Bifurcated Love

BIFURCATED LOVE
(A SHORT STORY)

The trauma was still raw, when Pradeep came into her life. How Sheila happened to marry Pradeep is no mystery. Identical tastes and habits brought them together. Sheila needed a protector. Pradeep needed an ad­viser, comforter and an affectionate mate. He was Twenty Eight and she was Twenty Six. It was an arranged al­liance. Sheila did not marry him, expecting lots of expensive clothes. She had already a good array of clothes in her wardrobe. She agreed for the marriage keeping in view her future life.

Pradeep was a sales officer in a reputed Industry. His professional imperatives took him to distant places quite often. Pradeep was a Master’s Degree holder in business management and Shiela was a graduate in English Literature.

During his absence, his neigh­bours evinced interest in Sheila’s secu­rity and safety. Sheila found a good company in Sushila, a college-going daughter of the neighbour. Sushila used to lean on the wall, separating their houses and engage Sheila in some lively talk on the happenings in the college. In one such chats, Sushila posed a question to Sheila: “Akka, how do you spend the day all by your­self, when Mr. Pradeep goes to office? Are you not feeling lonesome?”

“Praveen keeps company with me during his absence.”
“Now that you are married, you must forget him Akka.”

“Forget? Whom? Praveen? How can I? My relationship with praveen extended over four years. That means one thousand four hundred and sixty days of lively company. Not a day did we part. We are inseparables. I attend to domestic chores, read magazines and spend the rest of my time in the company of Praveen.”

Sushila did not ask, who that Praveen was. Decency held her from posing that inquisitive question.

Saturdays were weekly holidays Sushila went to Sheila’s house to sat­isfy her natural curiosity to know, who this Praveen could be. Sushila knocked at the door of Shiela’s house. Pradeep had gone to his office. Secu­rity-minded as she was, she peeped through the window. Having been sat­isfied that the knock was by Sushila, she gently opened the door. Sushila immediately started introducing Praveen to Sushila.

These are the cups and saucers, in which he used to take his tea. This is the table, at which we used to sit for lunch and dinner. He very much liked this flower vase. This Radiogram is Praveen’s gift to me. This is the cot, on which we slept together. This is the comb, with which he groomed his curly hair. This is the mirror, he brought for me.”

Sheila opened the almirah and brought the photo album and showed Praveen in her company. She brought a pillow case containing his name embroidered on it.

She heaved a heavy sigh. “This is how I keep company with him, look­ing at and handling his vessels and articles. I still hear his hearty laugh and enjoyable songs.” There was a pause...Her thoughts travelled to bygone days.

“I did the crochet work on this pillow. I don’t use it now-a-days, even on my pillows.” Pause again...

“Pradeep uses some other pillow case.”

Flood of memories keleidoscoped through her mind.

Sushila paid her next visit to Sheila a fortnight later.

“Why are you crying Akka?” asked Sushila.

“Nothing.”

“Are you having headache?”

“Yes, it is a headache only.”
“Shall I get some ointment?”

“No ointment can cure this headache.”

After another pause, Sheila switched on the T.V.

A family stoy was being tele­vised. A bickering between a husband and wife developed into a divorce. Sheila switched off the T.V. “Chey, I wanted some recreation to relieve my tension. Everywhere meaningless quarrels over trifles. These men don’t understand the feelings of a wife. They treat them as their slaves with many don’ts in their authoritative stock.”

Sushila was a prudent girl. She went away without asking any more questions.

But Sushila carried this news to her mother.

“Anu aunty, Sheila Akka was sobbing and I don’t know what has happened.”

“They’re young couple, perhaps some quarrel over trifles. It’ll take some more time for them to understand one another.”

“I’ll go and see her, one of these days. But not now. Some days later when Pradeep would be away on camp.”

Madam Anuradha visited Sheila on a Friday. Sheila was sobbing. Broken glasses and flowers were strewn all around. Furniture were thrown pell mell. Vase stands, tables and chairs were all topsy turvy. The drawing room appeared, as though charted by a rhinoceros. Sheila was all tears. She caught hold of Madam Anuradha and sobbed. With Sheila learning on her shoulders, Madam Anuradha with a maternal soft put on Sheila’s head with her right hand asked her, “Tell me what has happened?”

