Free The Lilac House by Anita Nair Page A

control her features from collapsing into a scream of reproach, trying to still her tongue from incoherence – accusations, reproach, pleas… In how many ways do I confront thee?
     
    She raises her eyes to his. What can she expect? Remorse, perhaps. Petulance, too. She knows Giri hates to admit he is wrong. Even when his misdemeanours stare him in the face, he seldom apologizes. And when he does, it is with poor grace. Awkward, bitten down words giving away nothing but that which is absolutely necessary. Meera has learnt to accept these as his best effort. What will he say now?
    She knows what she must do. She must make it easy for him. Meet him halfway. That is what marriage is all about, she will show him. A tree that will not be uprooted even if it has taken a rather
bad battering. Whatever happened is best buried, she will say. I won’t ask you anything, unless you choose to tell me. I will not ever bring it up and no one else will either. We’ll just go on as if you were on a business trip these six weeks. It is enough, Giri, that you are here and we are together. Nothing else is important, she will murmur, and slip her hand into his. See, I am not that cold unfeeling woman you accuse me of being, the warmth of her hand in his will tell him. See, see, see how important you are to me…
     
    He stands there. And in that stance, arms tight against his sides, his feet at ease, his face clenched and his eyes obtuse, Meera reads a disavowal. Even before he speaks a word, she knows. She has lost him.
     
    ‘Meera,’ Giri says.
    She stands up. The words dry up in her mouth. What is she to say? Hello? Goodbye? She feels wrung out. She wants to go home and lie down. Pull the quilt over her head and burrow herself in a warm, dark place where nothing will change and all is safe and restful.
    ‘Come,’ he says and leads the way to the coffee shop.
    Something, is it a sob or a fishbone of anguish, shifts in her throat.
    Doesn’t he remember? When the Oberoi opened, they would come to the coffee shop late in the night. The kids, Giri and she. They would drive into town for ice cream at Lake View. Apricots and cream in winter. Strawberries and cream in summer. And then for coffee to the Oberoi. For cappuccinos in wide shallow cups with cinnamon dust speckling the froth. Enough, Meera had thought then, spooning the foam into her mouth, was this. What more could she want but Giri and the children and these quiet moments of content?
     
    They sit across each other. ‘What shall I say?’ he begins.

    She waits. What will he say?
    ‘That afternoon, I hadn’t planned it, I swear. I hadn’t meant to disappear like that. Or frighten you. I had wanted to sit down with you somewhere quiet and talk to you. Tell you how I was feeling. You would understand, I knew. You were the one person I could say anything to. You know that, don’t you?’
    Meera moves the cutlery around, as if to get it right. She doesn’t give a toss really. But if she doesn’t give her hands something to do, occupy part of her mind, she will grab him by his collar and scream, ‘What the fuck are you leading up to? What am I supposed to have understood? Just say it and let me go.’
    ‘So there I was. Standing with a group. They were all young, the men and women. But it was the men who made me want to sit down and howl. Their confidence, their zest for life… Meera, I watched them. I smoked one cigarette after the other. I thought, if I could get that buzz, all would be well. I wouldn’t feel so completely left behind. But I couldn’t bear the taste of wine. I asked for scotch then. That didn’t work either. I couldn’t drink. I took one sip and left the glass on a table.’
    Meera shudders at the word scotch. Whisky, single malt or blended malts, she aches to correct him. Then she shuts herself up. How can she be such a pedant? Insisting on the right word when her husband is trying to explain why he did what he did. Somewhere in me, she thinks, I feel