A Childhood friend and his wife
One of the first few people I invited over for lunch at my apartment in Bengaluru was an old childhood friend Souvik and his artist wife Antara. I recalled meeting her earlier at an exhibition of her works. I bought one of her paintings (a cute illustration of 3 chickens) for my kitchen which is probably still somewhere in Singapore.
They had invited me to their place for lunch several times. Finally, I mustered up the courage to cook something for them with a small half-equipped kitchen. 🙂
Well, as many people know me, this has never stopped me. I really get excited to have a good session of catching up with friends. This is called adda in our local parlance over some food and drinks.
Given a choice, I prefer having people over rather than eating/meeting outside. I believe it brings joy, laughter and positive energy into my home.
Connecting over Food Memories
I shared a small anecdote of a childhood memory with Souvik and he laughed amazed that I remembered. I had tasted something called kothbael makha for the first time at his place. We must have been 10 or 11 years old then. I distinctly remember how excited I was in tasting something new as a child. It is a local tangy fruit which is consumed by many in Eastern India by mixing it with mustard oil, jaggery, green chilies and salt.
This is slightly different from another similar fruit, bael (wood apple) which I have had before. It is used to prepare a traditional drink especially during summers for its many therapeutic properties. I didn’t like it much but had to drink a lot when I stayed at my grandparent’s place in Kolkata.
I lived and studied at their place for 2 years before my 10th Board (secondary school finishing) exams. Over time I grew to like it. It is cooling, refreshing and also helps your digestive system. My grandma would say “pet porishkar hoy” which is another way to explain its laxative properties.
Why do we always go overboard? 🙂
I had prepared some veggies with shrimps, salad, kebabs, dips and some payesh. Antara would bring some home-cooked pork dish and homemade kimchi with nolkol and cabbage. I thought this would be enough.
But when I told my mother- she seemed disapproving of my meagre fare. So, I decided to order some beef fry, appams and parathas as well.
Obviously, we ended up with too much food on the table and had enough leftovers for another few days. And this is shared as another example of how sometimes I should not listen to my mother. 🙂
Art as Therapy and Memory
Souvik’s dad and mine were colleagues and our mothers are friends. So, we went on a little nostalgia trip reminiscing about our happy childhood days. Antara also teaches art and she has spoken earlier about how art helps in therapy for children and adults.
I remembered all the little items that I had scrimped, saved and bought. They were used as part of my upcycling and recycling efforts in Singapore from different flea markets and second-hand online stores.
I left them there since I was given no choice. My husband later declared he is not attached to anything in that apartment. So, I understood, how little he valued those things that I had bought and created.
All the time, effort and love put into building that nest was definitely lost on him by then. He was peaceful with his friends and his parents hopefully independent. Since nothing pricked their conscience in their closed cocoon of tortoise shells having easily discarded all responsibilities of ever having wronged someone else. Let them sit on their temple of inordinate and coordinated peace. I pray for their beautiful souls.
True or False- MOM?
So, I gave it a pause and then thought. Perhaps, I might as well start buying, rebuilding and recreating. While my husband sits and uses everything that I built and paid for in his airconditioned rented apartment.
Such are the ways of this so-called “fair trade world” of peace and happiness in Singapore which favours only foreigners who earn a living. I’m left to run around and pick up the bills for everything without any goals or budget. He sleeps happily with other men and women. So do his parents I believe. Then he types emails with a clear conscience about making “genuine efforts” in some direction which is very unclear.
Explaining further, earning spouses can live with domestic helpers, pay for prostitutes, or any other visitors while cancelling their dependent spouses pass if they so desire. This is how precarious your condition is in Singapore. You may have to sometimes put up with physical and verbal abuse. I believe there have been many cases of suicides of women jumping from buildings as well which has been hushed up by local media.
It is perhaps the way of the old days of “Singapore Trading Post” where my husband still resides in his primordial and primitive brain. I merely muse …
The Prisoners Dilemma
Does anybody care about what I say or write? Perhaps, no. Not even him- who I fed, clothed and cared for 10 years as a loving wife sacrificing my own happiness. This was called “adjustment” to fit in.
What did he do instead- escaped and passed on more stress to me and my family in a bid to prove his superiority as a man. I applaud such brave acts by people with easy conscience of trying to write off their responsibilities three times over with a cheque book.
Let me take refuge in solitude to ponder over the mysteries of the universe which allows such people to live. If they must live at all, may they live long and miserable lives cursing the day that they were born. And be reborn in even worse shape and form. There is no escaping the misery of this samsara for them, I trust my life experiences enough to understand the scales are not balanced.
For those who are not convinced about my side of the story, it’s ok to cross check from more reliable sources before you leap.
