The Secret wish List (2 page)

Tanu says, ‘Hey, I have an idea! Let’s scribble a message for him.’

‘Are you crazy?’ I say, shocked by her audacious suggestion.‘Rohan will kill me if he finds out. We can’t just scribble in someone’s book.’

‘C’mon, Diksha. You’re such a scaredy cat. Here, give it to me.’

Tanu snatches the book from my hand and, before I can stop her, opens the last page and begins writing. I watch in fascinated horror as she writes.

‘Hey, Ankit. I really, really, really like you. I follow every football match you play, and watch every debate you take part in. Whenever you’re around I can’t take my eyes off you. I think you are really cool and, let me be honest, I am a smitten-kitten. I won’t tell you my name. If you figure out who this is, call me. I know you are smart enough to figure out my name and my number. I will be waiting.’

She then makes a heart and adds some flowers. I gasp at her boldness.

‘Oh my God! Tanu! How can you write stuff like this?’ I am shocked at what she has done.

‘With a blue pen, by forming one letter after another,’ she says cheekily.

I shake my head and suggest we tear out the page. But Tanu will hear none of it.

‘Look, how can you write something so outrageous?’

‘What is so outrageous, Diksha? I do really,
really
like him. Gosh, he is gorgeous! And this is a godsend opportunity to tell him how I feel.’

‘Then tell him to his face. Don’t write anonymous notes.’

‘Noooo way! Tell him to his face? Are you crazy? What if he laughs at me?’

I know she is right. How can she walk up to a guy and admit she is crazy about him? I too have a secret crush on him which I have never admitted to Tanu. We’re both probably in love with the same guy. The difference is that she is ready to admit it while I have suppressed it and pushed it aside as though it doesn’t exist.

Finally, I give in to her demand and put Ankit’s book back into his bag. After which, I rush to my brother’s room and knock.

‘What?’ His tone is curt.

‘I found Ankit’s bag,’ I say, feeling a bit sheepish.

In a trice, Ankit is out. ‘Oh! Wow! That is amazing! Where did you find it?’ he asks, his eyes dancing.

I blush.

‘Er... Actually it is exactly like mine. I am so sorry, I took it thinking it was mine,’ I say.

Then I show him my bag to prove the point.

Ankit laughs heartily and Rohan joins in.

‘Hey, it’s okay. I am so glad to have it back, I could hug you! You know, it seems we have the same great taste,’ he says.

Tanu looks at me and mouths, ‘Wish he’d said that to me,’ and I quickly look away.

That afternoon, we have no idea what lies in store for us in the future. No idea whatsoever how a little joke played so casually will change our entire lives. No clue that we have sowed the seeds for a lifetime of deception and falsehood, woven a web so entangled that even an entire lifetime will not suffice to sort it out.

Two

‘D
IKSHAAAAA, COFFEE,’ BELLOWS
S
ANDEEP FROM
our bedroom upstairs.

I glance at the clock. He has woken up ten minutes before than his usual time.

‘Coming. Making it. The water’s just beginning to boil,’ I yell back, suppressing a twinge of irritation. In the fifteen years that we have been married, not once has he made coffee for me. I suppose I must have found it cute, in the early years of marriage, how lost he was in the kitchen. Then the starry-eyed new bride I was, I would gladly make coffee for him which he would sip reclining in an easy chair on the balcony with his newspaper. I would, in the meantime, cook breakfast, lay out his clothes for office neatly on the bed while he showered, and pack his lunch for office.

Once he emerged from the bedroom in his formal clothes, I would rush to make him a toast or a
dosa
or something hot and fresh for breakfast. He would hurriedly wolf it down, praising my culinary skills and I would eagerly lap up the praise. He never asked me to join him. And in the early days, I did not mind it the least bit. As I would watch him eat, my heart would fill with pride at a meal well-prepared and my wifely duty of feeding my husband, done to perfection.

He would then leave and I would have my breakfast, alone.

The pattern that a couple inadvertently sets in the early years of marriage continues even later, unless a conscious effort is made to change it. That never happened in our case. And so, to this day, he and our nine-year-old son, Abhay, eat together and leave. I always eat later. The praise has stopped though. He does not utter even one word in appreciation these days.

