A year ago, my friend Rani called to say her husband’s childhood classmate had moved to town with his second wife (the first was divorced). This gentleman, call him Raj, was a doctor and his wife was Leena. They met on match.com and were both mature, he was sixty, she was forty five and they shared common interests of movies, music, meditation and were starting their life together. I invited them over for dinner and they were pleasant and interesting. A year passed and due to his doctor schedule, we did not meet again. Leena and I chatted on the phone occasionally about her life, she learned to drive, she got a job, all was well.
On a Thursday morning, my friend Rani called to say Raj had a massive heart attack and was on a ventilator at the hospital. She was distraught as she was leaving for a month and worried that Leena may need some support. No problem. I live in the proverbial village, networked with a great group of friends. Raj and Leena were Bengali, so I contacted the Bong (a slightly rude nickname) community and they emerged in droves to help Leena with home cooked food and companionship. I went to the hospital and the nurses said Raj was still on the ventilator, but he should improve.
The following Wednesday, Rani called again. Raj had passed away and the funeral was on Friday. I called Leena to offer condolences. She said the Bong community had been a wonderful support and all arrangements were taken care of. So on Friday, I reached the cemetery/crematorium at 11.30. The staff said I was early, no one was there, just a few family members. I looked and saw an older man and a younger man in traditional funeral garb helping the priest prepare for death rituals. I saw a woman close to my age in white sitting quietly crying. I went to her and said ”I am sorry for your loss. I did not know Raj well, but we were acquainted and he was an interesting person. “
She held my hand and said, “I am Rita, the first wife.” I felt a little awkward, so I just repeated myself. “I am sorry for your loss.” She did not release my hand. “I would never have left him, We were soul mates, but he asked me to leave.”
What does one do in these situations? I became her confidant and friend and only support that afternoon. And she told me her story…
“We met in medical school. He was the beloved only son of a wealthy Bong family. I am Tamil Iyer, a South Indian Brahmin. So many differences, in food, language, culture. His parents were not happy. They had wanted him to be an engineer and although he got into the best engineering institute, he left after a year and went to med school. He was so brilliant. He married me, and his father was a little accepting, but his mother was not. He was close to her and talked to her on a weekly or daily basis. I learned his language, I learned to cook his food. I am vegetarian, they ate fish, but I tried so hard to be what they wanted. “
At this point, the crowd increased. Leena, the second wife, walked in surrounded by a phalange of Bong women, possessive and territorial. She stopped and looked uncertainly at us. I walked over and hugged her and conveyed my condolences. Rita came up behind and stretched out her hand. “I am Rita, the first wife. Thank you for taking care of Raj in his last days.” They hugged and cried. And the ceremonies began.
Rita stayed with me, quietly continuing her story as the mantras were chanted.
“We were classmates and friends, later boyfriend and girlfriend, then husband and wife. We worked together in the Armed Forces Medical Corps. We were always stationed together and we were in difficult, dangerous areas like Kashmir and Mizoram. We shared exciting experiences and our profession, we had common friends, we had two beautiful children, a boy and a girl. Then he got an offer to work in the United States and we came here. The kids went to high school and college. I did not practice here, I was raising the kids and helping in the family transition. I had my yoga and Art of Living, music, book club, my house, my life. It was good.”
The chanting had stopped and the wives walked around the open casket, putting flowers on the body. The speeches began. Two former med school classmates gave eulogies and recited a poem, in tears. The older gentleman was Rita’s brother in law and he spoke some glowing words. Then the son stood and said. “My father was a good man, a good father and I will miss him. “ He burst into tears and Rita rushed to comfort him. We moved to the cremation room and as we waited, she continued her story.
“ In 2005, Raj had a massive heart attack. I nursed him back to health. In 2010, his mother died and before she died, she told him her biggest regret was that he had not married a Bengali girl. By that time, the kids were gone, both in college. He seemed busy and very preoccupied with the computer. I paid no attention as I assumed he was doing research. I was so content, so assured of my life.” She stared at the lush greenery on this spring-like day.
“One day, he walked in and said to me, “Rita you have to leave”.
I did not understand what he meant. “Leave, I said, leave? Where will I go? You and the kids are my world. And why? Did I do something wrong? Is something the matter? We have had no fights or disagreements. You are busy with your work. You have health issues which no one knows better than me. How can I leave?” She stopped to wipe her eyes.
He was adamant.
“Nothing is wrong”, he said. “We are no longer soul mates. I need to sell the furniture after you leave and get new furniture for my Bengali wife”.
I was stunned. “Bengali wife? But you never go out, where did you meet another woman. I would have known if you had another love”. “Not love, wife. I will divorce you and get a Bengali wife”.
“Do wives grow on trees? Where will you get a Bengali wife”?
“I have already found her on the internet. You leave and I will restart my life from a new beginning.” She recited the saga in a still wondering tone, oddly bewildered still.
“I left. The day I left, the furniture was being moved out. I got an apartment and signed the papers. I got nothing, no alimony, no property, I was too shell shocked to fight this betrayal and denial of my life. My kids were furious and cut off relations with their father, but over time, I persuaded them to include him in their lives”. We took a break to get some water, The cremation was still going on.
“I went back to India, got my certification and a job in a remote hospital where I worked, meditated and communicated with my kids by skype. I was just healing slowly. A year later, Raj called. Rita, he said, you need to come back. The Bengali woman did not show up. I need someone to care for me. “
I was aghast. “Rita, did you go back?”
She smiled. “No, I told him it does not work that way. You do not divorce your wife, your love and soul mate and then say, come back, the other did not work out. I told him that I was still putting myself back together again, and he needed to find another Bong woman.” I cheered mentally.
“He did. He got on match.com and found Leena. He went to India and married her. My kids called him to check on his health and I knew how he was. My son got married, his father refused to attend the wedding, and then I had a grandchild. I came to help with the child, when I learned of his death. It is important for the son to perform last rites and I persuaded my son to come and do the right thing. “
“And I am here. The wife of a classmate apologized to me for not keeping in touch. Raj told her I had left for India after his heart attack as I did not want to take care of him. I told her I would never have left if he did not ask me to go. I am at peace, I have my work, my kids are well, my life moved on. I will miss him. I did love him so much. I cannot explain his change of heart, but he did fulfill his mother’s dying wish that he have a Bengali wifel”
There ends my story. Kind of. Rita and her son, daughter in law and grandchild spent the night at my home before they returned to her son’s city. We are in touch. I do not know why some people are put in your life, but they are, and like everyone, they have stories to tell.
Anita Raturi 