A Suicide Note

Dear Husband,

When I first came into this house, I was elated. I was sure that the family that I had left behind to become the bahu of this house was really happy at my good luck. I didn’t have any parents, but my Masterji, who had put so much effort in raising me, and who I give all the credit for shaping my personality, always made sure that he gave me the best of everything. A firm believer in quality of character, he knew that character develops through pain. He stuck with me through all the tough moments in my life, including the time when I told you how I got stitches all over my body. He supported me, and had faith that I will one day find my knight in shining armor, who will take me home and love me to death.

I remember how you did not come to see me the first time. Your parents came to our place and told my family that since you did not have anyone specific in mind, they had taken it upon themselves to find the perfect fit for you. It was magical how they liked me at the very instant when they first saw me. They said that they had made their decision, and were sure that they did not need to seek their son’s approval.

My Masterji knew that I would make him proud one day. So, he ensured that I had the best of company. He never let me hang out with those Salman Khan types who would have tattoos of colorful dragons painted all over their bodies. He taught me how simplicity is the best attire, and is a mark of class. He would also talk a great deal about the importance of being fit. He raised me with such care.

Ours was an arranged affair, so I thought it would take you time to open up to me. The initial silence seemed temporary. I kept waiting for the first office party where you would take me and feel proud in showing me off to your colleagues. But when the day for the office party arrived, I noticed how it took you no time in deciding that someone else would be your date. I thought it’s a modern thing and maybe you’re just not over who I thought to be your ex. But soon I realized that there were picnics, casual lunches with friends, concerts and many other events, but I was never a part of any of them.

I overheard you talking to your sister and telling her that you didn’t like me. You were planning on throwing me in the bed-box, where you had secretly shoved all the other things that you hated, including the woolen sweaters that your dadi would knit for you every year. I was scandalized at first. I could not digest the thought of you doing something so cruel to me. What were you going to tell your parents when they would ask you about me? A part of me told me that you were joking.

I remember clearly how you started making space in your bed-box on a Sunday. I could not ask you why! I just kept praying that it would be for the blankets from the recently passed winter season. But then I realized that I had to stop living in denial and accept my fate. You shoved me in with not even an iota of guilt on your face. And a whole new chapter from your history opened up in front of my eyes.

I was so surprised to see that there were other jeans, just like me, shoved into the darkness of your bed’s dungeon. They told me how there was only one pair of jeans that you loved; the same one who I thought was your ex! They told me how much it hurt them all when you spoke about getting into someone else’s pants.

Why did you let your parents befool me? Why did you let them believe that they did not need your approval when they decided to buy a pair of jeans for you? Why did you give me false hope for months, when you stacked me under your other trousers in the wardrobe? Why?

I know that you’ll cook up an excuse when they ask you why you don’t wear me. But doesn’t it occur to you how it’s so heartless, so mean of you to lie to them about liking me? They will probably realize it one day, and silently keep their sorrow from you. But do you realize how your lie has completely ruined my life? My Masterji, the poor Masterji, who stitched me with such perfection, with such devotion, will be so shattered to know that his labor bore no fruit.

And what is it about your stupid Levi’s that you love so much? I’m blue too; just as dark a blue as her. My stitch is just as orange. Does it hurt you to know that I come from a family of Koutons? Are you embarrassed of my identity even when your un-tucked shirt hides my back patch? Or are you embarrassed about the fact that I address myself as a lady despite being a pair of men’s jeans?

I am pained to see how you can ask your dad to get you a pair of boxers or briefs from the market, and wear it every day even if it’s Rupa or Lux. I understand that a man shares a more intimate relationship with his jeans than with his underwear, which is merely a slut trying to give you head. I know that a pair of jeans commands more respect. It is clean in character even when unwashed for a month; and no matter how much you wash your underwear on a daily basis, it can never command the same place in your heart.

I’ve been such a pati-vrata lady. Ek baar pehen ke toh dekhte. Tumhare kadamon ke neeche aane ko taiyar thi main. I remember when my family dressed me in bridal clothes of polythene, they told your parents: “Hum aapko apni jeans hi nahi, 50%+40% discount bhi de rahe hain.” My price tag will tell you that I’m just as valuable as your Levi’s, priced at no less than two thousand five hundred rupees. And even after accepting a heavy discount in dowry, you have the cheek to say: Fake discount scheme hai. Faltu mein bhaao badaaye huye hain local jeans ke! How dare you!

I have decided to end my life. And it’ll be no one but you to blame for it. I will shrink my waist by two inches tonight, and will wait for the day when you open your bed-box to clean out your old mess, look at my body with no sense of attachment, and then go ahead to try me for the first time. Your guilt will hit you when you’ll see that I won’t fit you.

Main mar gayi toh kya. Tumhara guilt ke maare saara khaana peena band na karvaya toh mera naam bhi Koutons ki 50%+40% discount wali jeans nahi!

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