He Makes Love To Me, Turns Over, Swaps Thorough His Ex’s Pictures, While I Feign Sleep
I’ve heard them say the chickens would certainly come home to roost, I can’t tell if my life has become an endless list of chickens coming home to roost every night. The day she signed her divorce papers, I had seen a calm smile ruling her face. Her eyes, that didn’t meet Swaraj’s but mine, despite the curve on her lips, were teared up. She walked out of the court room clinging to her father’s hand, like my little daughter clings to Swaraj’s at the beach, intimidated by the violent waves.
Swaraj and I were high school sweethearts. He went to UK for higher studies, and my career kept me busy, as you must have guessed, we grew apart. 6 years later when I stumbled upon his profile on Facebook, I was taken by surprise. He was settled in Mumbai – married, he looked content with the beautiful wife in his arm. I debated for days before sending him the friend request, he didn’t take more than a minute to accept. Old feelings rekindled little by little.
“Why didn’t you marry?” he asked. “Didn’t get enough time to look for someone.” I responded. “My work is bringing me to Bangalore, want to catch up for a cup of coffee?”
The coffee date crossed its limits, Swaraj ended up spending the night at my apartment instead of the 5 star accommodation provided by his office. His trips to Bangalore grew frequent, or perhaps he played a role in increasing them. One Saturday evening we decided to get married, the following Sunday he flew back to Mumbai and forced his wife into an abortion. We tied the knot a week before he got the decree– we were expecting our own bundle of joy.
It’s been four years since Swaraj’s divorce, four years since our marriage, four years since I have had a sound sleep. His ex-went on to complete the education she had left in mid to marry him. Gained degrees one after another. But that doesn’t bother me. What bothers me is that she has lost the weight I gained postpartum, perhaps even more. Her face has found a new glow, her hair reflects the sunshine, the hem of her skirt rising gradually. Many a times, after sex, I have found Swaraj looking her up on Facebook. His Instagram has her as last search oftentimes.
“Why don’t you accompany me at the gym?” he asked me one day. The other day he escorted me to a salon, got my hair dyed in a dark hue of red, the one his ex is wearing on her Instagram display picture. I was surprised as he pulled over at the mall, but my heart sunk deep into oblivion when he bought me a black lace top, tan boots with fringes, a leather skirt with a thigh high slit, for I wasn’t naïve enough to not figure his intentions. I am not a part of his display pictures, I look too old, the sense of defeat against that woman’s beauty is devouring me. The realization that though the man is mine, his eyes will always remain enticed by his first wife’s enigma kills a part of me everyday. Her professional success outshines my victory in Swaraj. Like my husband I stalk his ex-wife, LinkedIn says she is employed in some huge MNC, traveling countries, earning a fortune. She has no man, maybe she will never regain her trust in them.
“Leave my husband alone.” I messaged her couple of days ago. Next day she disappeared from Facebook and Instagram. I heaved a sigh of relief, the relief that wasn’t meant to last beyond 2 days. Last night I caught my husband creating a pseudo profile, the one she’ll be clueless of, the one she won’t be able to block. Her beauty fills me with disgust, for she is taking my husband away from me, creating distances between us, dividing us. And all I can do is hold on to my edge of the bed, clasp the bedsheet, wet the pillow silently, pretend to be asleep while Swaraj swaps to another of Mahi’s beautiful pictures, hours past midnight.
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