I resist and push him away most of the night. I wonder if he's even aware of doing it. There is no escape in the morning, I realise, as he finds my lips and kisses me. There I go again in another sojourn of pretence that will last for God knows how long. I feel no desire and yet, there I am covering up all that I feel by making an effort at responding. His hands roam all over my body, demanding and satisfied, not stopping even once to ask if I am interested or if it's okay with me. I loathe the touch. I stare at the ceiling trying as much as I can to not think of what is happening. Yet, it is my body I am talking about.

My mind has travelled miles away. I stand afar and watch, determined to go through it as my husband makes love to me. Love? My brain is screaming and telling him to go away some place far and I lie silent. I try hard to keep the tears from coming to my eyes. The futility of it all is too much to bear and as the minutes go by, tears well up in my eyes. I avoid his eyes and moan to keep him from looking at me. How well do I know him and how well I know the tears won't bother him as long as he can hear me moan.

I win.

He sees them, perhaps, feels the whole act has overwhelmed me. He is satisfied. That finishes the matter does it?

It all seems unreal and yet I can feel the pain of it all in me. I do not find myself in me. There I am, lying on the bed, my husband on me, staring at the ceiling, at the fan, almost indifferent, at the speed with which it is spinning against the pale black ceiling. He slumps on me, exhausted and here's another day ahead of me, filled with ache of pretending and living this way. The tears refuse to go. Agony gives way to anger and I cannot think of any way to explain the way I feel deep inside.

A sadness unsurpassed.

The phone rings, the doorbell rings. Its Nirmala Bai at the door. I drag myself out of bed, walk towards the door.

I can hear him humming as he shaves.

Picture Courtesy - Google Images
Copyright@Sandy 2001