually, but I thought it was just something to do with the jackets you were wearing. Today you are only wearing a shirt and I still got the impression, so asked.’

  I can’t tell for sure but I think I’m blushing. It’ll be embarrassing if she found out, so I hold the menu card in front of my face. ‘Thanks,’ I say from behind it, ‘for the compliment. And for the treat. You didn’t need to really.’

  ‘After all the times you paid for my tea in office, this is the least I could do,’ she says. ‘In addition to telling the women in my team what a gentleman you are. They say it’s a pity you are married.’

  I look up to see if she is flattering me or pulling my leg. But I can only see a poker face. I clear my throat and ask, ‘What would you suggest we have?’

  We order crispy zucchini fries, a chicken and jalapeno pizza and lamb lasagne. For dessert we have chocolate mud pie. It is without doubt the best food I have had in months. On my salary, and having to pay the EMIs on the loan I have taken for Ira, eating out had until today meant momos at a Chinese food cart near my place or good but cheap food in Old Delhi with Tanuj. Diggin’s is a taste I had forgotten I knew.

  ‘Such a gentleman,’ she says again as I hold open the door of the car for her.

  ‘Not that again!’ I say, coming around and getting into the driver’s seat.

  ‘What? You sound like it’s a bad word.’

  ‘It is if you think about it. Sounds like I’m so harmless that women won’t take me seriously. That’s what it is. It’s a cover for not taking note of me.’

  ‘It’s not. You don’t know what a rare breed you are. Women die to be around men they aren’t threatened by.’

  ‘And what a world of good does it do me? I’m still the one without a wife. I tell you what,’ I say, looking directly at her and smiling so that she knows I’m joking, ‘I’ve had enough of this. I’m going to go out there and have a solid, sordid, torrid extra-marital affair.’

  She laughs loudly. ‘See now you’re caught in a Catch-22 situation. You come across as harmless and non-threatening is why women are attracted to you. But they’ll be turned off the minute you decide to act on it.’

  ‘Just speak for yourself.’

  ‘Me? I do find you gentlemanly, non-threatening, harmless and attractive. But sadly I’m off men. It’ll be a while before I lick the wounds of my break-up.’

  ‘Oh, damn it,’ I say dramatically and pretend to sulk for the rest of the commute.

  Tanuj gives me a quizzical look as I sit in my chair after I have reached office and Alisha has gone off to her section. I shrug and say, ‘What’s up? What’s the ad situation like?’

  ‘Half page. We can all relax and go home at ten.’

  ‘Yeah, right. You know well a half page means the lead will keep changing.’

  ‘Forget that,’ he says, moving on to more pressing matters. ‘I meant to ask you, have you heard of Kunzum Travel Cafe?’

  ‘The one in Hauz Khas? Yes. Why?’

  ‘They have organized a road trip to Alwar and back next-to-next Sunday. All groups have to get their own cars and we follow the lead vehicle to the Hill Fort Kesroli heritage hotel, where we have lunch and come back. I’ll send you the email. The hotel’s got splendid green views from its ramparts. I was supposed to go with some friends from ToI but they’ve backed out. Will you come? You’ll have to drive, though. I’m not sure I can keep up with the other guys.’

  I jump at the opportunity and agree readily. I’m always up for a good long drive. When I failed my driving test ten years ago, it stung me so badly that I set my mind on not just learning the skill but mastering the art. I practised night after night with Appa until I imbibed his fine touch. So, now when I drive, it’s about more than just getting from point A to point B. It’s liberating. It’s about rising above my limitations. When I drive, all that is inessential falls away and I only commune with my car and the road ahead. It’s like the car is an extension of me. I feel so completely in control that I enter a space of infinite possibilities. It may sound contradictory but it isn’t really. It’s like imagination. When you are truly in control of it, you can make anything happen.

  8

  Travellers

  Tanuj stays the night at my place. We have to meet the Kunzum group in Gurgaon at seven on what will be a cold February morning, and it would have been a long commute for him just to get to Shahpur Jat from Noida, where he lives. The alarm goes off at five-thirty. We get out of bed groggily and reluctantly. While he has a quick shower, I prepare coffee and butter toast; he feeds Momo as I get dressed, and we’re good to go at six-fifteen.

