Something about realising that I’ve known the husband for over six years now (five out of which, I’ve spent more or less committed to him), spanning the time before we moved from friends playing hard, confused idiots refusing so see what was right before our eyes, to finally stepping into bigger more committed shoes, and finally ending up where we are today — made me ponder over how, considering what a big part of my life he is, I don’t really talk about him too much around here. I mean, I do, but only cursorily because he is a part of a lot that goes on with me. But I don’t ever tell you details, you know, about him. Like the little secrets, his quirky ways, the things he says, the moves he makes and the many things that make my world go round, and sometimes turns it upside down as well.
Recently he clicked the “the husband” tag on my blog and curiously asked me, eyes twinkling with curiosity, how come it is that I don’t really write about him, about us. And it occurred to me that it is perhaps because it is just so close to me and who I am, that its hard to step out, observe, consider and say something about it, beyond just mentioning an occurrence here and there. It’s not like writing about the millions of confusions in my head, or about the weather, or the weekend at the beach. It’s bloody hard to define.
At first, being married to the man I’d dated for a few years already was strange. Familiar in the sense that all barriers had been crossed, there were very few new surprises in store, when it came to being together. But living with a boy, now that was quite another thing.In a weird kind of way, I feel our life as a married couple really began here in Goa. Back in Bangalore, safely ensconced in my in-laws’ home life was smooth, but progressed almost as if on pause. Life just happened, and we played along. I constantly felt like this was a new phase in my life, and I was ready to get up and fly, but felt held down, wings clipped. I longed to have my own space to do as I please, a home to do up my way. To do the tiny exciting things like have Maggie for dinner, cosy up in front of the TV at the end of a long day, walk around naked it I wished, have sex on the dining table for all I cared.
That was the easy to nail bit: simply find a new home and we’d be set. But what about that nagging feeling inside the pit of my stomach that told me I ought to you know, take charge of my life? Take responsibility for my actions? Make calculated moves and decisions that could impact my life? As comfortable as it was with the doting parents, the best of everything, hot meals whenever we came home, laundry always done, a clean home without even having to think about it, it was a strangely comfortable for the fiercely independent me. It’s like the difference between staying at a luxurious hotel when on holiday, but craving the comfort of your own bed and home food within a few days. It’s not the luxury doesn’t cut it — I couldn’t have asked for more actually — but it’s was the feeling that perhaps things are a little too comfortable?
That’s the warm cocoon that the husband and I broke out of with the move to Goa. This was out coming into ourselves. Spreading our little butterfly wings and flying. And I can quite safely say that was one move that brought us miles closer than we ever could have been. There is something about taking on life together on your terms that puts a twist on reality as you know it. Brings a series of undulating complicated fun experiences your way, that can transform your relationship in ways you never imagined.
There was a joy in being broke when we first moved here, in discovering new beachy escapes, in arguing over the tiny little details about the home, in fussing over food, in everything. This could get really cheesy and make this another one of those OMG-we-have-so-much-in-common-we’re-made-for-each-other post. But here’s the truth — we could not be more different. Or less alike. Whichever way you look at it. Like I’ve said before, we’re poles apart.
I’m mostly hyper-active, a little too energetic and somewhat in you face (to him, that is). He is subtle, subdued and measured, yet quirky and mad in his own way. Like chalk and cheese. So to celebrate the mad thing that has survived me 5 years and counting, I’m going to try and do a little anecdotal series titled: Things about VC that I never want to forget.
Things about VC that I never want to forget #1:
VC loves beer enough to marry it.
When he first moved to Goa alone, and I joined him 3 weeks later, he lovingly led me home, opened the front door and stepped in. Alone. Because I stood at the threshold, jaw on the floor, refusing to step in. All over the house was evidence of his sordid love affair. Behind my back. And he hadn’t even bothered to clean up and cover his tracks.
There, right before my eyes lay three weeks worth of bottles, neatly lined all over the home, like some bizarre intricate art installation. Let’s just say when you’re new to Goa, and you’re not quite over the fact that a bottle of beer is almost as cheap as a bottle of beer, it can have a serious impact on your beer intake. You begin to love it so much, you think you can replace water with beer.
If I wasn’t so shocked
and instantly having second thoughts about my marriage, I might have remembered to take a picture. But I didn’t. Take a picture, or reconsider my marriage, that is. And here I am today, playing second wife, second to his first love. Beer.