“Aunty, You may not know that I am a widow. My Praveen died due to some kidney trouble and renal failure. He was a boxer in his younger days. Perhaps his kidney was damaged dur­ing some boxing bouts. That was what the doctors suspected. We were an inseparable couple. He was a good singer, of both English, Tamil and Hindi songs. His baritone voice still lingers in my mind. Most of the ar­ticles, furniture and crockery which he used, speak to me often about our erstwhile relationship. I had this por­trait of Praveen in the hall. Pradeep wanted me to remove it from the hall. I obeyed. I shifted it to a corner room. Today Is Praveen’s birthday. So, I brought the portrait to the hall, dusted it and put a rose garland. I kissed it and spoke to it. Pradeep just then came in and asked me as to whom I was speaking. I did not answer. I was not afraid, because I committed no act that can be termed as infidelity. “Come on. Answer me” he shouted. I replied: “To Praveen, my first hus­band.”

“He immediately went into a fit of anger. It was an explosion of sudden wrath. He pulled the portrait and threw it with all force on the floor, Aunty. He was bellowing uncontrolled fumes of angry words, as though he found me in the company of a man.”

“What happened to the por­trait”? asked Madam Anuradha.

Sheila went to her room and brought the portrait of Praveen. It was not damaged, in spite of the harsh tempestuous treatment meted out by Pradeep. “Glasses may break but the contents will be in tact. Frames will be crushed, love cannot be crushed or damaged, Aunty.”

“Give it to me. I’ll keep it with me and return it to you after Pradeep’s anger subsides.” An expression of concern and sympathy leaped into the eyes of Aunty Anu.

“I lived with him for four years. We had no child our love was unpar­alleled in the sphere of conjugal world. We were inseparable companions. He adored me. I worhsipped him. Four years of tuneful conjugal concert with­out any single jarring note. How can I forget him aunty? I was very much upset after his passing away. I was going to his grave every day and ­spending hours on his grave with him, speaking to the cold marble tableau.’ pause again...

She continued: 

“The trauma went on for a year. My parents and my brother arranged for this wedding with Pradeep through a family friend, hoping to remove my distress. Pradeep’s consent was taken. I thought that being a young widow, I may be a subject of derision and false scandals. So, I gave my consent. We were married. I liked Pradeep. He treated me well. He is affectionate. All that annoyed him was my recollecting Praveen’s association and adoring him. Anyway aunty, you can take Praveen’s portrait. I had shown some of the snaps of Praveen to Sheila, when she visited me.”

“Yes, Yes, Sheila told me. But she thought that Praveen was your boy friend. I hope Pradeep will understand you soon” consoled Aunty Anu who was very much moved by this sad story of Sheila.

Pradeep returned in the evening. The floor had been swept clean. The glass pieces and flowers had been cleared.

“Put on your slippers Sheila. Glass pieces may be still there and will hurt your feet.” cautioned Pradeep.

“You have hurt my heart. There are a number of glass pieces sticking in my heart.”

“You see Sheila, woman never brook their husbands having a girl friend. After all human feelings are the same for all, whether male or female. So, I could not tolerate a rival and your keeping company with another man during my absence.”

“How can a portrait be a rival?”

“He did not answer.”

“You married me knowing that I was a widow. Now, you are unable to tolerate my remembering a man with whom I lived as wife for four years. Isn’t it? My respect, love and relation­ship with you are as they were with my first husband. They will not diminish on any account. Supposing I die after four years and you marry an­other, won’t, you keep my photo on your table? What about my portrait in your heart? Can your second Wife pluck your heart and throw it on the floor, because I am pedestalled there? Whether it is husband or wife, they are not like bandages to be thrown into the dustbin after the wound is healed.”

Pradeep saw sense in her sound arguments. He cast a look of regret. Yet he could not tolerate the portrait and its relationship with Sheila. He unobtrusively went about searching for the portrait of Praveen all over the house. He could not locate it.

“Where is the Portrait?”

“In the dustbin.”

Just then Sheila knocked the door. She brought a letter “Mummy has sent an invitation to you uncle” she announced.

Pradeep opened the envelope. “Mrs. & Mr. Pradeep are invited to join us for tea tomorrow at a family get together at 5 P.M.” Anuradha.