  Tanuj connects his phone to the music player, and we listen to Frank Sinatra’s ‘Come Fly with Me’, which is apt as we zip through the fog on empty flyovers, and it does feel like we are gliding through clouds. It’s quite chilly in Gurgaon. We are among the first to reach the meeting point—MGF Mall. The organizers of the road trip arrive and start distributing hot tea in paper cups as they ask us to fill out our details on a sheet of paper. Since most people who are part of the trip don’t know each other, they also pass around stickers on which we have to write our names and put on our chests.

  As more arrive, Tanuj goes around to make introductions while I stay by my car and consent to having a poster pasted on its bonnet. It says, ‘Club Kunzum: We Travel. What Do You Do?’ under line sketches of the seven wonders of the world. Most of our fellow travellers are in Renault Dusters or BMWs or Mahindra Thars. The adventurous of the lot turn up on Bullets. Their pillion riders have video cameras mounted on selfie sticks, which I presume they intend to use to shoot us when in motion.

  We leave at seven-thirty. Eighteen cars, all with the Kunzum posters on their doors and bonnets, driving in a formation on the highway make for quite a sight. We were told not to get ahead of the designated first car or fall behind the designated last one in the line. The latter wouldn’t be a problem, I had assured Tanuj; I would never deign to fall behind just because we’re the only ones in a hatchback. Soon enough, I’m overtaking trucks and staying at the head of the line, just behind the lead vehicle.

  I note in passing that it has a Punjab registration number. It makes me think of another road trip that Tanuj and I had planned but which wasn’t meant to be. In January, we had decided to drive across Punjab to see the Golden Temple for the first time. There was no patch-up in sight with Ira, and I was really looking forward to the five-hundred-kilometre-long drive to clear my head. But Tanuj had backed out at the last minute, citing too much work. There’s no patch-up in sight even now; Ira and I haven’t spoken for weeks. But I on my part finally decided it was better to sidestep the fight than to let it pull me down. And I’m glad that at least this road trip to Alwar did materialize.

  ‘I’m forgiven for Amritsar, I hope?’ Tanuj says, putting on his sunglasses once the sun is finally out.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I say casually, even though I had been quite upset back then when he had cancelled, and am a little spooked now that he is able to read my mind like this.

  ‘But was it work, really, because of which you cancelled? I work in the same office, you know, and I’m aware our job doesn’t require us to take work home.’

  ‘Smart boy. Okay, it was work, but not related to office. Something personal came up. Will tell you about it some other time.’ I turn my mind back to the road.

  An hour into the drive, the national highway is still clear but I’m not trying to be at the head of the line any more. We cruise along at a steady speed of eighty. Once in a while, one of the Bullets overtakes us and we smile and wave at the cameras. As we drive past mustard fields, Tanuj, who generally uses puns as a manner of speaking, asks me, ‘What do you call sarson da saag that’s been left in the fridge for two days?’ I have known him long enough to give the standard response: ‘What?’
‘Parson da saag,’ he replies and I laugh grudgingly.

  By now it’s bright and sunny. I roll down the window and let the strong wind toss my hair up and whip my face. It’s almost like I’m driving on auto-pilot. Tanuj and I talk about Sinatra and Sigur Ros and I make him listen to ‘Hoppipolla’. I tell him about Yusuf and how he had introduced me to the happiest song I’ve ever heard. We discuss our colleagues and discover that there are a lot of common people we want to bitch about—the woman who heads the education supplement and keeps screaming at her team, the rich girls on the nation desk who only ever talk about their spa and salon visits, and the new guy on the web desk who has never been spotted doing any work. I suggest to Tanuj that we go to a different state bhavan canteen every so often as we both like to explore new places to eat.

  He asks me if I would like to become a member of a new book club he has joined. ‘We meet on Sunday afternoons. You’ve got to talk about one book that you’ve read and carry one to lend to anyone who might be interested.’

