Читать книгу The Ties That Bind - Praba Moodley - Страница 8

My parents did not object to overseeing three grandsons under the age of ten. They never did.

“They remind me of your brothers when they were little and they keep me young,” my mother said.

I was very excited about having a free Saturday afternoon. It was incredible how Rupa, Suhina and I had just clicked. I had never before felt so close to women and I made a point of letting my older sisters know. I raved about my two friends to them. My sisters were housebound and so house proud that I didn’t think they had much of a life outside their homes. Their lives revolved around their husbands and children and when I mentioned my friends they gave me a look that said, “No wonder your husband left you. You need to get your priorities right.”

Little did they realise that when I did have what they regarded as my “priorities” right my whole world had imploded. I was not as lucky as they were; I had married a man blessed with striking good looks who I learnt the hard way had a roving eye.

Harendra had first set his sexy, seductive eyes on me at a sixteen-day memorial service.

My eldest sister’s mother-in-law had finally succumbed to breast cancer after many years of treatment and, as in-laws, we were always respectful in our duties. I was assisting with handing out sweetmeats and savouries in little confectionery boxes for the guests to take with them after the service when I found my hand being held longer than usual. I tugged and when it was not released I looked up and into eyes that made me catch my breath. It was not so much the colour, but the look: soft and dreamy and very seductive. Those eyes made me feel I was the only person in the room. My cheeks flamed as I was drawn into his gaze.

My sister nudged me with her elbow and I hastily pulled my hand away.

“You are holding up the queue,” I whispered as I looked at him, secretly thinking he looked gorgeous.

Suffice it to say that he too was smitten and before I knew it the proposal had been arranged. Harendra was related to my brother-in-law. With my sisters’ track record of being perfect wives and daughters-in-law I knew the family was expecting no less from me and so I was determined that I would create the perfect home and family for my perfect man.

The wedding took place within a year and Harendra was the perfect gentleman throughout the twelve months of courtship. He lived in Durban and visited me twice a month, always bringing with him a variety of chocolates and a bunch of mixed flowers. The colourful display of roses, daisies and carnations was arranged in one of my mother’s brass vases and placed in the lounge for all to appreciate. The chocolates I distributed to the rest of the family to savour or devour. I had to keep my figure for the big day.

Harendra soon charmed his way into everyone’s heart. I was extremely proud that I was to be his wife; after all, he was quite a catch. I knew I would remember for the rest of my life the day we exchanged vows, garlands and rings. I was welcomed into Harendra’s family although we moved immediately into a home his parents had set up for us. We were, I thought, very blessed for many newly-weds lived with their in-laws and had to get used to living with an extended family. I did not have the misfortune of butting heads with my mother-in-law for Harendra’s attention. She was liberal minded and Harendra’s father and siblings tended to mind their own business, but at the same time they showed me the love and respect befitting a daughter- and sister-in-law.

I must admit I was a bit crestfallen when Harendra declared that we did not need a honeymoon for we lived in Durban and that was like being on a permanent honeymoon. We had the balmy weather, sand and surf at our disposal. But I soon got over my disappointment and was delighted that our home gave us the privacy we needed. I went along with his decision like the perfect wife. He was thrilled to be my first and I was thrilled to be initiated into the world of love by a man who was experienced. I prayed he would love and appreciate me for the rest of our lives.

Because we lived in separate homes and respected each other’s privacy my relationship with my in-laws was excellent. Still, my mother-in-law always sent over Harendra’s favourite meals because my culinary skills needed improving. I graciously accepted her offer to feed us. Like the perfect fertile wife I delivered a perfect baby boy within the first twelve months of our marriage. Six years into our marriage I had brought three mini Harendras into the family, all perfectly spaced with two years between them. I dreamed secretly of having a baby girl but when my last born arrived Harendra insisted I have my tubes tied. I agreed on condition that he had a vasectomy. Surprisingly, my perfect husband obliged and so my dream of a baby girl remained just that – a dream.

I worked at retaining my perfect figure after each delivery, thanks to my mother ensuring I followed her instructions. My post-birth tummy was firmly wrapped to strengthen the muscles so it wouldn’t wobble unattractively during my intimate moments with the man who had helped create our babies. This made breathing difficult but I persisted. I breastfed my babies and refused to let Harendra see me in the wrappings until I was satisfied he would not find me repulsive. Harendra had always praised my body in the honeymoon stage of our marriage when he could not keep his hands off me, and I did not want his desire for me to wane.