I have grown up watching my mother be the dutiful wife and, until recently, I did not even mind being one. But, of late, irritation has begun mounting and not knowing how to deal with it, I deal with it by suppressing it.

I know for a fact that it started after my cousin, Vibha’s, visit. When Vibha, who lives in Hyderabad, visits Bangalore for company projects, she stays with us for a week or so, and has observed this routine several times. When Sandeep and Abhay leave, she says, ‘Diksha, which century are you living in, girl? Look at what you have turned into. You have totally metamorphosed into a maidservant and cook.’

‘Shut up, Vibha. I don’t have a high-flying job like you, where your company sends you on fancy trips and all. I am just a housewife, and has it ever occurred to you that I
like
making hot food for Abhay and Sandeep?’ I counter her observation, not willing to acknowledge it.

I brush aside her remarks as if they are of no consequence, but deep down I know her words have found their mark. They rankle inside me now like the chains of a prisoner in medieval times who yearns to break free. She has voiced something that I have dared not admit even to myself and her words hang in the air like gloomy mist. Everything that I look at now is tinted with this greyness that had begun to gnaw at my insides.

‘Look, Diksha. So what if you are a housewife? That doesn’t mean Sandeep can’t make a cup of coffee for you! I have seen how much work you put into making their lives smooth. But what about you? You deserve more, girl. You never get to go out. Your mother-in-law being in the same town doesn’t help either as you have to spend every single weekend with her. What kind of life is that?’ she says gently.

‘Vibha, I am happy. I am happy that my mother-in-law lives close by and we get to visit her. Abhay loves spending time with her. Not everyone is like you. I don’t have to get Sandeep to make coffee for me in the name of women’s lib or whatever. He earns well, he provides us with material comfort and so it is indeed okay if I am the one taking care of cooking and everything else.’

I don’t know why I am so stubborn in defending my life.

‘Diksha, don’t you long for anything more? Are you really happy? Don’t you want to go out with your girlfriends, do things for yourself, have some fun?’ Her tone changes into concern as she searches my face for answers.

I cannot bear her eyes boring into mine. Of course, I long to go out. I truly do not want to spend every single weekend visiting Sandeep’s mother who lives less than two kilometres away. But it has become such a routine now that I cannot even think of spending weekends any other way.

When I had first suggested going out somewhere nice in the early years of marriage, Sandeep had glared at me like I had said I wanted to separate him from his mother. He had reminded me of the time his mother had selflessly helped look after Abhay when he was born. Sandeep never ceased to remind me that my parents hadn’t done much by way of being there for us. I had tried telling him that it was only because my mother had fallen seriously ill at the time of Abhay’s birth. She had to have a hysterectomy. She had been operated upon and the surgeon had discovered a lump that needed to be removed. There were other complications as well. Then she had been on bed-rest for nearly six whole months. Else, she would have definitely helped. But when I had explained all that to Sandeep, he had just said, ‘Bah. What counts is who did the job ultimately.’

How can I tell Vibha all this? How can I admit to her that, yes,I feel trapped with Sandeep. That I long for a better life. The truth of Vibha’s words hammers into my brain, hitting me right where it hurts. But I still do not want her to see my pain. After all, she is leading the life she wants. She has a job she enjoys, has good help at home, is independent and smart, everything I am not. So I turn away and busy myself doing the dishes.

We sit in silence, both of us very well aware that the words she uttered are true. I am not entirely happy in my marriage. But I have made peace with my situation and I do not know how to change it. Sandeep is not a bad guy, after all.

These days, however, it feels as though I have to constantly remind myself that. Fifteen years of marriage and motherhood have changed me as a person. I go quiet as I contemplate.

The awkward silence between us now embarrasses Vibha.

‘Hey, Diksha. I think I said too much. I know no marriage is perfect. Mine certainly isn’t. Mohan constantly complains that I do not have time for him or Monu. Look, I am really sorry to have poked my nose into your affairs. I should first set my marriage right. I haven’t done any of the things that Mohan wants us to do together as a family. It is always work and more work for me. Then I come here and see such a contrast in your life and I just couldn’t help telling you what I felt. I should have kept quiet. I am sorry.’ She is now contrite at having spoken her mind.