  ‘Sounds fun. Where do you guys meet?’

  ‘It’s usually at the home of one of the members. By default that means somewhere in south Delhi, so shouldn’t be a problem for you. They asked me if I’d like to host one of our meets but I doubt if anyone will be willing to come all the way to Greater Noida on a Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘You stay in Noida, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ll be moving out soon.’

  ‘Why Greater Noida? Why not someplace closer to Delhi?’

  ‘I’ve bought a flat there, actually. Couldn’t have afforded one in Delhi!’

  ‘You’ve what!’ The thought had never crossed my mind that anybody my age in my profession could be in a position to even make the down payment on a flat.

  ‘It’s in an under-construction property in the back of beyond. I doubt if I’ll be able to go to state bhavans and book club meets once I’ve moved there.’

  ‘Man, how much money do you make?’ I ask baldly.

  He laughs and says, ‘It’s on a loan, of course.’

  ‘Still, you’ll be paying your own EMIs, right? I don’t think I’m in a position to do even that.’

  ‘It’s not about the income but the savings. Ever since I moved to Delhi, I’ve only lived in flats whose rent was never more than ten grand and always shared it with at least two other guys. I knew I had to buy a house before I turn thirty, even if it’s somewhere far.’ I feel small again, never having given serious thought to money matters.

  We are properly satiated by the time we reach Hill Fort Kesroli around noon. It’s a heritage property turned into a hotel with a sky-blue swimming pool. It is surrounded on all sides by open green fields, which stretch for miles and make for a great backdrop for photos. Over lunch we get to know our fellow travel enthusiasts. Tanuj and I share a table with a retired army general, who is a regular on Kunzum trips. He tells us his children are settled abroad and his wife passed away last year. Since then, he doesn’t like to be home because it reminds him too much of her, and so he wakes up every Sunday morning, gets behind the wheel and hits the road without deciding where he wants to go. I tell him how much I identify with him but can’t do what he does because, unlike the rest of the world, I have an office to attend even on Sundays. Post lunch, people start leaving one by one; we aren’t going to return to Delhi in one formation the way we had come. So, after chatting with a few people in the group who run homestays in quiet hilly towns around Delhi we haven’t heard of, Tanuj and I leave too.

  He volunteers to drive on the way back since there aren’t other cars we have to keep up with. We stray off the highway once but turn back without losing much time after asking for directions. The sky darkens and we fall silent as he strains his eyes against the glare of the high beams of the headlights of the vehicles coming from the opposite direction, and I stare out the window, thinking of Ira and the retired general’s words.

  The memory of his dead wife drives him out of his home, I drove Ira out of ours and now the bitterness that hangs in the air does the same to me. Looking at the dark swathes of fields I could have been driving past with Ira at a different time in our lives, I wonder if there is a definite amount of love within us, and what happens when its taker no longer wishes to take. What happens when a part of your soul attached to someone for a long time comes loose?

  I tend to brood every time a holiday is about to come to an end, so I ask Tanuj if he wants me to drive. I don’t tell him this, but I’d like to be behind the wheel again just to take my mind off unpleasant thoughts. But he refuses. I doze off after a while. When I wake up, I find we are in Delhi.

  ‘You drove the whole distance?’ I say, rubbing my eyes and sounding a little surprised.

  ‘I’m not that bad, you know.’

  ‘Well, clearly you aren’t. How else would I have slept peacefully for two hours?’

  ‘Thanks, but I can’t be as good as you. So please take the wheel now. My bum has gone numb.’

  Half an hour later, I drive into the lane outside Hauz Khas metro station. Tanuj says he’ll take a train from here to Noida. ‘So on a scale of one to ten, how will you rate the trip?’ he asks, unfastening the seat belt. The movie buff that he is, Tanuj likes to review films in his free time, and his impulse to rate often targets other mundane things as well.

  Despite the depressing thoughts right before I dozed off, I know this drive was exactly the change I had needed. ‘Um, nine,’ I say.