It was a family get-together. The only invitees were Pradeep and Mrs. Pradeep, who were received by all members of the family with the most hospitable smiles. All sat for tea. Madam Anuradha, her daughter Sheila and other children were at the table, - a low oval table, around which ten could sit and take tea. The menu was simple. A piece of cake, mutton puffs and mixture plus tea.

Pradeep’s eyes were attracted towards a portrait of a lady on the wall with a fresh rose garland. A candle was burning in a stand affixed below it. A red bed-room light was on, above the portrait.

“Whose portrait is this, aunty.”? asked Pradeep.

“It’s my husband’s first wife, Sheila’s mother” said Madam Anuradha. “Today is her birth-day. That’s why all the children are assembled here for a family meet, to remember her and pay our homage to her. This is an annual feature. I have no child. I married very late. I remained a spinster and came into this big family in my fiftieth year. I am their step mother. But they are my children,” answered Aunty Anu. She added; “All the children I have been teaching in a school were my children. I consider them as members of my family.”

“No uncle. She is not a step mother. She’s a step more than a mother to us, although we address her as “Anu Aunty.” She is “Anu aunty” for the grand-children also. She will not like even our father to utter any harsh word at us.”

“Wonderful! Strange!” ex­claimed Pradeep.

“Where love pervades, miracles take place Mr. Pradeep. She exudes her love and reaps love ill abundance from my children. In fact, it was she, who reminded us about the birthday of Sheila’s mother. She regularly stands before this portrait of Lizzy and gar­lands it every Friday. “came the praises from Gunasekharan, Sheila’s father.

“You’re really a remarkable lady and a born house-wife Aunty Anu,” Pradeep praised her.

Sheila maintained a stoic silence throughout. This tea party and the real story narrated by Aunty Anu si­lenced her grief too. So, she cast a greatful glance at Aunty Anu.

“You see Mr. Pradeep. When I entered this house for the first time. I saw this portrait of Lizzy. “You are an unfinished epic,” was found written at the foot of the portrait.

“Then what was the need for me here in this house?” I questioned myself.

“I told my relatives about this display of the portrait of Sheila’s mother prominently in the drawing room, where visitors would sit and I’ll have to answer them about this por­trait and the significance of the unend­ing epic. It was revolting to my sense of individuality to stand this “insult”, as I termed it then. But, as I gave a serious thought to this problem. I felt Sheila’s mother, having lived with my husband as his wife for twenty four long years, had a right to occupy a prominent place in the central hall, at least as a portrait. Her portrait did not diminish my husband’s love for me. When I die, certainly he will pedestal my portrait also on the wall. Who’ll grumble then? Having married a wid­ower with so many good children, who are never hostile to me. I must honour my husband and the affectionate chil­dren, whom I call “children.” Should I then resent the honour done to this lady? She is not going to come out of the photo, sit beside my husband and pull me out or throw me out.”

Aunty Anu was thus amusing in retrospect, with an old ladyish laugh. She was an autumnal figure who had been once a springtime beauty.

“Really sensible!” Pradeep praised Aunty Anu.

After finishing their tea, they all stood in solemn silence before the portrait of Lizzy. The family sang a moving lyric. It brought tears to the eyes of the two guests.

The next day, Saturday, Pradeep again asked for the portrait of Praveen.

“Do you want to tear and smash it also? Has not your tempestuous temper abated even after seeing Lizzy aunty’s portrait in Ann Aunty’s house?” asked Sheila.

Pradeep was silenced by this direct challenge. What he would have done with the portrait of Praveen. Sheila could not conjecture. So she did not inform him, as to where the por­trait was lodged.

Widow remarriages are not easy and smooth affairs. They carry heavy loads of problems. Alady who was a wife and central figure of affection cannot afford to forget her husband, who had unexpectedly passed away. If she married again propelled by some reason or other, the second husband cannot be expected to tolerate her having a lingering love for her first husband.

Affection is not a seasonal affair to disappear into oblivion at every change over.

Problems are bound to crop up in widow remarriages and spinsters marrying widowers. The complexities ofhuman emotions involved in such marriages will have to be tackled and tided over with tact by the parties involved in the contract.