Victory - Part II

“Heavy shelling by Pakistan army damages ammunition dump in Kargil,” the news channels flashed an update.  Namrata didn’t know what to feel. Should she be scared, be tense for her nation that was waging a fierce battle with its neighbour; or should she be happy – the longer the war went on, the longer her freedom would last. Freedom from all those phone calls she used to be bombarded with, freedom from the minute by minute updates her husband demanded of her. She didn’t have to worry if she misplaced something, for there was no one to shout at her for it. She wasn’t scared to talk to her friends, for there was no one she had to report her conversations to. It was this newfound freedom that gave her the strength to think about herself, about her own life, for the first time in eight years.

‘He’s not a bad person,’ she wrote in her diary, the only piece of her life she had managed to keep hidden from her husband. ‘I know he loves me…it’s his love that makes him behave like this. But I can’t stand it anymore…being stuck here. Being possessive is one thing, but controlling your wife’s life is another. He hates it when I cry, but can’t he see that he’s the sole reason for my tears? Cards, flowers, fancy dinners…yes I love all that, but a wife needs a little more than that. I need my space. I need space to live…to breathe. Really, is there such a thing as too much love? Can love really kill?

Is there such a thing as too much love?
Picture Credit: Google Images

 I’ve been dying from inside for so long…these few days with Nikhil unable to contact me have been like a blessing. I do love him…but he loves me just a little too much, and that scares me…I need to break free, I want to fly… 

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 “Indian Air Force loses two fighters; soldiers taken as Prisoners of War,” the news continued to flash each day, and without any sign of conclusion in sight. The longer the war went on, the longer was Namrata’s life as a free bird. She knew this, and so did her husband. 

Nikhil could not sleep at night. The bullets, the firing and the dead bodies were not responsible for his insomnia. He was used to the sound of gunshots, and was prepared for anything that came his way. But Namrata was away from him, miles away, and he had no permission or means to communicate with her. What was she doing every day? Where is she? Does she miss me? Is she scared that I may die? Not a single letter from home, no message or telegram whatsoever. He caught her crying a few nights before he left, and thought maybe that was the reason for her silence. Why was she crying, though? He knew he was not the reason. He was never the reason for her tears.

The war went on, and Major Kapoor, with determination in his bloodshot eyes, continued to take on the enemy. Far away in Delhi, Namrata was fighting her own war.

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She took out the previous year’s diary, and as she turned each page, Namrata relived a new memory. Why couldn’t she find any words written down, that expressed happiness or excitement? There were pages of her diary where the ink was smudged. Page by page, she flipped through it, finding nothing of novelty to read. She reached the end of the book.

 “Namu, what was the need to invite them over? Why do you need other people?” Nikhil asked in his saccharine tone, holding his wife’s hand.

It was New Year’s Eve of 1999, and Namrata had invited the neighbours over for dinner, to bring in the last year of the decade.

“I thought it would be nice to have friends over, we could spend some time with them and get to know them better.”

“Why do want them with you? We are there for each other. We can have such a nice evening alone. Why don’t you cancel the plan?” Nikhil insisted, holding her hand a little tighter. 

Namrata expected this to happen. How many times before had he explained to her that he was the only one she needed to be happy? She called up her neighbour and lied about Nikhil having an important function that was necessary for them to attend.

Once again they spent the occasion, like every other New Year’s Eve, Diwali, birthday and anniversary, all by themselves, with Nikhil’s love being enough for the both of them to survive on.

Namrata closed the diary and sighed to herself.

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It was the first day of June, and this new month beckoned a new dawn in Namrata’s life. She went to work and was not troubled by phone calls and messages every hour. She missed this life, where she could walk about anywhere and do anything without having someone following her every move.

In these eight years, she never had the courage to speak up for herself. Of course, she had spoken to Nikhil years ago about his behaviour, but he paid no heed to it. She too, made up her mind to live with whatever came her way. But today, as she was finally learning how to live again, she felt a different kind of joy. She missed this kind of freedom, this new lease of life.

“I’ll support you, no matter what, you know that Beta,” Poonam assured her. “It’s your happiness that is most important. If you feel that there’s no other way, that he won’t understand, then it’s better to end it.”

Namrata loved her mother so very much, she couldn’t put it into words. She probably would not have taken such a step without her encouragement and support. She always wondered what the reason was for God to take her loving father away when she was merely thirteen-years-old – it taught her mother how to live independently, and happily. She knew her mother would understand her heart’s cries. Today, she thought of the mystical bird she read about in her childhood storybooks, the one that burns itself down to ashes, from which a new life begins.

In Kargil, the Indian army was fast capturing Tiger Hill, a mission that was extremely important for the country’s protectors to complete successfully. Major Kapoor was a part of this mission, and his wife, back home, was climbing to her own mountain peak.  In the two months that she spent away from her husband, Namrata lived the past eight years of her life again. This time, the way she wanted to. It was like running through a large meadow – a wide open space to run freely and no one could stop her. She didn’t want this feeling to end.

“We recaptured point 5100 and 5060 at the hill. Over.” Major Nikhil always rejoiced when he was in possession of something dearly important to him. The War, he knew, would soon be over and he could go back to his wife, whose touch he missed, whose face he looked at daily, in the motionless photograph kept near his bunker. 

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Namrata picked up the white marble frame and headed to the bedroom. It was in a mess as always. Nikhil liked things organised and neat, but no matter how tidy she kept the room, he would have an issue with it. Unfolded clothes, some still slightly damp, lay on a chair, and ironed ones lay beside the ironing board. The morning newspaper was lying on the bed, with the headline Operation Vijay a Success: Kargil War to End Soon written across in bold letters. She picked it up and threw it aside along with her wedding photograph, collected her knick-knacks from the dresser and dumped them in a bag.

 Namrata heaved her bag off the bed, strolled it across the floor, and turning back for one look at the portrait of her husband, walked out of the house. The phoenix had risen. 

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