I focused all my energy on my husband and our beautiful, healthy sons, modelling my marriage on the examples set by my sisters. I selected the clothes my husband wore, always making sure that his socks perfectly matched his suits. I wanted him to be the best-dressed insurance salesperson in his company. I ran a perfect home, learnt to cook perfect meals and secretly congratulated myself when tempting aromas wafted through the house and I was able to share my dishes with my mother-in-law.

Our boys were always neat and clean before my Harendra arrived home and they were often already tucked up in bed. He was in a very competitive industry and I wanted him to retain his position as salesman of the year. He put in many late nights in order to keep his title and I did not want him coming home to a chaotic household. I never left the boys’ toys lying around for him to trip over; everything had its place. As a perfect wife I never allowed my husband to change a diaper or wipe a runny nose. That was a mother’s task. I also made sure I was always perfectly coiffed, dressed and scented. No traces of baby food or drool on me. I wanted him to be proud of us. What I did not realise in my quest for perfection was that my marriage was far from perfect.

One evening the dam of frustration burst its banks and the effect of the emotional flood shattered me.

“You are suffocating me, Gayatri! I don’t even get to decide what I want to wear any more and as for the boys … have you ever asked me if I would like to change a diaper or feed my sons? If I so much as lift a finger to do something in this home you are there to do it as though I am not good enough. You have absolutely no idea how you make me feel. I have had enough!”

“But Harendra …” I protested. I was shocked at the venom in his eyes. Where was all this coming from? Was it the stress of trying to maintain sales? For once he left me speechless, my eyes wide and never leaving his face. Thanks to the weekly facials which I had so lovingly bestowed on him, Harendra had a lovely creamy complexion. Now, that lovely creaminess was mottled and suffused with rage. I thought he was going to burst a blood vessel. My handsome thirty-two-year-old well-groomed husband was having a meltdown.

My mind was reeling. Why had he not spoken to me about this before? Was I so unapproachable? My God, I thought everything was perfect but it seemed he had no desire or appreciation for perfection.

“But Harendra …” I finally managed to get the words out, “I thought this was what you wanted. After all, you have such a stressful job.”

“You have made it stressful for me. Do you know what I have to go through to keep my position in the company so that I can give you all of this?” He threw his hands in the air. His yelling brought the boys rushing into the bedroom. They were terrified. Their perfect father was turning into a perfect stranger. I wanted to remind him that his parents had provided us with our home.

“Mummy,” wailed my youngest, running straight into my arms.

I threw Harendra a look of disgust. His selfishness was upsetting my boys. He looked at the boys and then shocked me even further when he went down on his knees and opened his arms and the two older boys ran into them. They had tears streaming down their cheeks. They had never before heard us raise our voices to each other. He gave me an accusing look over their shoulders.

Was I so intent on creating a perfect family life like my sisters that I had become blind to Harendra’s unhappiness and discontent over the years? I was hurt and bewildered. Was it really all my fault that he was behaving like this? It was only much later that I learnt there was a perfectly valid reason for this so-called “meltdown”. Where and how Harendra found someone who gave him the space and attention he said he needed I do not know.

When the D-word was mentioned I was devastated. My pride had to take a backseat for I was fighting to keep my family intact so that my boys would grow up with a father and a mother under one roof. No amount of pleading, crying, promises to change and my willingness to seek counselling changed his mind. The man remained adamant and declared that I was driving him crazy with my demands. I was confused – what demands was he talking about?

He moved out, taking his perfectly matched socks, shirts, ties and suits with him in our designer suitcases. He made arrangements to collect the boys every other weekend and he had the audacity to allow his floozie to mother my sons on those weekends. My three darlings turned into snotty-nosed brats. Between them and the acrimony between Harendra and me – I refused to come to an amicable agreement about dissolving our marriage – the floozie realised Harendra had too much baggage. His three boys and his even more difficult soon-to-be-ex wife were too much for her. Before I could recover from my husband’s betrayal I discovered that the hot sex had fizzled out and the floozie had packed her bags and absconded.

