When my wife, who’s past fifty, asked me for a divorce, I wasn’t surprised. Jokingly I said, “Fallen in love with someone?”
There was a TV remote within her reach. She hurled it at me and shouted, “Can’t you ever find the right place to be serious? You and your son never take anything seriously!”
The news was on TV. I didn’t respond—just turned my attention there.
For a man, keeping his eyes and ears open while holding his tongue as much as possible, pretending not to understand what his wife wants even when he does—that’s what marriage is.
My wife, Sumi, had been looking for a bride for our son for some time. Urged by her, I went along a few times.
The girls these days are wonderful. They’re not the kind to sit shyly with a veil over their heads! They answer every question with confidence. No educated girl from a decent family looks plain—there’s a glow of personality in their speech and gaze that needs no more beauty to be captivating.
But Sumi doesn’t care about such things. A friend of hers suggested a girl—we went to see her. Sumi’s verdict: “Not bad-looking, but her voice is too pale. When she talks, it sounds like a duck quacking!”
I thought silently, The voice is a gift from the Creator—how is that her fault?
Then there was the girl my cousin mentioned. We went to see her too. Once we left the house, Sumi exploded—
“Such low-class people! She actually asked how much salary our son gets!”
One of my former colleagues’ daughters caught my eye—I quite liked her. But Sumi didn’t. “She’s too short, only 4 feet 11.”
I quietly said, “She seemed taller to me.”
“You don’t understand anything! She was wearing high heels—thought she could fool me!” Sumi laughed like a victorious warrior.
That’s how our conversations go all day. Different topics. She starts, she ends. My job is just to say yes or no at the right time. How long this would have gone on—only God knows.
But everything changed because of our son, Akash.
Last Friday at breakfast he announced he liked someone.
Sumi rushed from the kitchen, “What did you say! What’s her name? What does she do?”
“Brishti. My classmate. We lost contact after high school but reconnected on Facebook. We talked a lot, and I really like her. She teaches at a college now.”
Sumi’s eyes widened. “She was your classmate? You mean she’s not married yet?!”
Akash ignored her and said, “Mom, could you fry another paratha? Less oil, please.”
Then began the wailing. Since she couldn’t scold her son, all the anger fell on me.
Akash is 25. So naturally the girl must be around 24 or 25. According to Sumi, our son had fallen for an “old woman”!
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “You shouldn’t judge someone without seeing her,” I said.
“What did you say?” she snapped. “Look at his nerve! I was 21 when we got married, and your relatives didn’t let me hear the end of it—saying you brought home an old bride! And this girl is 24! Can you imagine?”
“Of course I can. It took our son 25 years to finish studying and get a job—why wouldn’t it take her the same? What’s so surprising about that?”
“Old hag! Her parents just want to dump her on our son!”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” I said. “They’ve probably struggled just as hard to raise their daughter as we did with our son—maybe even more. I respect that. Hats off to them!”
“What did you say? People like me, is that what you mean?”
“No, no, I didn’t mean it that way. Just giving an example.”
Since that day, Sumi’s been demanding a divorce. Says her husband doesn’t value her, her son doesn’t listen, she won’t live in this house anymore!
Sumi would be furious if she knew, but I went with our son to meet Brishti anyway. Lovely girl—clearly from a good, well-mannered family. She brought her father along. The man was polite and asked only the necessary questions. I more or less settled things on the spot.
Sumi’s reaction was something to behold. She packed her things and went to her father’s house, calling me every day since—threatening to file a domestic violence case against me.
The day before the bride’s family was to visit, I called her.
“Hey, do you remember how to cook mustard hilsa?”
“What do you mean?”
“Brishti’s family’s coming tomorrow.”
“What’s on the menu?”
“Mutton, hilsa fish, plain rice, and lentils. You know I can’t cook much else.”
She hung up the phone.
But that evening, she showed up. Grumbling while tidying the house—
“You two father and son have turned this place into a mess! The bride’s family would’ve thought we live in a slum and run away. I only came back for the sake of the family’s reputation!”
The wedding went off well.
Now Sumi locks herself in the room crying. When I went to sit beside her, she said, “We had only one son! We sacrificed our happiness, worked so hard to raise him—and this is how he repays us!”
I wanted to say, You bore him, you raised him, and in return you got the joy of motherhood—that’s already priceless. After a certain age, children build worlds of their own. Parents can only watch from afar. To step into that world uninvited looks ugly.
But I didn’t say it.
Motherhood and fatherhood are not the same. A mother’s emotions are boundless—she sees a thousand flaws even amid a hundred perfections.
I got up and went outside. The breeze felt nice. I’d take a walk alone under the open sky.
There’s nothing more I can do about Sumi—
I just silently pray that the relationship between my son’s wife and his mother turns out to be a beautiful one.