  He peels the sticker with his name on it off his chest and sticks it in the top left corner of the windshield. ‘I’m not walking into a metro station with that on. What if some hot girl decides to stalk me?’ he says in a tone that conveys he would very much like that to happen. Then he steps out and climbs down the stairs into the subway.

  *

  The next day, I’m waiting for Alisha outside her place in the afternoon when I see her walking in my direction. She had texted me an hour ago to say she wasn’t up to taking the metro today and ask if she could hitch a ride with me to office. I had assumed she was feeling unwell and readily agreed, but I see the real reason now. She is wearing black stilettos, matching winter stockings and a pencil skirt, and a blood red top. I’m seeing her after a week, but I know she’s objectively looking different. I don’t want her to think I’m ogling, so I look away.

  ‘What happened?’ she asks as she gets in the car.

  I didn’t realize the grin on my face was discernible. ‘You’re looking different today,’ I mumble. ‘Nice different. I mean, I’ve only ever seen you in jeans and T-shirts, so this is, you know, a considerable change.’

  As I turn on the engine and look at the traffic ahead, she smiles and says, as if she is wondering if I’m flirting with her, ‘Thank you. I wanted to try a new look for my birthday.’

  ‘It’s your birthday today?’ I turn to her and seem guilty for not knowing, while keeping an eye on the road at the same time.

  ‘Twenty-fifth.’

  ‘I’m kicking myself. I hope you know that.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ She adds after a pause, ‘You’re looking different too.’

  ‘You’re just saying it now.’ I hope I’m not visibly blushing.

  ‘No, I mean it. You’ve settled into your new wardrobe. And the beard suits you. You’ve lost some of that paunch too!’ I grow conscious of the middle portion of my body as I sense her eyes on it, but she sounds casual.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I haven’t attempted a new look since kindergarten. It was high time. And it’s good to know all that time I’m spending in the gym with Tanuj is making a difference.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And how was home? Why didn’t you extend your stay by a day and celebrate your birthday there?’

  ‘Oh, Jaipur is just like being in Delhi. It was all right. And I wanted to be around friends for my birthday. But while I was there, I decided I have to get back into the dating circuit. I’m not off men any more.’

  I almost brake instead of ac
celerating as the traffic clears. She looks at me weirdly, then says, ‘Jaipur does that to me. Half the men you meet in Delhi newsrooms don’t bathe, shave or have a sense of dressing. One quarter are mamma’s boys or gay and the straight quarter are round. One almost forgets the strapping men you get to see in Jaipur. Men men—you know what I mean?’

  I laugh and say, ‘No, I don’t. Give me an example. Am I a strapping man man?’

  ‘No, I’m not talking about you. I’m not talking about anyone in office. All the men in office are so … blah!’

  I laugh. ‘Are you aware of all the incorrect things you’re saying right now?’

  ‘Well, I don’t believe in namby-pamby correctness … Of course, what I say has to stay inside this car.’

  I laugh louder. ‘My car is a confessional?’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what it is.’

  ‘Okay, maybe I should also confess a few things then.’

  ‘Maybe you should,’ she says encouragingly, but then we fall silent, both of us perhaps trying to decide if I meant what I said or if I said it in jest. I am also unexpectedly gladdened by the piece of information she let slip: that she wanted to be around friends for her birthday. I don’t know for sure if I fall in that category—and it’s true we only have a dreadful evening in office ahead of us—but I feel happy in the presumption that I do. And it’s best to keep your thoughts to yourself when you feel that kind of happiness.

  9

  Divorce

  March begins with the retreating of winter. On Holi when I see Varun in shorts, drenched and smeared with colour from head to toe, dance drunkenly down the street with his friends, I know the season is finally over. One by one I get Shobha to wash all the woollens, fold them, pack them in a suitcase and stow them away in the kitchen loft. Within a few weeks it will be hard to remember there was recently a time when I did not need to switch on the fans in the house or when I would shiver merely at the thought of being doused in cold water. Which is why I am glad that what happens in Alisha’s house one morning happens only at the end of winter.