My emotion as I looked at the few pieces of evidence that I had gathered with the least bit of difficulty (which made the pain even more acute) went something like this – fucking unbelievable. It was not like I was madly in love with my husband but I was fond of him. I was not delirious with joy as some might put it when he was around, but I sure liked having him around. While not exactly the best of friends, we were good friends. There was one thing that I did exactly the way a woman who loves her man to death would do – trust him implicitly and that seemed to be my undoing. The result – I looked through glazed eyes lay strewn around me. A piece of paper here, a ticket stub there, a whiff of perfume over there. I closed my eyes and let the tears slide. Crying did not come easily to me. My friends would tease me – that is because you have never loved a man. It still did not  - but  I wasn’t sure it was because I never loved a man. Maybe it was because I did love one.

Our marriage took place like countless others. Through negotiations and re-negotiations between our respective families. There were no fireworks when we saw each other – we learnt to live with each other. We had our share of moments – some good, some bad but never ugly. There was healthy respect if not mountains of love and I like the same countless woman who got married the way I did was led to believe that ours was a good marriage. That my man needed me just the way I needed him. That inside all the mundane stuff lay a fair amount of love. I would not say I was wrong in my thinking – there had to be love, more than a fair bit of it for two people to get along for 6 years without going at each other’s throats. So how could this happen? The tears were still sliding.

 The doorbell rang. He had the key, but he always rang the doorbell. You guys are too formal yaar, my friend Nandita had once told me when she had come to stay with me for a couple of days. I had just smiled and frankly I could do nothing else. I had no answer for why he did that, but I liked the fact that he did. That he always sent a signal that he was coming in. He need not have bothered. There was nothing for me to ever hide from him, but nevertheless he would always ring the doorbell, wait for a few seconds and then I  would hear the click of the key sliding in the lock. Enough time for me to stop whatever I was doing, steal a quick glance in the mirror to make sure my hair was not pointing in all directions as it was prone to do and then walk towards the front room to greet him. That day, I didn’t do any of those things. I just sat there.

 I could hear his footsteps. I could make out the uncertainty in them. He wasn’t sure if I was in. He did not seem to know how to react. I could hear the slight shuffle, the hesitancy as he approached our room. I did not budge. As usual, I had nothing to hide. But a lot to show.

 The door opened slowly after a polite knock. My eyes opened in tandem. They locked into his. A small smile had formed on his lips. Seeing my expression, it vanished and was replaced by a sharp intake of breath as his eyes feel on the treasure trove that lay around me. The tiny bead of perspiration that formed on his brow was enough confirmation for me. Whatever hopes I had of being wrong evaporated as the sweat from his brow slid down. I got up and walked out of the room. It needed a lot of strength, but I did it. Albeit a bit unsteadily on my legs.

 “I am sorry!” I heard him whisper so slowly, it was more like he was talking to himself rather than to me.

 I did not stop. I did not even pause. I just walked out.  I had every intention of walking out of his life as well. But as some wise person put it once – Man proposes and God disposes. Walking out of his life did not prove to be such an easy option and no it was not because of our children. We did not have any. And no it was not because I could not live without him  - I sure as hell could – but I did not really know how to. Out of my parents’ house, I had walked into his. That had been the easy part. To take the reverse path was not even proving much more difficult but downright impossible. What was I going to tell them? That I had not managed to establish my home? That I had failed at the only thing I had tried to do on my own. The suitcase I had packed stood next to me. The doorbell rang.

 “Please don’t. Forgive me this one time. I don’t know how it happened. Don’t leave me, PLEASE! It’s over. It will never happen again. I promise.”

 I saw the same fear in his eyes as I felt in me. I knew that the same emotions must have been going through his mind as in mine. The only difference being he was at fault, I wasn’t. But that is one of the most unfair but indisputable truth’s about marriage. It does not matter whose fault it is and whose fault it is not. The marriage suffers. And you suffer along with it – whether you are in the right or wrong.

 I had no choice, though I made it seem to him like I did. He was a decent man,  that I was sure about. I knew enough about life to realize that things like these happened. I just thought I had known enough about him to think that things like these would not happen to me, to us, to our marriage. I took him back, I forgave him. But I could never forget. Never.

 We went on to have 2 children. I was holding his hand while I gave birth to our son. I looked towards him. The bead of perspiration sliding down his brow reminded me of the day I most wanted to forget.

 The second child I had when he was not around. I wondered where he was as I was ushered into the emergency room. The baby was coming a month early. He had not answered the frantic phone calls. As I slipped into the chloroform induced oblivion, I wondered where he was. When I got up he was standing in front me, holding our daughter in his hands. I still wondered where he had been.

 His parents died in a car crash. He was grief stricken. I did everything that a good wife could possibly do. I was there for him every step of the way. As I gave in to my own loss that night , I felt a sense of relief – that I was relieved of the burden of always trying to guess if they knew about it. If they talked about it behind my back. If they did not, how would they feel if they came to know about it. No, I did not forget it then.

 My sister got married. He was the son my father my never had. He did everything, he was everywhere. Everyone in my family had always loved him, now they were ready to lay down their lives for him. My sister amidst tears hoped that her husband was half like mine. I silently hoped he was not. Not even 1%.

 I took on a job. The children were growing up. They did not need mommy to be at home. I had a group of friends of my own. I went out once a week with them. I would have loads of fun. I had come a long way from being a docile homemaker who knew nothing else. I gained a lot of confidence in myself. But the confidence I had lost that fateful day would never come back. No matter what I did.

 I knew he liked me. I could tell by the way he paid attention to me, the way he looked at me. But I never thought he considered me more than a good friend. One day he confessed to it. I never spoke to him again. I left the job that was the reason for bringing us together. I knew the pain all too well to inflict it on someone else. I was still going through it.

 He took me on a second honeymoon. He mouthed the tacky – diamonds are forever, my love is too – as he slid a magnificent necklace onto my neck. Did you say the same thing before…I wondered.

 The children were gone. The empty nest syndrome took us in its grip. It’s just the two of us again he said. I shivered with the memory of what had once happened when it was just the two of us together.

 My mother passed away. She had been sick for a while. So we knew it was coming. When I was alone with her for one last time she told me – Forgiving is the easy part, forgetting isn’t! But you have to try to forget it just like you tried to forgive. My mother’s last piece of advice to me – one that I could not follow. If only forgetting was as easy as forgiving.

 My children were both married and settled. There were more additions to the family. He was jubilant. I was happy to see him so happy. I wondered if I had ever been able to give him that kind of happiness.

He died peacefully in his sleep. I looked at his face one last time. I knew he never forgot either. Not even in death.