These days, with my wife living out of her suitcase more often than not, I’ve been given a quick course in what a long-distance marriage is about. It started years ago when we decided not to share bathrooms, each blaming the other for, er, acceptable minimal levels of hygiene, and that worked fine with a boy zone and a girl zone. But it soon spilled over into separate bedrooms whenever my wife could manage it, discouraging our son from coming come home for holidays and advising our daughter to sleep over at her friends’. “Driving home at night isn’t safe,” she’d tell her, even though it was only five in the evening, but our daughter was only to happy to stay away from the battles that would erupt around bedtime at home.
“I can’t sleep with your reading light on,” my wife would protest. “I can’t concentrate with the television on,” I’d shoot back. “Get off the laptop this instant,” she’d instruct. “As soon as you’re off the phone,” I’d charge. We argued over the air conditioning, the pillows and which side of the mattress was lumpier, from where it was only a little distance to describing our respective in-laws and their ancestors with a compendium of names no respectable families should be familiar with. Coming back sloshed from a party was simply not an option — you had to keep your wits about you if you had to score a particularly hurtful point.
Mostly, we spent the night playing tug-of-war with the quilt – having separate singles wasn’t to be considered because, superstitiously for my wife, it spelled the end of marriage – so we continued to fight while she hogged the covers and my feet stuck out. She’d get up annoyingly in the middle of the night to rearrange her wardrobe, or do the laundry, or balance her accounts — anything that was irritatingly noisy and long-winded. Neither of us got much sleep at night, and not for any of the reasons people get married in the first place.
Her travels alone were, therefore, a welcome diversion, though her best friend Sarla struck a sour note. “If I’m away for a couple of days,” she said, “I make sure that all my husband’s meals are cooked and organised just the way he likes it, and if I’m gone for longer, I call to instruct the cook on what has to be served for each meal.” I had to admit my wife had made no such plans. On the contrary, with her bills piling up, I found myself signing cheques to keep her creditors away.
She went to Pune and Mumbai, and back again, to Bangalore and Hyderabad, then back to Mumbai before setting off for Kochi, professing to love each new city more than Delhi. She stayed away longer and longer, emptying the house each time she went — the finest whiskies for her brother, my assortment of books for her friends and gifts for acquaintances.
Without lights or noise or her insomnia, I slept poorly. She’d fetch up home every now and then, but recently she unravelled her plan to keep our marriage going — not separate bathrooms, nor separate bedrooms, but separate homes. “Somewhere in the south,” she said, when I asked her where she intended to set up the next family home, though she’s not yet sure of the city, having fallen in love with Kerala’s backwaters, Bangalore’s climate and Hyderabad’s people.
Meanwhile, the children are clamouring for more space, which means I may have to join my wife sooner than she expects — and whether she likes it or not.
