My story

I am a widower. Are you curious? You want to know how my wife died? I don't know if I even qualify to be called so. Now you are more intrigued, I can see. My marriage was a joke. In fact, my life so far has been a joke. Played at my expense.

I was quite popular in college, and I say that without any arrogance or conceit. Naturally, fell in love with a pretty girl in class. We carried on for almost 4 years. We broached the topic of marriage to our respective parents. That is where trouble #1 started. I was (am) brahmin-born. She was a Syrian Christian. My parents prevailed. As did hers. Like in the movies, I was forced into a marriage. To a girl I barely knew. And that was trouble #2. Why, you ask? I had apparently married an emotionally unstable woman. In short, a crazy one. She was certifiable. The family thought she would be ok after marriage. Yeah, right! The wedding night turned into a wedding nightmare. No sooner did they leave us alone, she started her act. When I tried to calm her, she turned her crazy claws on me. The kith and kin helped drag her out, leaving me in tatters, literally.

I told them to take her away and get her institutionalized. They didn't. Are you surprised? I was stuck. Not that I cared. I was kind of relieved to be single again. If not Rosie, then I didn't care. When people asked me if I was married, I was not really sure what to say. So, sometimes I said yes and sometimes no. Depending on where I was. My mom was on a guilt trip. It was her brilliant idea to get me married, wasn't it? I had no sympathy.

Then one day, out of the blue, I heard that my wife fell off the overhead water tank and died instantly. At least, she was freed from her suffering. And I am still in the thick of it.

My mom has started pestering me gently about another marriage. She is even willing to overlook religion, language and/or caste. A few years too late, I say.

Inspired by a couple of things - one, someone I know. Two, this.