Shadow Lives - Part 1

Janaki meticulously measured out the ingredients of the tosai for tomorrow morning’s breakfast. As the creaky old radio hummed a song from her childhood days, she rinsed out the ulunthu, rice and fenugreek. Her three children had laughingly declared the radio to be a pile of junk and had bought her an iPod for Deepavali three years ago. It was still in the box, carefully tucked between her sarees. She just never got the hang of it, much to their amusement. Oh, how she missed their banter. Nothing had been the same since the fight. Every Deepavali since then was just a scorching reminder of the painful jagged rip in their family.  

            The sound of the front door opening interrupted her sad reverie. A moment later her husband walked into the kitchen, carrying two bags of groceries. He placed it on the worn wooden table and wiped his perspiring brow with a handkerchief. Janaki ignored the plastic bag of vegetables and inspected the second one.

            “Ice-cream? And chocolates?” She looked at her husband reproachfully. “You know what the doctor said about sugar!”

            Muthu waved away her protests. “It’s for the grandchildren, Jan. Make me a cup of coffee, will you? Extra kaw.”

            Janaki muttered irritably under her breath about her husband’s blasé attitude towards his diabetes as she prepared his coffee, deliberately stirring in only half a teaspoon of sugar. She brought it to the hall. Another mindless Tamil serial was on TV. Muthu was gazing listlessly at the ceiling, his thin frame stretched out on the sofa. Her heart softened. The short walk to the shops he insisted on every morning must have tired him but he would never admit it. That was just the way he was, maddeningly set in his ways.

            “Any news from Kuhan?” he asked, when she set down his mug on the coffee table.

“He called last night. All flights are grounded and he’s still waiting.”

“Did you tell him the matchmaker has found him a new girl? I agreed to meet the family the day after tomorrow with Kuhan. He should be back by then right?”

            Janaki plunked her hands on her ample waist and scowled at his high-handedness. “You know how he feels about arranged marriages! He’s never agreed to meet any of the girls your little matchmaker crony has proposed. Why would you make plans without consulting him?”

            “The boy just needs a push in the right direction. He’ll thank me later, you’ll see. What about Sarala and the children? What time are they arriving?”

            “After breakfast.” Janaki decided to let the remark about Kuhan slide. No point getting him riled up because she wanted to bring up Deva. 

She hesitated, twisting her fingers. “Muthu… you know I never ask you for much…” She stopped, feeling her courage failing her when her husband’s eyes narrowed on her. His eyes told her she better not say what he thought she was going to say. She gripped her hands tightly together and tried again. “It’s been three years since Deva and you… please…”

“Three years or thirty years, does it change the fact that he married a Muslim?” Muthu blustered. “No respect at all for our culture and beliefs!”

Muthu’s hurt self-righteous tone annoyed Janaki. “You’re not really mad that he married a Muslim. No. What you’re really angry about is, you couldn’t control him. Like how you love to control everything and everyone around you. Well he’s happy. Why is it so hard for you to be happy for him… for them?”

Muthu picked up the coffee mug, drained the bitter contents and banged it on the table. Then he looked pointedly away from her, his face like granite. He was done talking.

Typical, Janaki thought in frustration. Shutting off the moment anyone tells him something he doesn’t want to hear.

She picked up the empty mug. “Maybe not now… but you will regret holding on to your ego one day. I hope it won’t be too late by then.”

*           *           *           *           *

Muthu watched Janaki retreating to the kitchen. Come back, he wanted to call her. I already regret it. Every single day. But how do I… I don’t know how to take back the ugly things I said to Deva and Nurul.

            He clenched his fists and closed his eyes. Back when Janaki and he were devastated when they were told they couldn’t have any more children, Deva was proof that miracles do happen.  Parents were not supposed to have favourites, openly at least, but he loved Deva more than he thought was humanly possible. Yes, maybe he was a little overbearing but why couldn’t they see it was because he loved so deeply. He wanted to protect the people he loved from what he knew were bad decisions and mistakes.

So when Deva came home one day with Nurul, confidently shrugging off all Muthu’s advice and concerns, the hurt felt like a fist of nails twisting deep in his gut. He felt useless to be disregarded like that. Of course he couldn’t let his family see how vulnerable he felt. So he raged instead.

Now, Janaki’s ominous warning rang in his head. I hope it won’t be too late by then. He was already running out of time. His doctor has given him five, maybe six months. Was it enough time to repair the damage his ego had caused?

But first he had to tell Janaki. Unmanly tears sprang to his eyes when he thought about telling her. Angrily he pressed his balled up fists to his eyes. You have to be strong, he admonished himself.  

Part 2