Naturally, I was in my element. My hopes for a family reunion soared. With the floozie gone, Harendra was sure to come to his senses and realise the value of his family. Most of all I wanted him to realise the value of me. Hoping my patience would win I kept my fingers crossed and prayed for his return. For the sake of my boys I was willing to forgive him for the pain and humiliation I had suffered when he chose a giggling, ego-stroking tart to fulfil his carnal desires while I was busy being a wife and mother and putting the needs of my family first.

I had grown up thinking that was what was required of me. I thought that was what being a woman, mother and wife was all about. After all, I had kept myself pure until I married Harendra, even though I had had ample opportunity to succumb to the pleasures of the flesh. There were times when I still thought about my first teenage boyfriend, the first man I had ever kissed, but out of loyalty to Harendra I kept him in my fantasies. Harendra was the man who taught me what sexual desire was all about. There was no one else in my life, so why had he turned his back on me and our boys?

Perhaps, I thought guiltily, in the course of my busy day-to-day life I had forgotten what it was like to be a lover and had pushed my man into the arms of another woman. There were many out there ready to stroke an insecure man’s ego and make him feel like a million dollars when he complained that his wife was uncaring, perhaps even not affectionate towards him, and did not understand him at all. I vowed never to repeat my mistakes. From now on I would be the hot, sexy lover first and foremost. It would not matter that the sheets were not laundered or that his arteries became clogged with cholesterol from takeaway meals as long as I stroked his ego and everything else that mattered and made him feel like a million bucks.

I indulged myself, buying sexy new underwear and silky seductive nightwear for I knew Harendra liked fine and delicate things. I vowed to be less demanding, less of a perfectionist and more experimental in bed. I wanted to be his dream woman. I wanted my home, my husband and the father of my boys back and if meant working on my back then so be it. I intended to fight for my family to remain together so there was no place for pride in my life.

When Harendra invited me to dinner I saw this as the opportunity I had been dreaming of. I waxed, buffed and polished my body and chose Harendra’s favourite dress to wear for the evening. Now that I had lost a good couple of kilograms the lovely deep pink chiffon dress fitted over my breasts and fell to my knees in a flare. It hugged and caressed all the right places and made me feel sexy and desirable. I completed my outfit with silver high-heeled sandals. My pearly pink nail polish made my fingers and toes look gentle and feminine. Underneath, I wore the most delicate and silkiest of lingerie which I knew he would find irresistible. I deliberately left my hair looking casual and tousled.

Harendra said that he would pick me up and I managed to get my neighbour’s granddaughter to babysit the boys for the evening. He arrived half an hour early and spent time with the boys while I nervously applied my make-up. When I finally emerged from the bedroom we had shared he looked up before returning his attention to our sons. I did not miss the widening of his eyes, though, and my heart raced with hope. Was it a flare of desire I saw lurking there? It crossed my mind that he was not looking at me because if he did he might want to take me into our bedroom. After all, he was still my husband.

He kissed our sons goodnight.

“Ready?” he asked, avoiding my eyes.

I nodded, kissed the boys and my eldest put his arms around me. “You look so pretty, Mummy, and you smell nice too.”

I swallowed my tears for those were the words I wanted to hear from Harendra, but with passion and honesty. I looked at his hands on the steering wheel and ached for them to touch me, to caress me once again. I felt dizzy with longing for him. He was polite, his voice soft and caring. He asked about the boys, my parents and about some of our friends he had chosen not to associate himself with after he left me. Why had he not asked how I was? Was I so irrelevant to him? I, the woman who had given him her virginity, never had another lover, made him the focus of her love and attention and then, when the babies arrived, strove to create the perfect family – a perfect family that no longer existed.

He was the one who had chosen to unravel everything, so why was he making me feel such a bitch with him the poor victim? When had Harendra started mastering the art of playing victim? Was it always there, I wondered, and I had just chosen not to see it? Sure, he had a volatile personality; sure, he had had run-ins with family and friends but most of the time he had been Mr Popular. I felt physically ill, as though I had been kicked in the stomach. The feeling was so strong that I almost asked him to pull over so I could open the car door and get rid of my breakfast. Instead I opened the window slightly and gulped in some fresh air.