‘No, Vibha, it is fine. You are lucky to lead the life you want. And I know it is only concern for me that made you say those things. And hey, you’re my sis. How can you not be honest with me? I am glad you spoke out. I have been in denial about it,’ I finally admit.

And I mean it.

After Vibha leaves, I find myself increasingly thinking about her words. The emptiness of my life has begun to gnaw at me, eating me up from inside. Of course, Vibha is right. I have, over the years, slowly but surely turned into a maidservant and cook. Sandeep and Abhay do take me for granted.

But the fact is, that a part of me feels useful too, doing all this. It gives me a sense of purpose, a sense of ‘doing something’, as though justifying my existence.

But, for the first time in my life, I have begun thinking about where my life is going. Perhaps the fact that I will turn thirty-five in a few months adds to my increasingly contemplative state. I guess most people take stock of where they are going when they get older, don’t they?

It is only two weeks later though that I finally call up Vibha.

‘Hey Vibs, you got some time to talk?’ I ask.

She
is
a busy person, in a demanding job. As a mid-management level employee in a pharmaceutical company, she has to travel a lot. That is why I never call her during the day. If I have to speak to her, I call on weekends or at night. Vibha is the closest thing I have to a sister and I feel fortunate to have this bond with her. We have spent many summer vacations together in our maternal grandparents’ village in Kerala. Our mothers would bundle us off to the ancestral house and, for two whole months, we would laze around, pick raw mangoes from the tree and eat them with salt and chilli powder, play games, go swimming in the river nearby, play pranks on each other, fight, make up and forge bonds and create memories that we now cherish in our adult years.

Vibha had got married long after I had. She had a child much later than I did and went promptly back to work soon as the baby turned three months old. Of course, her in-laws moved in with her and the arrangement suited everyone. I sometimes envy her lifestyle, her career and how she has everything together.

In comparison, I feel as though I am wasting my life. Her words have added to my increasing sense of despondency and today is one of those days when I just have to speak to her, to sort out the chugging train of thoughts in my head that refuses to slow down.

‘Of course, Diksha, give me ten minutes. I am reading to Monu. I will tuck her in bed and call you.’

I am clearing the kitchen when she calls back. Abhay has been tucked in bed a long time back and Sandeep has plonked himself in front of the television, his usual unvarying routine on almost all days.

‘What happened, Dikku, all well?’ she uses my childhood name, a name which takes us back to our roots, our connection, our families, our village and forms a large part of my association with her, reminding me yet again how much a part of my life she really is. I know I can tell her anything. She is the closest I will ever come to having a sister. I know I can never discuss things like this with my brother.

‘Hello, Diksha? All well? Can you hear me?’ she asks again.

I take a while to answer. I really do not know how to say it, or what purpose this discussion will serve. All I know is that things seem unbearable and I need to speak to her.

‘Vibha, I have been thinking. You were right that day when you said my life is empty,’ I reply.

‘Hey, come on, Diksha. That’s really not what I meant,’ she corrects me.

I pause again. I am unable to articulate what I feel.

‘I know what you meant. See, the fact is that there is indeed a growing discontent in me. I know I am only fooling myself by pretending to be extremely happy cooking and caring for Sandeep and Abhay, but there has to be more to life than that. I feel worthless, Vibha. I really do,’ I finally say, the words tumbling out. The bitterness in my voice and the things I have just expressed take me by surprise, as though it is not me, but a stranger, talking.

‘Hey Diksha, things are not so bad. You do look after the house and keep it well. Why, your house is ten times more efficiently managed than mine. You know how much my mother-in-law helps me,’ Vibha tries to placate me.

But I am in no mood to be consoled.

‘She only helps you look after Monu while you are at work. Isn’t it you who decides everything in the house including whom to hire as house-help? Isn’t it you and Mohan who have done up the house so well? Isn’t it you who has decided that Monu is better off in a playschool than being at home with your mother-in-law? Come on, Vibs, you run the show there. Don’t give me crap and try to make me feel better.’