Telugu original: Ampasayya Naveen
Translated by Rajeshwar Mittapalli

The A.P. Express should have reached Secunderabad Station by eight. Instead, it was rolling in an hour behind time. Sukumar sat ready, his suitcase and holdall squared beside him, waiting to leap out the moment the train stopped. As Hyderabad drew closer, his impatience grew sharper. When the train halted at some signalless stretch beyond Ramagundam, for no clear reason, frustration burned through him.

He thought of Ananya every few minutes—no, every few seconds. She would be waiting at home, glancing at the clock, calling the station again and again. They’d have told her the train was running late. Even now, she might have driven to the station, standing somewhere on the platform, her eyes fixed on the distant tracks.

Barely a month had gone by since the wedding, and yet he had been sent off on that unwanted trip to Delhi.

His company’s head office was there. When the Managing Director summoned him to discuss sales improvements, there was no question of refusal. Four days in Delhi, that was the order. He had left with a heavy heart, hating the thought of parting from Ananya.

Delhi had been nothing but meetings—charts, figures, ten-year growth graphs, talk of incentives and publicity drives. His mind had been stuffed full of numbers, his heart an empty drum beating her name. Each evening, when he returned to the hotel, thoughts of her swarmed round him. He wanted time to collapse, to fold up and run home. Sleep wouldn’t come easily. Every night, he lay awake, counting hours, memories pressing on him like fever.

Since the wedding, they had not even had ten whole days together. She was in Karimnagar then, he in Hyderabad. Whenever he had a short break, he’d visit her. Lately, his father-in-law had bought them a lovely house in Banjara Hills. They had moved in just before he went north. The new walls still smelled of paint, of beginning. They had barely settled before duty pulled him away.

He barely knew Ananya. Not yet.

Their honeymoon had been planned for Ooty—ten days of mist and quiet. But his leave hadn’t been approved. Everything about their marriage had been sudden, unplanned. “Ananya, my love,” he whispered under his breath now, staring out into the darkness. “Would you be waiting at the station already?”

Before leaving Delhi, he had met his old friend Ravikanth at the station. They had studied together, grown up together. Ravikanth worked in Delhi now, recently married as well. Sukumar had gone to lunch at his house one Sunday. Seeing Ravi and his wife laughing, teasing, moving about the kitchen like two merry children had stirred a kind of envy in him—such ease, such shared delight.

“I pity you, Sukumar,” Ravi had said, chuckling as he poured coffee for both of them. “A complete fool—you left your new bride and came running to Delhi! When I got married, I didn’t let my wife out of my sight for six months.”

“What choice did I have?” Sukumar replied. “When the MD calls, I can’t ignore it. If I hesitate, I lose my job.”

Ravi waved his hand airily. “Oh, come off it. If you lose this job, you’ll find another. You’ve got a B.E. and an MBA—companies would line up for you.”

“But securing one immediately isn’t certain. You know the saying, ‘A bird in the hand…’?”

“That’s exactly your trouble,” said Ravi. “You measure every moment like an accountant. If you go on doing that, you’ll never taste life. Why didn’t you bring your wife along? Delhi isn’t a desert.”

“It never occurred to me. She didn’t mention it either. Maybe if I’d asked—”

“There lies the mistake. Women rarely tell us what they want outright. We’re supposed to catch what’s in their hearts and give them that before they speak.”

“They should do the same for us then,” Sukumar said, smiling.

“That’s the spirit of marriage, brother—each reading the other’s heart, meeting the other’s need. That’s where joy lives. You’ve left that joy behind and come trudging to grey Delhi. You, my friend, haven’t changed at all since school days. Remember how the teachers used to call you Muddapappu? Always patient, always still. Do you ever lose your temper at all?”

Sukumar laughed. “I do—but mostly at myself.”

Ravi shook his head. “That’s worse! You should get angry, laugh, shout, cry. Life’s meant to be felt. I hope your Ananya brings out the man inside you. Remember this—no one on earth can give a man happiness the way a woman can.”

When the train had started from Delhi station later, that sentence of Ravi’s echoed in Sukumar’s mind. No one can give a man happiness the way a woman can. But he found himself wondering—can’t a woman find happiness through a man too? Why must it always be the man who reaches out first, speaks first, desires first? Why does the woman never simply say, “I want you”?

Ananya had never taken the first step. She had never looked at him suddenly and whispered, “Come on, love—come near me.” It was always he who had to seek. And then she would turn her face away and murmur, “Not now.” He would plead again, argue, then coax gently—at times even lose patience. When she finally agreed, it was with that quiet air of renunciation, as though pleasing him were some sacred duty. She would lie still, eyes closed, detached. He often wondered—was it only Ananya? Were all women like this?

Yet she had transfixed him from the very first sight.