I could not look at him. I felt nauseous, confused. What was my body telling me? Why were the questions that had haunted me on so many nights and caused me to shed so many tears filling my mind now? I wanted to know everything about what he had done with his girlfriend, where he had met her, what it was like going to bed with her, living with her. The headache that had threatened the whole day erupted and my head pounded. I suspected it had been brought on more from stress than hunger as well as the need to know everything so that I could process it all and really understand what went wrong. I prayed to my angels for the calmness and dignity I so desperately needed.

This time I wanted Harendra to beg for forgiveness, to go down on his knees and say that he could not live without me and the boys and that he regretted everything that had happened in a mad moment of lust. I took a deep breath to calm myself and let my imagination run riot as I built up this scenario of a reunion, how I would make him beg and grovel before I gave in.

When we arrived at his flat I could see that he had made himself a new home. It was lived in. I itched to straighten the place up for although it was tidy I noticed the layer of dust on the coffee table and saw that the curtains had been drawn too hastily to fall neatly in place. Harendra had ordered Chinese takeout, both our favourites, and I was momentarily touched by his thoughtfulness. He had taken the time to set the table with napkins, but minus the candles. I could barely swallow a morsel and keeping up a conversation was an effort. I wondered just when it had become like that between us. The images of him and the other woman performing acrobatics on all possible surfaces in all possible and impossible positions made me want to throw up. I knew this would be the last time I put Chinese food in my mouth.

My reaction to that evening came as a revelation to me.

It suddenly dawned on me that I did not ever want Harendra back as my husband and lover. In my heart I felt that he was soiled and even though I knew it was not right to get on my high horse and sit in judgement, for no one is perfect, my heart had turned to ice. He had taken my purity and my love and twisted them to suit his own needs. He had betrayed me in the worst possible way, taking someone else into his bed and into his life and shared what I had always, in my romantic mind, thought of as sacred, to be shared only with that special someone. Was I old-fashioned? My heart told me I was not and I believed my heart.

Still, like the gracious and helpful person I was brought up to be, I helped Harendra clear the table but he insisted I leave the dishes when I offered to wash them, so I did. Over coffee he decided the serious issue of the state of our marriage had to be addressed.

“It’s much too late for a reconciliation,” Harendra stated firmly.

He remained steadfast in his quest for freedom and I knew the time to part had arrived. My angels had heard my appeal for serenity and dignity and I did not argue, rant, or plead. Instead, I sat there calmly as he presented me with a new agreement, not quite giving me what I needed. The house which we had moved into after we were married was still in his parents’ name but he said I could live there with the boys for as long as I wanted to. It was not what I had thought would happen and I sent a silent thank you to my angels for giving me the grace and dignity to walk away with my head held high. I had done nothing wrong but if instant gratification was what Harendra preferred to a life with me, then so be it.

So I set him free to lead a life of decadence which I thought was self-destructive.

I remained composed and focused on my boys throughout the negotiation and agreement phase. It was nonetheless a major shock to my system when the summons was issued but it was only after the “D” was granted that I had the nervous breakdown that everyone had been worried about for so long.

My parents decided to take me under their wing once again and opened their hearts and their home to me and my offspring. I felt a deep sense of betrayal that Harendra, smooth and charming, continued to maintain a relationship with my family and kept his bond with our boys. I wanted them to hate him as much as I did for disrupting our perfect life. I was tempted to destroy all our wedding and family pictures but when I found our sons poring over them I let it go. It pleased my vengeful nature, however, when I noticed that Harendra was losing his creamy complexion in the months that followed. I felt he was playing the wronged husband to a T, and he became very manipulative. His animosity towards me was subtle but brutal.

“I’ll pay for the boys’ expenses, Gayatri, but I think you need to cover your own,” he said as he scrutinised the bills I placed in front of him. “You’ll need to find employment soon.” He pushed my Edgars account and therapist’s bill back at me.

I wanted to smack him across his immaculate head but then I noticed the beginnings of grey in his hair and the widening of a bald spot. Was he finally taking strain? I greatly despised him at this stage, and more especially when the topic of finance reared its ugly head. I despised him when he arrived to pick up the boys and I despised the fact that I missed them so desperately when they left. My boys were protective towards me and would never leave my side if I asked that of them. There were many moments when I was tempted to but my boys loved their father and I loved them and I was not going to use them in my fight with Harendra.

