“Till death do us part.”

Word-of-mouth publicity and a few flattering comments on Amazon are doing good to promote the sales of Chhaya’s book—UNSCRIPTED: A Dateless Diary. The concluding line of one of the reviews has popularised the book among the soon-to-be-married and the just-married people. Young women are gifting the book to their partners in the hope of some transformation. That one line, which whets curiosity, is: “Last but not least, it (the book) tells you what a husband should be like.”

Needless to say, Chhaya was very kind to me through the pages of her book. After reading that comment a match-making bureau requested me to guide their clients. Now, that’s a lie meant to humour my own self. The fact is that some youngsters did seek ‘the secret’ of a peaceful married life and I made a hash of it. It was like, a blind person trying to lead other blind people.

Oh God, forgive such naïve people for they know not that the role model who they wish to follow has been close to being divorced. Not once, twice!

Read on, if you must.

The first instance when our married life neared termination was within less than a year of our blissful togetherness. Exceptional chef that Chhaya is, she had already found her way to my heart through my tongue. She loved seeing me feast on her preparations with the joy of a child. I specially relished the different kinds of cakes she baked.

One day, she prepared a pineapple cake for me. Ah, a pineapple cake!

It had a lovable deep golden-brown crust. I got my share of the spongy thing, and ate it too. I don’t recall if I had eaten one like it before. The leftover part of it was kept for tea over the next few days.

I blundered the very next evening. In Chhaya’s presence, I ate a piece of the cake with mango pickle. I thought she would approve of my inherited Marwari palate, and appreciate my spirit of experimenting with food.

I was mistaken.

Chhaya looked at me as though I had committed culinary sacrilege. She was H-U-R-T. A divorce between us was averted on the condition that I’d never again ask her to bake a cake for me. With a heavy heart I agreed; it was indeed a small price to pay for my monumental misdemeanour. Notwithstanding the unwritten agreement, the kind-hearted person she is, Chhaya continued baking cakes for me. On my part, I have never again tried experimenting with my taste buds in her presence.

I concede that, in that instance, it was my fault. Entirely my fault. I still carry the guilt for hurting my soulmate by that ‘cake & pickle’ episode. But the second time when the boat rocked dangerously, I was definitely a victim of circumstances. The real culprit was Javed Miandad who drew a wedge between us.

How can I forget that date—April 18, 1986? The two of us were watching the Austral-Asia Cup final between India and Pakistan being played at Sharjah. A cricketer herself, she was engrossed in the match, ‘dil se.’ For me, it was just a sporting event. While I wanted India to win, deep down I knew that Pakistan winning the match was a possibility. Period.

As the game progressed, I realised that she was deeply emotional about the outcome. Since I did not want her to miss watching even a ball, I took it upon myself to fetch the occasional coffee and snacks. I didn’t realise then, that besides coffee and snacks, she was sending me on trivial errands repeatedly—to fetch water, a cushion, more snacks, and even for chores like closing the bedroom door ‘properly’. I could barely observe a pattern or comprehend her behaviour.

Only in the final over did she disclose a theory of her own, which I found amusing. According to her, every time I left the room to do something, Pakistan suffered a setback—missed a boundary, or lost a wicket. She was convinced that my presence in the drawing room in front of the TV set was somehow favouring Pakistan. And then, at that critical point when Pakistan needed four runs off the last ball to win, she pleaded, “Shona (she calls me lovingly by that name), if you go out of the room, India will surely win.”

“Anything for the country, and for you, darling,” I laughed, and stepped out, closing the door behind me. I took a walk on the lawn for what I thought was a reasonable time, and then, returned. As luck would have it, just as I re-entered our drawing room, Javed Miandad smashed Chetan Sharma’s delivery for a six.

India suffered one of its most heartbreaking defeats that day.

“You couldn’t wait outside just for five minutes for the sake of the country!” Teary-eyed Chhaya blamed me for India’s debacle. My advocate father-in-law sided with me and saved the situation for me in that instance. To this day, close finish of sporting events involving India, leave me uneasy.

For the reason I stated earlier in this piece, it would be improper on my part to sermonise young people on the age-old institution of marriage. Perhaps every marriage survives on love, laughter, and the willingness to forgive the occasional foolishness. Ours has endured because of Chhaya’s tolerance of many of my habits, including snoring and, accepting me the way I am.