Whoever said that widowhood is unbearably horrible must have been an idiot, for like the proverbial fear of war being worse than war itself the fear of widowhood is worse than actual widowhood itself. Now if you are thinking that I should be sadistic or insane for making such a comment, let me tell you that I am specially qualified to talk about this topic because my husband died recently and hence what I say has the authenticity of real life experience.

 

During my husband’s lifetime, my life was pockmarked with occasions of anxiety, doubt and sometimes, pure embarrassments. The anxiety usually was because of either his habitual late returning after the office hours or his silence during his periodical tours. Whenever the horn of his returning vehicle did not honk at the usual hour, I would die a thousand deaths fearing the worst of the worst- of accidents and sudden illnesses. The picture of him lying in a pool of blood in the middle of a highway amidst strangers ( so vivid that I could clearly see the color of his blood stained and torn shirt) would torment me so much that I would be in danger of getting a heart attack myself. The tension would not ease until eventually he returned in flesh and blood (sorry for the phrase). What a return would it be?

 

With his impish smile he talks casually as if nothing has gone awry and when I realize that he dismisses my concern as ado about nothing …hmm…that is the last straw. My tension instead of thawing at his safe return explodes like a volcano into angry shouts at his irresponsibility and insensitiveness to my feeling and what follows is what happens in all household fights. What he did or did not do at such and such times; our wedding anniversaries he forgot (“Don’t you ever remind me of that fateful day “retorts he.) the marketing that he conveniently forgets and the like. In the most bitter fight ever fought in the history of home fights not only the parents and the parents in law but also their ancestors and their ancestors until the generation of Adam and Eve are pulled into and are either defamed or defended and this goes on until the various possibilities of leaving him and remaining separated are analyzed threadbare and I start leafing through the Yellow Pages in search of a divorce lawyer and my husband says “What about a cup of coffee first? I’ll help you with your search while you make your wonderful coffee.” “Will you ever be serious?” “Yes. I am now. I seriously want my coffee, meanwhile leave some in the thermos also for my bachelor life after the divorce” and he winks and hugs and ekes out a smile from me even before I could say ‘nuts’. There, there…this is how I never succeeded in finding a good divorce lawyer.

 

I can never forget that wedding in the family. This being the family I was supposed to be among the front liners carrying plates laden with fruits, flowers and sweets in the traditional bridegroom procession. But we went abominably late because my unpredictable husband came home abominably late and even as we joined the procession which had already begun to move, I was received with shouts and admonitions of “ Is this the time?” I was pushed to the frontline and somebody thrust a plate full of coconuts, the heaviest one, a punishment for joining in late and as I sagged with the weight, my man lent a supporting hand to me and I shooed him away with my angry stare and he in retaliation winked and eked out a smile from me before I could utter ‘nuts’. To add insult to injury he blew out a flying kiss as an apology and what embarrassed me more was not the kiss but the audience around and I thought in dismay
“ How would I ever manage him my entire life time?”

 

Some days after that family function, he died. Just like that. Massive heart attack, the doctor said. Wonder of wonders I did not die with him as I used to tell him always. I survived and I still do. Strangely I begin to realize that my changed status i.e. from a wife to a widow has its own advantages.

 

I am spared of my everyday vigil for his safe return home. At least I know that he would not be lying in a pool of blood in some highway unknown and unrecognized. He could never be the author of my embarrassments hereafter. Recently there was another wedding in the family and I should have gone very early in the absence of my erstwhile ‘always late’ escort. Yet I went late because I could not gather myself to the act of moving on my own. Nevertheless, this time, there was no admonition; no question was asked.

 

Neither was I pushed to the vanguard of the procession, nor was I burdened with any plate let alone the heaviest one, nor was my man around to support me mockingly, winking and blowing out flying kisses, not the least of any reason to be embarrassed about the audience around.

 

And I thought “What on earth would I not do to get him back?”

 

Why do I feel that life was more fun when he was around?

 

http://chitrawrites.sulekha.com/blog/post/2008/08/advantage-widowhood.htm