Then a major depression hit me again. Everything remains very hazy for me during that period of my life, but with the support of my family and by the grace of God I pulled through. There were days when I refused to leave my room. I would curl up into a ball and try to cancel out the pain, the anger and the feeling of unworthiness. For once my siblings were at a loss for words and avoided my parents’ home while I was in this deep, dark place. My boys would peek in and come to kiss me and put their little arms around me and I would try to smile at them while I felt like dying. My parents – God bless them – made sure my boys were loved, clothed and fed.

When I looked at myself in the mirror I was sure I was disappearing. My ribs were competing with my hip bones for prominence. My hair began to fall out and my parents, horrified at the thought that I would have to wear a wig as I withered away, dragged me to a therapist. I took to wearing colourful hats and ignored the fact that there were days when I looked like a bag lady in clothes that hung from my gaunt frame.

But it was in the therapist’s office that I learnt to vent, to hold up a mirror and really see myself. It was there that I learnt about myself and where I acknowledged that perfection does not bring happiness. It was on the therapist’s couch that I finally grew up and had to accept some responsibility for the breakdown of my marriage. I had trusted so implicitly and given too much of myself to one man and what I believed was a perfect marriage. What a farce of a marriage it had been! It was time to take back my power and reclaim the spirited being I had once been. It was time to be me again …

It was in the therapist’s office that I allowed myself to be weak in order to grow strong again and it was there that I put aside pride and ego and accepted that I was a single mum and that my boys came from a broken home. I was no longer a wife, but I was a mother and I had to ensure that I be the best mother, mentally and physically, for my boys. I acknowledged that as a family we were going through a remodelling phase. I considered myself fortunate in that Harendra ensured that he still maintained the role of father to our boys. I unwillingly acknowledged his foresight in recognising the holes in our marriage and escaping from what he regarded a prison. I cannot forgive him, though, for choosing the cowardly way out, using another woman as a means to cut his ties with me, his wife. With these insights I made a life-changing decision. I would stop behaving like the victim of a bad marriage.

It was the best decision I could have made for myself and my boys.

My concerned father started job hunting for me. He would leave the Natal Witness, the local newspaper, open on the table. When I noticed suitable vacancies had been circled in red I knew I was being given a gentle kick in the butt. I pulled myself together, took the hint and began the difficult task of looking for employment. My brothers suggested I work with them but I could not see myself surrounded by carcasses day in and day out. This was another challenging phase for my fragile ego. There were times when I became utterly frustrated and raged with anger. It seemed I had chosen the wrong era to be job hunting.

“Are the brown-skinned, black-haired people only good enough for menial work? God blessed all of his children with blood that runs the same colour through our veins so why is it so bloody difficult for an Indian female to find employment!” I ranted as call after call to employment agencies proved futile. I prayed for the end of apartheid and was angry that I was a victim of it. Unfortunately, I was not driven to fight this battle politically and left that to much braver souls. My world was demanding enough as it was.

One morning, while still in my polka-dotted pink and yellow pyjamas (a Mother’s Day gift from my boys) I noticed a vacancy caught between two of my father’s red circles. Curious, I decided to apply for the post hoping I would stand a chance at a mental institution given my current state of mind and my clownish attire.

Well, stand a chance I did. I never did ask my boss what made him decide to employ me. My application stated bluntly that I was newly divorced and the mother of three small boys. Perhaps it was my desperation or the look of insanity I saw every now and again in my eyes, or perhaps there was simply a lack of candidates for the post. Whatever the reason, I vowed I would be indispensable to the one man who trusted me enough to give me a chance. My boss, a coloured man in his mid-forties with very light blue eyes and brown hair that hinted of white parentage, reminded me of Harendra. (All well-groomed men reminded me of him in some way.) He was always immaculately dressed from head to toe and for that very reason I did not find him at all sexually appealing. I was turned off well-groomed males. (Akhil does not count!) They loved themselves too much.

I made my boss coffee, he bought the morning muffins. I opened all the mail for him, drafted letters, handed them over for amendment but more often than not they came back with his signature. I managed his diary and micro-managed his life. He gave me time off when my boys were sick or I needed to attend to matters of a personal nature and I in turn covered for him when he had arrangements to meet his sexy and oh-so-dishy male lover. Our working relationship turned out perfectly for both of us. I felt safe with him.