Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-5)

I sit in the bathroom, blanked out. I don’t know how to embrace life anymore. I am neither old enough to stop thinking about me, nor am I young enough to be so self-centered. Ruchi is an inch shorter than me, and in a year, she will probably be taller. Shekhar doesn’t bother much if I cook, or if I cater. He has given me more independence than I want him to. When we were newly married, I would crave for me time. These days, everyone has given me back to my world. Only I get a weird feeling that I don’t belong there. I don’t even know where I belong. I don’t feel passionate about work, or about life. Shopping, traveling or even exercising doesn’t excite me about anything. The high that I got buying two hundred dollar shoes isn’t even matched buying nine hundred dollar shoes these days. Everything looks so bland. Like someone drained every color of life, but didn’t leave a white canvas for me to fill it again. It’s all discolored.

I shower, looking at myself in the mirror. I look old. Not old enough to cover creases on my neck with a scarf, but old enough to feel a not-so-tight skin around the thighs. Even after working out whenever I could, and watching what I eat. Probably I feel so because I compare myself with Ruchi. I don’t feel pretty. My face doesn’t have a single acne scar, but it looks jaded. For a vague reason, I remember the story of Snow white, and the line “magic mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all”. My mirror had told me today that I am not, any more. I don’t feel jealous, but I don’t feel happy either that my daughter is a head turner, like mother. I don’t feel proud at all. Probably the day she gets into Harvard, or Stanford, I will feel the same, again. Clueless, even when I show my happiness.

Shekhar walked in to the bathroom, and went straight to the closet, patting me on his way, asking if it was a lucky night. I didn’t say anything, but continued to blow dry my hair, running my fingers through them. I am thinking of ways to bring up the subject. It shouldn’t spoil the rest of the evening for us. It’s been so long that Shekhar came home early, and I was fresh out of the shower, and didn’t have to worry about going to work the next day. Ruchi had already gone to sleep after eating Mac-n-cheese. That’s one habit that hasn’t changed yet. Though she eats two packets instead of one, and uses only sachet of cheese, and no butter at all. I wonder what the mistake was though. I made sure we bought only organic milk, didn’t give her too much fat after she was eight, made sure she stayed active every day, and still the onset of her period was early. It’s not hereditary either. I wonder if I should tell her grandparents, or that would embarrass her further. I remember my mom didn’t tell anyone until I was sixteen to avoid any sexual advances towards me. Now I should start guarding my daughter. From her own friends, and from Shekhar’s friends, when drunk. Especially Prakash, who always runs his hands on every kid’s back. I have heard Manisha’s daughter complain that he runs his hands on the back of her bra, and tries to hug her till her breasts touch his chest when he congratulates her. She absolutely hates him, and avoids him at all costs these days. So, next potluck with that group of friends will be only when Prakash can’t make it. We will have to invite him for the bigger parties though. I will just advise Ruchi to avoid him.

I finish rubbing some night cream on my body and wear a black lacy lingerie I bought last month, but never bothered to open the package, and remove the stickers, and pretend to read a book. I don’t want to be the needy one. I hear the shower, which means Shekhar has noticed my new dress. I feel sleepy reading Candance Bushnell’s Trading up, and the book does nothing to keep me awake. These are women of my age, still hunting for Mr. Perfect, or Mr. Big in the Big Apple. I have nothing to relate to. May be that’s the reason I am not able to enjoy the book. On the other hand, I didn’t enjoy Lipstick Jungle either. Three married women in Big Apple, and their marital and parenting woes. But there were so many affairs going on, I couldn’t relate with that either. I hardly find anyone attract me, sexually, except Shekhar these days. Not even John Abraham showing off every inch of his body. Somehow Shekhar with his receding hairline and a paunch looks sexier. May be it’s just about being comfortable with each other, and not just visual anymore. May be it’s true love. May be it’s loyalty. May be I just never found someone who could attract me, and sweep me off my feet. Whatever the reason is, I haven’t strayed in the past twelve years. Not even once.

Shekhar walks to bed, removes the book from my hand, and kisses me. I forget all about Ruchi, all about work, and all about the day off next day. It’s been a month that we made love on a weekday. So hectic life had become. When Ruchi was born, we would sneak in an afternoon session every weekend, but now that she has grown up, and is out of the house for most of Saturday, we end up reading something we haven’t read in a while, or watching a movie, or even going out for a walk. Sometimes it’s worse, we pay bills, and discuss investments. Actually we are treating out home like a corporation, and doing everything to make it a smooth well-oiled machine. We have succeeded at that. I shouldn’t be complaining.

My phone vibrates. It’s an email, from one of my classmates from the Writing Class. I browse through, it’s too long to be reading on a phone. I smile when I see that it was from a man. May be he is a gay man, I wonder, having not received a single love letter from anyone who loved me. It’s always been a line or two scribbled on a beautiful card. When someone told me that they write poems for the wife on a post it, and leave them on her steering wheel, I was literally speechless. Shekhar’s idea of showing love is a leaving a full tank car for me in the garage on days that I travel. So far, I love the way he loves me. Shekhar switches off the phone, and pulls me back in the bed, and I forget all about the letter.