Cheaters Read online

  Kratika hears a grunt and frowns.

  ‘Are you with me, Devang?’ Kratika asks. There is no sound. She opens her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry but I came,’ he says apologetically. Kratika looks at him and then below. Indeed. She bursts out laughing, looking at his face. Devang has never looked so cute before.

  ‘So no action tonight?’ she asks him teasingly.

  ‘Shut up. You and your fantasies just don’t spare me,’ he says, and scampers towards the bathroom to clean himself.

  My supposed fantasy is controlling the reality of my husband, Kratika thinks. She feels like an evil sorceress as she smiles.

  * * *

  Sixth Weekend

  They didn’t expect that after an exhausting week they would fight over who was going to narrate a fantasy first. Kratika suggested they toss a coin.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ Devang said.

  ‘You have to, else let me narrate first.’

  ‘No way. You get into details and then it becomes difficult for me to even think about anything else.’

  Kratika giggled. Devang switched on the lights and went to the wardrobe to get his wallet. Kratika sat up on the bed. He took out a two-rupee coin and was about to flip it when he stopped.

  ‘What happened?’ Kratika asked.

  ‘I’ve an idea. Can’t we role play instead of fantasizing?’

  ‘What exactly do you have in mind?’ Kratika seemed intrigued.

  ‘I can play Swastik for you.’

  ‘And you want me to play Priyanka?’

  ‘We’ll see. First your scenario.’

  ‘This is different. Interesting. So, the scenario is . . .’

  ‘No. The other person gives you the scenario.’

  ‘Why is my husband sounding so erotic tonight?’ Kratika looked amused.

  ‘Don’t tell me you aren’t happy about it.’ Devang came back to bed.

  ‘I am. So what’s the scenario?’

  ‘I’m Swastik. I follow you from office because I’m obviously smitten by you. But I don’t follow you till your housing society. I come up to your house and ring the doorbell.’

  ‘I’ve a feeling this will be the sexiest,’ Kratika said lying down.

  Devang got inside the blanket, lowered the AC to a minimum and took off his clothes. Kratika undressed as well.

  ‘I press the doorbell. Ding dong.’

  ‘Come on! That sound was so unnecessary,’ Kratika said.

  ‘Okay. I press the doorbell,’ Devang said. His eyes were open while Kratika’s were closed.

  ‘I think it’s you and open the door rather quickly but casually too.’

  ‘Do you do that? Open the door casually when you know it’s me?’

  ‘Are you going to break from time to time and ask questions?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I open the door but I’m a little surprised to see Swastik.’

  ‘Surprised or shocked?’

  ‘Surprised.’

  ‘Which means you’re happy to see him?’

  ‘Yes. In the fantasy.’

  ‘Right. So, I, Swastik, greet you first and then tell you I was in the same building visiting a friend when I saw you entering it. Thought I’d say hi.’

  ‘That’s a good thing you did. I was going to make some tea for myself, and some company to go along with it will be great.’

  ‘Thank you for welcoming me. I step inside. Look around. What are you wearing by the way?’

  ‘I’m in my shorts and a spaghetti top.’

  ‘Won’t you feel uncomfortable wearing that in front of an office colleague who has come to your place unannounced?’

  ‘What is it with you and questions tonight?’

  Devang couldn’t tell Kratika that although he had enjoyed the weekend sessions, he had felt jealous that she could actually be submissive to her colleague in her mind. He knew it was a fantasy but he couldn’t keep the hotel striptease out of his mind throughout the week. The role play wasn’t just a random idea. He wanted to see how far she’d go.

  ‘Answer me.’

  ‘Yes. In my fantasy I will be all right with it.’

  ‘But we are our real selves in our fantasies.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing. Let’s carry on. I check out your figure when you go inside the kitchen. I follow you inside on the pretext of checking out the flat.’

  ‘I tell you my husband isn’t at home.’

  ‘Do you say that as a matter of fact or are you hinting at an opportunity?’

  ‘As an opportunity, of course.’

  ‘Hmm. I come close to you while you’re putting the pan on the chulha and hold your waist from behind.’

  ‘I close my eyes and moan slightly.’

  ‘Does that mean you were waiting for it?’

  ‘I thought you liked me being submissive.’

  ‘Submissive is different. Playing easy is different.’

  ‘You are killing the mood tonight.’ Kratika opened her eyes and looked at her husband.

  ‘I want to know if you really like Swastik or is it only in your fantasies?’

  ‘Where is this coming from? Did I ask you if you really lust for Priyanka?’

  ‘What if I really lust for her? All right, I do. Now you answer.’

  Kratika glared at him. Soon her eyes flooded with tears. She put on her clothes and ran into the bathroom. For some time, Devang sat still. He was brooding. Then he heard her sobbing. He started regretting what he had told her. He got out of the bed, wore his underwear and knocked on the bathroom door.

  ‘Kratika?’ He knocked. ‘Look, I’m sorry. Will you please open the door? Please? We can stop this stupid role play and get back to narrating fantasies. I swear I won’t ask any more questions.’

  Devang sat outside the bathroom while Kratika stayed inside. Neither of them slept.

