It has been fifteen years. Everyone gushes. Hooray. I do remember that day.
The fact of the matter is, I didn’t think it was a big deal at the time. Just as I knew that the moustache will start to grow, and eventually would turn grey, like most of my generation, I knew that one day I had to get married. There was no choice, really. The monsoon will come. The tectonic plates would move and earthquakes will happen. One might as well do it when the time comes. One could take it in your stride, like a pleasant natural disaster..er.. I mean natural progression. None of the existential angst and indecision that faces the younger generation these days.
I naively believed that life would remain more or less the same. True, there would be more sex (anything above zero is more.) and one more companion. Prospects of children and other complications in the far, far future.
I was in denial.
Experience told me that that wouldn’t be the case. You cannot walk in at two in the morning without any explanation to anybody, nor was it possible to have all night parties with lubrication without being made to feel as guilty as a mass murderer afterwards.
All this and many more led to anger. Anger led to fights. Needless to say, the entire faults are mine and mine only (Many people will read this, I know.)
Years went by, and some small girls happened to exist amongst us. They pooped and bawled. Smiled and cooed. Then later, loved and quarrelled, all this generally adding to the din.
I argued my case. Some things had to be done. Life had to go on, dammit. How can one be in the universe without discussing the ultimate meaning of life and existence among your male friends, accompanied by a pharmacological by-passing of the inhibitory controls on your neo-cortex? At least once a month?
When you have two spherical objects secreting testosterone, it is not possible to always help in washing dishes and putting babies to sleep. Why cant one understand this basic physiological fact?
At one stage, like the good man Budha, the realization dawns. What you have is good. And beautiful. The world is constructed with a plan. The plan works. One has to simply obey it.
Occasional minor explosions spew lava. Miniscule earthquakes make a low-pitched rumble, like an innocent fart. But you are secure in the realization that the core of your being cannot be shaken.
From this, I came to this conclusion.
A good marriage passes through four stages:
I told this to my friend in palliative care. He looked at me coldly.
“Are you pulling my leg? This is the stages through which a person passes when he is told that he has a terminal illness.”
Really? This cosmic peace cannot be described as an illness. That would be sacrilege.
But terminal- that is correct.
Isn’t that the entire idea? Till death do us part?