Mom knew I wasn’t happy. She knew she could do something about it. But she didn’t. I still believe, she didn’t do anything, maybe because that was going to benefit me in one way or the other.
I married Amay four years back. Amay, on front, was a nice man. Good looking, successful, ambitious, hardworking, humble. That wasn’t it. There was much more. He was possessive, arrogant and agressive, only if someone else could see. For him, money meant more love than anyone or anything in this universe. It’s good to be ambitious and successful, not at the cost of someone’s discomfort. Sometimes when he would be very angry, other times, very gentle. His traits and behaviour changed with his mood and with what I had done last.
Two months post our marriage, I had invited a few of my friends home. He didn’t like it. A year later, when his friends came over for three days, I co-incidently was found in a room with one of his friends. He didn’t talk to me till three weeks.
When I went to my parent’s home, he would warn me not to tell about his abusings to anyone. There was nothing to worry. The least he could do was beat me like the past months for a few days and use me. But yet, there was his fear that haunted with me as a cloud wherever I moved.
I would pretend to be the happiest woman in my vicinity and people would believe. For them, Amay was an angel.
Things went bearable till he found out that I had a boyfriend when I was in college. Samar and I were just friends, but word spread out to be something else. We never paid heed to what people talked about us. We were and were going to remain good friends. In-fact, post marriage, we never spoke to each-other. Amay would come home and would bang the door, leave his briefcase on the door and would wait a few steps ahead till I lifted it. He would try finding faults in anything. Sometimes, when I wore a blue saree, he would complain that he hated blue and I shouldn’t be wearing it, irrespective of my love for blue. Sometimes, when the food wasn’t okay, he would throw away the plate and shout and hold me by my neck and…
Four moths ago, when I went to my mother’s home, she asked me about the bruises on my skin. Only if she could see the bruises on my soul. I was afraid to move out. I was afraid to move in. I was afraid to eat. I was afraid to drink. I was afraid of blue. I was AFRAID.
Mom knew about it. She must have guessed, maybe. She would give me an understanding smile or a pat when I left.
That morning I didn’t get up. I didn’t wake him up. I didn’t make his breakfast. I didn’t iron his clothes. I slept beside him, watching him sleep. His innocent face made me smile. One hour later, I was ready with my bags packed and was about to leave, he woke up.
“What’s going on? And why the hell didn’t you wake me up?” He asked.
“It’s better you wake up on your own. Realise that I was your wife, not a robot or a toy. Besides, it doesn’t matter.”
“Where are you going? Mishty. Don’t go. I need you.” He pleaded.
I deserved a better life, maybe.
Picture courtesy : Google image.
P.S. The Mishty in the post is a fictional character and I am not married. 😛