  * * *

  Seventh Weekend

  Last week was different. They only talked through messages and even those were few and far in between. Just the basic:

  Did you eat?

  Did you reach home?

  I’ll be late.

  Please pay the electricity bill.

  Maid will come a little late today. Don’t keep sleeping. Do open the door.

  On Friday Kratika informed Devang that her relatives from Bhopal were in Bengaluru. If she didn’t pay them a visit at the hotel where they were staying, they might end up coming to their house. Devang asked Kratika to handle it as he had work. He will be home the next morning, Saturday. They wanted to forget what had happened last weekend but didn’t know how.

  Devang’s Reality

  The work load is an excuse. I’m with Priyank. There is no Priyanka. The addition and deletion of one letter from my lover’s name makes my truth a lie and my lie a truth. The fact that I no longer feel sexually aroused by Kratika is because I like Priyank. I’m unapologetic about it when it comes to my conscience. So what if I’m gay (or maybe bisexual)? I think it is none of anyone’s business what my sexual orientation is. But when it comes to declaring this to Kratika, I run out of confidence. I don’t want to lose her. I love her so much that when she mentions another man, I still feel jealous. When she narrated the hotel fantasy to me, I was consumed with rage for a whole week. It disturbed me even though I knew it was only a part of her fantasy. Even though I know I have dirtier secrets. I didn’t want to subject her to any interrogation but somehow the situation deteriorated and it ended up being one. I really love her.

  But I love Priyank as well. Only I know that the fantasies I’ve narrated to Kratika in the past few weeks were based on real events. The first time I had connected with Priyank was indeed during an office party, following which we had made out. Kratika thinks I get erect thinking about her fantasies, but the truth is I feel the rush of blood thinking about Priyank. And it is not just a sexual relationship. We are emotionally invested as well. How do I explain it to her without her wanting to leave me? Just because a hus
band and wife stop connecting sexually, doesn’t mean that their relationship is over.

  I see Priyank getting our frappes from the counter. We are at Starbucks. We plan to spend the night together. Unlike Kratika, I don’t have to share any fantasies with Priyank. But tonight’s details may become my next weekend’s fantasy. I hope she forgives me and the game continues.

  Kratika’s Reality

  No relative is visiting Bengaluru this week. Swastik is running a temperature. He has nobody but me in the city. I’ve been having an affair with him for the past eight months now. I know how it started. Funnily, even Devang, by now, knows how it started. I still remember that night when Swastik and I were alone in office. The power cut in the elevator. And the rest of the story as well. Even the party in the hotel. Although I pretended to be pricey in my fantasies, the truth is I was pretty easy for Swastik. If someone asked who he was to me, I would say, my stress buster. This entire affair has been that for me. It definitely doesn’t mean I don’t love Devang. I will never leave him. Honestly, I never thought I would be able to confess everything to him. Though I meant it as a confession, he heard it as a fantasy. I feel lighter, better. Last weekend I wasn’t hurt but his interrogation made me feel guilty.

  There is a sexual tension between Swastik and me, but we have rarely had penetrative sex. He has been in a long-distance marriage. And what he and I are doing is filling up the need for belonging. I stay with Swastik in office more than I stay with Devang at home. One of those perils of a modern-day lifestyle, I guess. There have been times when I desperately craved for both of them to be one person, knowing fully well the impossibility of it.

  In the last three years, I have realized that after a relationship reaches the destination of a domestic partnership, the persons involved stop seeking love in each other. What we seek, rather, is a comfort zone—a zone that isn’t allowed to us anywhere else and with nobody else. As long as the affair with Swastik doesn’t push me out of the comfort zone I seek with Devang, I won’t feel guilty. But if it does . . . well, as of now, I’m waiting for tomorrow night. I know Devang. The short messages tell me he will apologize tomorrow. And I will happily dress my reality as a fantasy and present it in front of my husband. We shall make love like there is no tomorrow on yet another weekend.

  The Flight Is on Time

  From: Siya Mishra

  Reply to: Siya*****@*****.com

  To: rammohanmishra**@*****.com

  Date: Saturday, 7 July 2007, 7.07 a.m.

  Subject: Hello

  Mailed by: *****.com

  Signed by: *****.com

  Hi Ram,

  This is Siya, your wife. This is no virus attack. I know I have never mailed you before; I didn’t have an email id till a few minutes ago. I have created one because there are things I need to tell you. When a wife has to resort to emailing in order to communicate with her husband, one realizes how frivolous, damaged and brittle their relationship has become. I could have told you whatever I’m going to write here face-to-face, but I chose not to. Choice . . . can you even imagine how empowered I feel already?

  I wanted to put down all my thoughts, opinions, observations and complaints about us so you can come back to these words again and again. I want these words to burn a hole first into your mind and then into your soul. I want you to be tormented by my words the same as I have by yours. No matter how much I try to shut them out, I can’t.

  I want you to read this email again and again to feel the pain that I have felt. I know you will. For you won’t have anything else to fall back on except this email once you finish reading it. Maybe you won’t read it again for months due to anger as your ego will be hurt. Once that subsides, you’ll read this email again. And again and again.

