The Spring Affair

On a quintessential March morning in New Delhi, she carelessly observed the trees, outside her dining room, move rhythmically to the morning breeze. It was unusually warm for this time of the year, however, the light chill in the air during the morning was refreshing for a walk in her well-cultivated garden. Unlike many things that transpired in the last 15 years of her life, the walk in her garden was the most eagerly awaited event of the day. It was a time to gather her thoughts and emotions to face the banal day that characterised her married life.

For the last two months, however, her morning walk routine witnessed a pleasant disruption. An affectionate smile appeared on her face, as she sat on the adjacent oak chair. Her fond reminiscences were interrupted by her husband, who hurriedly entered the dining room and placed himself opposite her on the dining table. An established businessman, with a panache for money-spinning deals, he cared less about outward appearances and propriety. He was a portly build man, who had dedicated his life in expanding his ailing father’s modest but old bookstore. Today, he juggled between two divergent companies — a publishing company and hedge fund group. A man of frugal words, he rarely expressed his emotions beyond a monosyllable or a shrug.

As he clumsily planted himself in the chair and murmured for breakfast to be served, she swiftly, sprang into action and asked the maid-servant in a purposeful tone to lay the table and serve breakfast. After exchanging a customary glance with his wife, he dug into the neatly piled newspapers to his left and began to studiously read the Economic Times. Carefully, watching him immerse himself into the latest news of ADN Ltd’s IPO, she slipped back to reading the email she had left halfway.

“These two months almost seemed like I lived an entire lifetime with you. As if, we were two souls entwined together but only physically disunited. I have never loved anyone so passionately and never been loved with such intensity; never held anyone’s lips so tenderly as yours. The 45 minutes every morning, when we meet in the hotel, are the only moments that hold value for me in the entire day.” She quickly cast a glance over to her husband, who was now engrossed in the news of a latest scam, involving a Minister, while sloppily attempting to cut an omelette with a fork. “I wonder where we would have been, had we met many years ago…” The email continued. “…Me a writer with a fledgling career, you straight out of college, possessed with revolutionary idealism. Maybe we would have backpacked across the globe discussing Foucault's power discourse and singing Simon and Garfunkel songs on the way.”

Sitting in a lavishly decorated dining room, resplendent with opulent bone china vases and a ridiculously exorbitant, yet, marvellous tea oak table in the middle of the room, she had more than a comfortable life in New Delhi. A mansion with a magnificent garden on entrance, in the heart of a chaotically overgrowing city; along with a serene getaway in the Himalayas, a gift from her husband on their tenth anniversary. She knew her friends were begrudging of her good fortune. However, for her, the ostentatious lifestyle was only a garb to compensate for the absence of martial bliss, which died right after their garishly overblown wedding. The reason Indian brides look forward to a wedding is not only for the dresses, but they know that the wedding would, plausibly, be the only time she will truly be happy and in control of her own destiny. After the pretence called ‘honeymoon’ was over, her husband went back to working feverishly on his diverse projects.

Initially, she was exceptionally proud of him but slowly the pride was replaced with disdain and eventually indifference. He was disinterested in anything remotely unrelated to his ever expanding business empire. Her life revolved around the ephemeral get-togethers with her select friends and tiresome dinners alongside her husband with society’s powerful and vain people. Her life increasingly as hollow, as the shallow conversations she had to endure during these dinner parties. To the world they were the perfect couple, doing and saying the appropriate things. The reality was evident in the silence that engulfed the house and the emptiness of their hearts.

She met him during one of these characteristically morbid dinners. His easy charm and flamboyance was refreshing. He was as out of place in the atmosphere as she was, yet his facade was much more convincing than hers, even though she had more experience at tolerating these vanities. Shortly they began to chat so animately, that a few cursory glances were thrown at them by other guests in the room. For the first time, she did not have to force herself to smile through an entire evening.

Later on, he secured a contract with her husband’s publishing firm and the meetings, or shall we say ‘bump-ins’, were more frequent. Soon they were secretly meeting in hotels as lovers. She would excuse herself on the pretext of get-togethers with her friends. However, during evenings they ran the risk of exposing themselves, therefore, they decided to meet during morning at a small hotel, near her house. His first novel, which was an extension of his romantic self, struck gold a few weeks into their romance.

A pink blush coloured her cheeks as she read what followed, “Every moment spent with you is a treasure trove of beautifully crafted memories and it pains me to bid adieu to you every time. I often imagine you sitting on that silky smooth Chinese sofa in your living room, flipping through the pages of the latest thriller novel. In fact, I can totally picture you dining with your husband, right now. He would be sitting across you, surrounded with the breakfast spread, which he hardly touches, as he bookishly reads another boring story in Economic Times.” She tries to stop herself from chuckling, amazed at his accurate description; his observations and eloquence had smitten her at the first instance. He continues “…you would be taking small portions of oatmeal and couscous with lemon juice on the side — completely engrossed in my email, unconsciously twirling the end of your hair strand with your left hand.” Self-consciously, she stopped twirling and went back to reading. “I wish we did not have to be so secretive about our pure and heartfelt love. I wish we could meet more often, oblivious to the overconscientious eyes of the world. However, I understand your compulsion and cannot deny mine as well. No matter how much I despise the man sitting across you right now, his influence is important for both of us at this moment.” She sighed after reading the last line. Although he had struck ‘big’ after his novel, his husband’s patronage was still essential for his tripartite novel series to see the light of the day. Also, no matter how much she scorned at the frivolous lifestyle, she grudgingly accepted having grown accustomed to it.

She continued reading “I am in discussions with Mirage publications for my next novel, so that I do not have to be a recipient of your husband’s patronage any further.” They had spoken at length about him wanting to annul the contract midway, with her husband’s publishing firm. She did not love or particularly care for her husband but was aware how hard-nosed a businessman he was and would certainly not appreciate a writer’s whimsical wish to end a lucrative contract.

“Why is the ipad’s brightness so low?” She heard her husband’s voice over her left shoulder, interrupting her melancholic thoughts. Frightened she turned around, simultaneously putting the ipad upside down and looked at her husband, who wore a frown on his face. Her mouth went dry as she tried to salvage the situation, trying to find the appropriate words. In her desperation, she grabbed a fork with her right hand as she thought of the consequences if her husband found out about the affair.

However, noticing that her husband was not wearing his reading glasses she breathed a sigh of relief. With a nervous grin, she replied “It is the anti-glare film on the ipad, decreases the brightness and does not strain my old eyes.” Still carrying the frown, her husband chose to remain silent and motioned the servant to help him with the blazer, as he prepared to leave for his morning meeting. She swiftly got up to plant a kiss on her husband’s cheek as a ritual, she wanted him out of the house as much as him. As he seated himself in his Audi, his jaws clenched, he glanced at his sprawling bungalow, which he had painstakingly built. He was a man of few words and a few minutes ago they failed him again. His wife did not love him and was having an affair, that did not hurt him but did she consciously grab the fork? He had forgotten his glasses on the table, but he did not have the stomach to go inside and pick them up.