I came back to Bombay on Saturday night, after wild, wanton trip. Out of habit of the hills, I woke early on Sunday morning and not yet ready to face the world, watched Becoming Jane while Tushar slept.
He woke just as the movie ended and I was sniffling, tears running down my face, soaking my morning breath.
“Is your sinus acting up again?” he asked.
“The brute,” I thought, “here I am crying for poor Jane [Austen] and her sacrifice of love and passion, and he thinks it’s sinus. Geek!”
I climb on to the easy-chair near the window, light a cigarette, still weeping. I can see TB is trying to grapple with this before he has had time to scratch his balls. *Poor guy.
“We need to find a counsellor fast,” I say.
“For us.” I take a deep dramatic breath. “I don’t think I can stay married to you for long. It’s really hard. I’m sorry. It’s just not Me.”
He blinks and says nothing. He’s been through this before. He knows he has to let me talk, cry and then I will go back to seeing what a prize catch he is and how no one else is going to put up with me. He knows I’m a big black dog for his red ball.
So I’m near tears all day. Assured that I must end my marriage, for how can I, of all people, of all people, dispose of myself without affection?
Am I not like Jane? Considering myself a cut above the company? My internal landscape is, I suspect, quite picturesque.
At work, I google Austen to know more about her tragic love affair with Tom Lefroy. And you know what I get?
Austen had a flirtation with Tom Lefroy, later Lord High Justice of Ireland, who was the younger relative of a friend. She wrote two letters to Cassandra [her older sister]mentioning him…It does not seem to have been a serious relationship and the love affair did not last long.
Flirtation? I almost ended my marriage over a flirtation? Fuck you High-Brow Art. Take me back Tushar. I’ll be your slave until the next movie/documentary/poem/story/PMS.
*Pity not the man(un)kind. He’s been living with a crazy woman for almost five years, That’s 75 in menstrual cycles. In fact, his oft-repeated line to me is not “I love you” or “Gosh I can’t believe how lucky I am to have you, you talented, gorgeous, lovely woman” but “Are you insane?”. Why sir, how did you guess? Here’s the doctor’s chitty to prove it.