  Every time you read this email, you will realize what a failure of a husband you have been.

  Ram, I’m pregnant.

  The obvious question is: whose baby is it? Between you and me, we know the answer. But even if you have a niggling doubt, let me put it to rest: it’s not ours. Do you remember last December you had told me about some colleague whose wife was having an extramarital affair? And in a fit of suspicion demanded to know if I too had a lover as you weren’t around for most of the year. I’m sure you didn’t care how much that question hurt me. That one question immediately erased my years of devotion to and love for you. What did I do to deserve it? Did I give you cause for concern? You sounded pretty certain that I had been going behind your back. But then that incident made me introspect. And introspection sometimes helps rekindle a latent courage in oneself. Courage to tell oneself that whatever happened to date is fine but nothing like this should ever happen again.

  I had been taught since childhood that a woman can’t love herself. A woman’s love is mostly about sacrifice, and the rest about acceptance. And if there is something left, it’s about adjustment. Many a time in order to hold on to that love, which is also the basis of our identity in the society that we live in, we let go of our individuality. We have to live the way our fathers and husbands want us to, and later as the society wants us to. We are seldom who we really are. We have no choice but to withdraw and lead interiorized lives, fighting to keep our real selves alive in our minds. That’s all that we have. And that accusation of yours challenged the real me, woke her up. Men always find a higher ground to stand on whereas women have to stand on their toes, struggling to reach that height. The ones who manage to do it are given dirty labels. Why?

  One afternoon, like any other afternoon, when I had nothing better to do, I had secretly compared our mark sheets, from high school to higher secondary to graduation. And you know what? I had always scored more than you. I was more studious; I could have earned as well as you. Maybe more. But my father didn’t let me study after graduation, let alone work. Who would marry a woman who earns for herself? A wife can’t be a husband’s competition. A husband should be, however, a wife’s master. Maybe your parents and friends think you are an ideal son and friend, but not me. You ceased to be a good husband that night in December when you uttered those words. You didn’t make the cut for me, Ram, and you won’t ever.

  It has been exactly 1507 days since we got married. Can you remember a single day when I did not carry out my responsibilities as a wife? Every day, on weekends, holidays and weekdays alike, I would get up at 6.30 a.m. Never a minute more or less. I didn’t even use an alarm clock for the past few years whereas as a child I could never wake up early. I changed my biological clock for you. For you! The least that you could have done was be a little grateful about it. I would get up, take a bath, worship, and by seven was in the kitchen preparing breakfast for you and your parents. Then I would prepare lunch, take care of your father, massage his rheumatic leg for half an hour. Did I ever ask you to get a maid to do the work for papa? I would then cook a pure vegetarian meal for your religious mother and a different one for us. Fine, I told myself. With the exhaust fan not working every other day, do you realize how difficult it must have been for me to stay cooped up in the kitchen all the time? It was like a furnace during the summers. I wiped the sweat off my brows a thousand times for you! But to you, all this was insignificant. Why? Just because you’ve been brought up to take your wife for granted? Yes, it is my duty to keep you happy, to go an extra mile for you. But tell me, isn’t it also a husband’s duty to keep his wife satisfied, in life, in bed?

  I remember our first night. I was shy and so were you. And when we stripped, I was expecting an earth-shattering orgasm. But you couldn’t give me one, not on our wedding night or on our honeymoon or ever! Every time you came inside me, you looked flushed with satisfaction. I faked having a good time for you! Did you ever try to find out if I was satisfied? No. You assumed that I was satisfied because you were satisfied. If I would have discussed it with you, you would’ve thought that I was complaining; that my sexual appetite was not normal; that I was horny. And a horny woman is never respected anywhere. I would have been at a loss even if I had not satisfied you,
or shown an interest in you. You’d have rejected me immediately. The point here is not whether you satisfied me or not. It is whether you at all cared for my satisfaction? Did you, even for a second, think that I too deserved satisfaction? My emotions were always invisible to you. Honestly, if you had felt them, cared for them, I wouldn’t have been required to write this email.

  There were nights when I’d want to have sex but you weren’t interested. I did pester you for a while in the beginning because I assumed that if you could have me when I wasn’t in the mood then I too could have you when you weren’t that keen. Isn’t marriage about taking care of the spouse’s needs? Or at least respecting them? But when you told me that being horny doesn’t suit a wife, I understood that I hadn’t married the man I had thought I had. I had an idea of my perfect guy. Of course, I never expected anyone to live up to those expectations, but, Ram, you fell short majorly. After that demeaning comment of yours, I was both happy and sad. Happy because I thought I too could say no to you when I wasn’t in the mood and sad because you were fine not ever asking about it.

  I never made a fuss again. But on nights when you were horny and I wasn’t interested (because I was exhausted after doing all the household chores) you would force yourself, claiming that it’s because of women like me that men turn to whores. And such women are even bigger whores. I remember your words clearly; nobody had used such a derogatory term for me earlier. I had never been called a whore before. And it was not a roadside ruffian who had first called me a whore, not lecherous men who gaped at my breasts in markets or rubbed their groins against me in crowded trains, but my husband!