The Widow

THE WIDOW

How could she forget the look – the sheer joy that lit up, when Jai discovered she was a virgin on their nuptial sojourn. Of course, she knew he had always been a little in awe of her and this special offering made his eyes spill with male triumph, as he whispered the trite words that always turn magical, “Just remember one thing - I love you and always will”

“Still a virgin?” – in spite of a steady list of boyfriends, a broken engagement and a queue of unknown admirers. The last piece of information divulged to her in snatches of conversation when she continued to be the belle of the ball with doting husband, two kids and many jealous wives in tow. What fools!

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She still attracted - at 38, with the few strands of grey that seemed to have appeared overnight – not a really beautiful face, but like the moon – full of craters, like her children teased her, and features on the bit-too-sharp side, that spoke of her mixed ancestry. How easy it was to be judgmental, she mused - just get down to brass tacks – attractive wife, devastating fights – “obviously the poor unemployed chap committed suicide. She was probably the cause for his drinking too!”

She was tired of the small borrowings from Banks, claiming entrepreneurship. The bank managers happily helped out, with tips on the subtle loopholes. She recalled one such occasion, when she had kept her fingers tightly crossed under clenched fists. The bank officer had slipped the relevant paper in her hand, declaring that she was eligible for the loan. She had actually felt Jai’s palm on her head, blessing her, as he was wont to do, in his good moments. Her eyes glistened but there were more important things to be done. I won’t cry. I won’t think about it. Anyways, little Sunny boy got upset if he saw gloom on her face; and the elder one glowed when he saw her “happy”.

The playschool was just about breaking even - a regular source of income to overcome each colossal month? How about slimy Guptajee? He would do anything to get her into bed. In her customary underplayed choice of words, she modulated over the phone, “I’m in a bit of a problem. Do you think you can help?”

On getting the oversized bundles of notes, she visited him unannounced in the evening and ensuring his wife was within earshot, said, “So what time do we leave for the resort tomorrow? You could pick me up from Main Street that leads to the school.”

A stunned silence and then the fury of domestic screams drowned the genteel music playing. She strolled out, suddenly thinking of the short story her erstwhile fiancé had written, about a pretty girl on a Kashmir shikara, who trapped tourists with unspoken promises, only to lead them to an old, wizened lady in exchange for the money transacted. What fools!

The widow paused at the hallway mirror and smiled at her infamy.