I am not sure Singapore MOM (Ministry of Manpower) website will provide details on this for those aspiring to understand such aspects of safety and security. I speak from deep personal knowledge and type through my tears with even deeper insights. Willing to share further in public interest over a cup of chai or something stronger perhaps is needed. 🙂
Can Pain and Anger Inspire?
After Souvik and Antara left, I was a little pensive. I walked around the neighborhood remembering that painting in my kitchen. I lost it among all the little pieces of my collected memories of relationships and things.
Above all I remember my father and grandmother who are no more while my husband is missing even though he lives. The man that I loved and married, he is definitely no more. There is some brainwashed mercenary idiot instead in his place who parroted lines to me. Probably dictated by some therapist, coaches, lawyers and imaginary family of friends who have never lived with him.
He and his parents believe in ghosting loved ones and closing their doors on their family members who are still alive. They have done it many times over to protect their monetary interests. I tried in vain to connect them all (whoever I could) till I myself was disconnected by them. Such is the partnership of loving people who love money over everything else.
My limited understanding
It’s their mode of controlling based upon their own past traumas and trying to prove their righteousness to others. I cannot do much to change that at this point of their grown-up adult lives. Let them feel validated and vindicated in their choices to save a few more pennies till they die. They have no qualms to spend on others yet prevent me from gaining anything further.
I work harder to spread the news of their kind deeds over the years instead.
This I believe is my “dharma” and “karma” for being dutybound as ever to the truth and not falsities uttered with sweet words and empty hands. Let this be a post for those who have experienced empathy from them. I understand political games of in-laws much better today having been used and cast out as a faulty money-making machine.
Is there any doubt or conflict?
Yes, there is. It always makes me sad and hurts me deeply to think about that conflict. The mural that I saw on the wall during my walk reminded me of how I really felt during my last 3-4 years in Singapore. Where my only value was for the money in my bank account and nothing else. I was pushed and pushed to justify my existence through a lot of pain.
And then abused and discarded by my husband who turned easily to amuse himself with other men and women. He was obviously checking out who has the bigger bank balance. Let me add here- Bank balance is a metaphor sometimes depending upon context of usage. My emotional bank balance is sadly very overdrawn by them through merciless raping. I have no other words for the physical, mental and emotional abuse.
I was threatened and asked to hush after repeated attempts of trying to get counsellors. It’s tough but I choose to speak my truth after such gross injustice and inhuman behavior. Unfortunately, I am the one who is dealing with the trauma while they sleep calmly and trade words casually without any actual actions.
The Box Story
When I left for Singapore from India, I took a few boxes and paid for my passage. After 10 years, when I returned, I took again a couple of boxes and paid for my passage.
My husband kindly saw me off to the airport while messaging his girlfriends and boyfriends. So yes, I guess I must post my curiosity about what is this “sanctified process” recommended for his idea of “amicable parties”. Some people rejoice at births and weddings. Yet others do at funerals I believe. Especially when my husband asked me to pretend to be stupid- why things took an ugly turn. Unfortunately, I do not fall for such false lines to save his own ass. (Read more on this in a separate Migration Story Post ).
Coming back, I saw this white old wooden box which seemed very sturdy. I remembered an old wooden trunk that we had in our house which was a family heirloom. It was full of old clothes, sarees, hats etc. and I used to love hiding in it when we played hide and seek. Later, it was also a treasure trove for me and my friends to play dress-up with funny mix and match combinations. 🙂
Unboxing the Box
This box is actually an antique wooden storage trunk from Kerala. There was some news in the media at that time about a mother apparently accused of killing her son and putting the body in a bag/box. I found it rather disturbing. Honestly, I avoid news channels and a lot of media for excessively loud terror related stories which are very alarming.
Having gone through a lot in the last few years, where I feel like a prisoner of war, I am literally hanging on to my little solitary space. Every day I try to create something out of almost nothing left behind from the last 10 years of my life. And I work hard at it to make the best of the least amount of support.
Itsy Bitsy Memories
I had ordered some art materials online from an art store called Itsy Bitsy and also went to their physical store in the neighborhood for creative inspiration. The staff was helpful, and I noticed that they have their own art workshops over weekends too. I buy mostly chalk paint, stickers, decoupage paper, glue, some brushes and a can of varnish for final spraying.
A Collage of Memories
I added bits of memories from a few friends who supported me in Singapore by egging me on to exit and then of course they exited from my life too.
- There is a drawing from my friend’s daughter. She was born the year I met my husband.
