In Search of a Better Wife

Utter insanity of prolonging his three-year-old marriage struck Altaf like a tsunami that eventually floods shore following days of meteorological forewarnings. After eleven hundred excruciating days, few more hours with Hamida, his wife, were proving intolerable. Her mere sight was repulsing, her presence exasperating. They grumbled in mono syllables, dined separately and slumbered in different rooms. Unaware of the couple’s predicament, whole of Borivali boasted their ‘made for each other’ charm.

Even as fiancé, he was awake to Hamida’s sense of trend, etiquette and accent that were all equally revolting. But it was Zakir, his bosom friend, who had ‘approved’ her and beguiled him saying, “Father Time would iron out everything.” They had a tacit pact that each of them would say "I do" only after the other had ‘passed’ the girl. Buying into Zakir’s unchanging ‘time’ wisdom, Altaf tied the knot prevailing upon himself, “Everything about an adolescent girl, surely, was highly malleable.” After marriage, he bent over backwards to elevate her tastes, style and carriage to acceptable Bombay levels, in vain.

Altaf’s had deliberated so much on his crumbling matrimony and imminent separation with friends that they would dub him a loser if he brooked her anymore. Zakir was simply blunt, exacting, “You must not suffer such unlovely woman for a minute more. I would never wed a ‘dud’ like Hamida even in my wildest dreams. She is the most ‘undesirable’ woman in the whole universe. I made the greatest mistake by approving her.” When intimate friends harbour such convictions about your better half, it’s undoubtedly disadvantageous.

He and Zakir were of the same age but Zakir was still single and reaped benefits of blissful bachelorhood. Altaf envied Zakir’s eligibility and coveted the wide variety of choice that is the hallmark of bachelordom, at the least, once more. And now consummation of divorce called for expedition and, as promised, Zakir was abundantly equipped to facilitate or concoct every permissible paper for annulment. Even as the spadework for split-up gathered momentum, Altaf began scouting for a better wife endowed with traits of an ideal wife minus the ones Hamida possessed. And, all the while, he was impatient for his turn to endorse a girl for Zakir.

And as for matters that mattered in bed, Altaf was utterly disgusted. Hamida would lie insensitively and, the moment it’s over, climb down the bed and rush to regurgitate as if inadvertently bitten a bitter fruit. The tormenting sight of spewing up made him go sullen and every day, day after day, that was the repugnant routine until, at last, the day she conceived.

All her foibles dissipated even before two shakes of a lamb’s tail. And, now, he doted on her. Rounded a bit, she was the most delightful expectant in the vicinity. Her complexion turned salmon-pink; pale enough to match that of his Utopian lady-love. Her gait, which was wobbly until conception, appeared chic. Her cheeks radiated pinkish brilliance, her eyes diffused vivaciousness. And now he loved eating out with her and squired her for regular checkups. Paternity was incredibly euphoric, unique and Hamida was the one who had bestowed this glorious feeling of origin on him. “I couldn’t have asked for a better wife,” he told himself. His neighbours and, crucially, his friends were stunned noting the unanticipated reversal. He was setting a benchmark in parenthood that seemed a tough act to beat. But India was so populous that there were always many on horizons on way to fatherhood; surely, someone would end up eclipsing it before long, wittingly or otherwise.

Just as he was pampering her, seven weeks into conception, he was upgraded to zonal level that entailed great deal of travel. His perennially ailing mother rebuffed to take care saying Hamida’s moral fibre was suspicious. He could not interpret mother’s explicitness blaming the notorious Indian mother-in-law versus daughter-in-law rivalry. Zakir, who else, was asked to mind her. Availing a month-long leave, despite bedridden fussy woman’s protests, Zakir ushered Hamida to numerous obstetricians.

Two weeks later, one misty morning, while on work at Bangalore, just as Altaf was sipping his favourite cup of Coorg coffee, Zakir rang, “Hamida has contracted bizarre indications that necessitated admittance into an intensive care unit.” Altaf could reach the hospital in Bombay only after miscarriage and the consequent removal of uterus.

That was, by far, the most invincible and lawfully adequate impetus Altaf could cite to consummate their separation. Of course he abhorred her from day one; the nine-week ‘paternity’ interlude was an unessential aberration. A wife instantly earns illegitimacy upon losing uterus. Marriage, after all, is fusion of two procreative souls and is the only sanctioned mechanism of sustaining human race. Zakir avidly aided Altaf in securing ample legal advocacy and ensured that the whole divorce progression was fast-tracked. And equally exuberant was their celebration at Picnic on the day of dissolution.