- There are bits from a piece of calligraphy done by another who sent me wishes saying “Imagine”, “Begin” and “Soar”. I appreciated her art and the thought behind it. Though I wasn’t sure how I was going to do the Imagining, Beginning and Soaring. I left it for later. I cut it up and put it as a part of the collage. But nobody picked it up alas.
- There are bits of a paper photo frame from a museum visit with a friend who gave me a precious treat on my last birthday to a Van Gogh Experience Exhibition
- I put my name tag and number from a 5k Fun Run here in Ranganathittu Bird Sanctuary. I did it last year with a friend and her circle of friends. They all let me join their group for this trip which makes me happy. It’s a little difficult to make new friends and enter existing established circles at my age. I appreciate their adjusting and welcoming me for however little time it may have been.
- There are mandala cuttings from a sip and color coffee shop where I waited after a morning walk. I lost my earbuds there incidentally and had to buy another pair 🙂
Notes to my Father as I cried and worked in a Manic Rage
Last July, I had gone to Singapore hoping that I could talk to my husband and resolve our differences. I thought I owed myself that much for my 45th Birthday as a gift for being grateful for my life. But I don’t think he remembered either my birthday or anything that I felt. Instead, a few other friends helped me to feel loved and connected. So, I am confused now about him writing about making “genuine efforts” to resolve once again.
I often asked this question to myself. My own husband felt too “burdened” to deal with me just one wife. What was so bad or wrong about me that he couldn’t handle it? Was it instead the burden of his own past issues?
And how can I blame my friends with their own jobs, spouses, children, parents and busy social circles. I was just a small part of their lives anyways. These are a few thoughts I leave on that table…
Internal Justice Process
Looking back, I feel life maybe really stressful or boring for my husband who needs frequent entertainment of switching partners or wives. I invite other such laboured husbands to share their wives with him. You may consult me for the rates for renting him out later at a more appropriate date. I believe he can work on both sexes. Trust me I do not troll. He loves a stroll in the park. Kiss my sass.
My friends in Singapore keep inviting me over to come and enjoy a few days with them. But I don’t think a 7–10-day holiday there again spending my hard-earned and saved money is going to resolve issues in our lives.
It triggers further the deep feelings of hurt and betrayal by people I loved and believed in. I have really put up with a lot of shit. Now I may have trust issues which grew slowly into a lot of pain and rage. This is not going to go very easily. It is the gift from the abuse of a narcissistic husband who unleashed his midlife crisis upon me. Running around to escape responsibilities and trying to switch gears to another mixed tape.
I hate my ugly creation and yet I love it (?)
I finish working on the box finally after working non-stop for 2-3 days with some tiny breaks. Perhaps, I don’t remember much as I was in a different time zone processing my emotions. And here’s the funny thing about this box. I think it is ugly and I kind of hate it. But I also feel it is very personal and precious to me. I am trying to be detached and let go of it. I have also offered it to my nephew or niece as a part of their marriage trousseau. They may think I’m nuts. 🙂
Validation and Affirmation Helps
I cried thinking why did I spend so much time on this ugly creation. But a few friends came later and said that they really liked it. Some even went kindly to suggest that I should make more of such upcycling pieces and sell online. That made me laugh. But yes, it did help me view it kindlier later and feel less sorry for myself.
I even put a plastic cover on top to protect the art. This box is now my mystery box which contains many little pieces of my present and past.
And no, I don’t quite fit into it- so I guess I can’t use it for hiding from anyone at this age. I thought I should post this pic as a reminder about painful “ghosting” for those who aspire to do some more hosting.
No, 3 consecutive words are not enough to wipe out years of work and sacrifice to building something. 🙂
Foot Note
This is raw unprocessed pain posted on 17th Apr 2024- when we are supposedly celebrating “Ram Navami” here in India.
I have dedicated this to my husband who has sent me emails again yesterday that he speaks the truth while deftly editing facts. He has deleted messages and pictures on phones as advised by lawyers. And then proceeded to blocking and ghosting through different mechanisms.
Addendum
Two bold choices at this stage-
- I ask myself- who is Ram/Ravan/Sita here in this reconstructed story? (Perhaps, there is only a monkey in the brain of a child trying to navigate and change the facts).
- Or ponder on this little quote from a book titled “Blood Bones & Butter” which is actually a great read about the meandering journeys of Gabrielle Hamilton across many kitchens.
“There are no accidents”, she’d say, sternly looking down at the eight-year-old offender with the two broken pieces of some dish in her soapy hands. “Only carelessness”.
Now, imagine trying to view an eight-year-old relationship or anything newly created in the soapy hands of slippery people who try to negotiate in their own way. Guess what happens? Are you soaring? C’mon, should we really be so strict when we understand this deeply…