Two months after severance, Zakir sprang a surprise; he is to be betrothed to a girl from Hingorabad near Karachi, Pakistan. Now there was no way Altaf could companion Zakir to Pakistan given the prohibitively expensive journey. In keeping with their childhood vow, Zakir undertook to email the Pakistani girl’s snap promptly after setting foot in Hingorabad.

Even after a week there was no mail in the ‘inbox,’ even the spam folder had nothing. Two weeks later, Zakir phoned, “Marriage took place last week but I could not communicate or mail since curfew was imposed in Karachi after a gory bomb blast. We would be in Borivali in a few days.” Altaf wondered as to whatever happened to their childhood undertaking. He consoled himself saying that it was, after all, an ‘international’ affair and, of all the countries, it was Pakistan where Osama is said to lurking.

Three weeks later, Zakir landed in Bombay in the middle of the night. When Altaf called in the morning, Zakir said he had already reached Aurangabad for a special ceremony at his uncle’s place. When Altaf offered to reach there, Zakir said, “We have a hectic schedule for a week...would be visiting relatives in Nashik, Dhulia and Khandwa. Don’t bother, we will reach Borivali soon.”

After a frustrating ten days, Altaf was told that the couple are likely to arrive in Bombay the next day. Altaf bought himself new clothes, shoes and imported perfume; Altaf grew jittery as if he was to see a girl for himself. A thought crossed his mind; “what if I do not like the Pakistani girl?” Of course, he knew so much about gorgeous girls of Karachi and Pakistan in general. And he recalled General Musharraf’s contention that there is a ‘Miss World’ in ‘every’ lane of his country. But what if she is not that stunning? Would he let know his friend the truth? What is the point the truth now? After all it was over a month since the consummation has taken place.

Though there were no signs of finding a new, better bride for himself, Altaf was very eager for a ‘post-matrimonial’ approval, even if it was impertinent now. And Altaf schemed; “if the girl is really good-looking, I would butter up her to pick an equally fine-looking Karachi bride for myself. Of course, Zakir would be too obliging,” When Altaf reached Borivali, Zakir’s mother said, “The she-devil has taken my innocent son outdoors to conspire against me.” All his perfumery, sartorial composition sneered at him and Altaf returned a miserable man only to find a note tucked into door latch. It said, “Sorry - come tomorrow for a grand lunch - Zakir.”

Next day, when he knocked, Zakir was scouring the bath. Forcing Altaf to sit in verandah, he began dusting sofas, chairs; all the while yelling towards kitchen to hasten cooking. The aromas of pungent spices, the clinks of silvery anklets and glassy bangles of a hustling newly-wed were producing a heady mix. Unable to curb, Altaf at last posed the question that Zakir shuddered about, “Is bhabhi beautiful? What if I disapprove?” Zakir just grinned and persisted with his menial slog.

Impatient to sneak a look, Altaf marched about verandaed shade and to a windowpane that promised an uninterrupted view of kitchen where she was juggling steel utensils. Profound familiarity of Altaf’s witless ways pushed Zakir to invite him in for brunch that, to Altaf’s utter disillusionment, was served not by blushing bride but by Zakir’s ailing mother. Oblivious of all that was being served, Altaf was hungering for a glimpse of Pakistani bride but Zakir dashed his hopes, “She belongs to a very orthodox family...would not mingle with strangers for a while.” Altaf knew that ‘while’ meant months or, God knows, years.

Three weeks later, in a tactical move, Altaf called on the Salims unannounced. A startled Zakir forced a smile upon himself and involuntarily led him in. Zakir’s wife served food hiding behind her veil in absence of his mother. She scurried between living and kitchen, her elongated burqa sweeping the floor. While Altaf’s eyes trailed her every shuffle, shift and turn, she adeptly evaded his gapes. Having chewed a green chilli, Zakir hawked. His agitated wife scampered and helped him glasses of water. While wiping his mouth, she nervously patted on crown of his skull and, in the feverishness, her veil lifted. Realising her folly in a jiffy, just as she pulled her veil back, Altaf marked her face in horror: she was Hamida.

Ram Govardhan is a post-graduate in sociology. His first novel ‘Rough with the Smooth’ was longlisted for the 2009 Man Asian Literary Prize. He works with Hansa Research, Madras/Chennai, India. He is currently scripting his second novel and a bunch of short stories. Email: ram.govardhan@ymail.com