He had seen her and thought, This is the one. The certainty had come like sudden light. She had quick, thoughtful eyes, a clear voice, an intelligent charm that made conversation feel alive. Beauty glowed on her face—not the kind that shouts, but the kind that keeps pulling you back for another look. Her father had retired as a Superintendent?Engineer. She was their only daughter, with two brothers—one a doctor, the other a business executive settled in America. A match like that seemed impeccable. Somewhere in him, there had even been the faint, foolish thought that matrimony might one day take him to the States as well.

Ananya had been cherished like a jewel in her house. Gentle, proud, sheltered. Her upbringing showed in every gesture. His parents had been delighted with the match—good family, good looks, no dowry demanded. Everything seemed right.

The train finally shuddered to a halt at Secunderabad. Sukumar stepped down, searching the crowd. Pasha, their driver, came running, panting, and saluted him with a hurried grin.

“Did you come alone?” Sukumar asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“No one else came?”

“No, sir. Only me.”

Disappointment slashed through him like a paper cut—quick, sharp, absurdly painful. He had telephoned Ananya from Delhi, telling her his arrival time, and she had promised to be there. I’ll come for sure, darling, she had said. Every minute feels like a year without you. Couldn’t you just fly back?

But she hadn’t come. She hadn’t even sent a note.

The car crawled out of the station yard. Sukumar sat silent, staring through the window. He had imagined the moment of reunion again and again—the rush towards her, that first word, the warmth of her body after a week of cold hotel nights. He had even planned to tease her gently: This is your punishment for making me wait at the station. He wanted to hold her until breath and body blurred together. Only then, he thought, would the ache of the past days ease.

Half an hour later, the car stopped in front of their house in Banjara?Hills.

He looked up. The porch light flooded the steps, but the door remained closed. No figure moved behind the flowerpots. He half?expected her to burst out the next moment—but nothing. He unlocked the gate and stood still for an instant, unwilling to admit she wasn’t there. Then he stepped inside.

The house felt hollow, as if all sound had been scooped out of it.

He dropped into the sofa and began removing his shoes. Footsteps approached from the inner room. Sujata, the maid, appeared.

“Madam’s gone out, sir. She said she’d be back in half an hour.”

“She went out?” His voice came harsher than he meant. “Even today—after knowing I’d be home tonight?”

“Yes, sir.” Sujata looked uncertain. “She didn’t say where.”

“What could be so urgent,” he muttered, “more urgent than seeing her husband?”

He rubbed his forehead. “Turn the geyser on. I want a bath.”

“Yes, sir.” She scurried away.

Sukumar loosened his tie and stripped off his shirt. The thought nagged as he moved about the room—she went out. How could she? For seven days, he had eaten tasteless hotel food, slept in sterile air-conditioning, counted each hour till this night—and she had gone somewhere, without waiting for him.

Did he misjudge her? Had he imagined too much? The woman he had chosen, believing she was his other half—what was she after all? Beauty can trick the mind. A smile can mask emptiness. He could hear Ravi’s voice from memory: You’re still the same Muddapappu—you never get angry at others. Well, perhaps he should have.

He stood under the shower. The hot water struck his shoulders in a steamy sheet, melting the stiffness out of him. January chill still lingered, and the heat felt luxurious. Yet his mind wouldn’t let go. In Delhi, how often had he wished for Ananya beside him? He had pictured her slipping into his arms, her hair against his mouth. Would the wish come true today? Would paradise return?

He lathered his hair, smiling faintly at the image of her soaping his back. Then the thought turned sour again. Had she really gone to her father’s house? Would she come back soon? He forced himself to rinse, dry off, powder his body, comb his wet hair. The bathroom mirror threw back a face he hardly recognised—tense, weary, half?angry, half?lonely.

He wandered back to the living room and switched on the television. The bright, shallow noise irritated him. He kept changing channels, but nothing held him. He turned it off, opened a magazine, shut it again. Still no sound from outside.

At last, sleep pressed down—thick, inevitable. He stretched across the bed and drifted. In his dream, Ananya came quietly, lay beside him, and smiled. He reached for her. She melted into the dark.

When he woke, it was half past ten.

“Shall I serve dinner, sir?” Sujata’s voice came from the doorway.

“Madam hasn’t come back yet?”

“She asked me to serve you if it got late.”

“Oh, did she?” His lips tightened. “Then yes—bring it.”

He sat at the dining table. The rice was hot, the curry neatly arranged—but his throat felt blocked. He pushed food around with the spoon. Hunger had left him. “You’re behaving like a child,” he told himself. “Eat, man, eat.”

But the thought recoiled—No, someone fooled me. How could I end up with such a wife? Then the answering voice within said, No one fooled you but yourself. You married her for her looks, for her father’s wealth, for your own ambitions. You hardly spoke to her before the wedding. Did you ever ask what she believed in?

The spoon clattered against the plate. He rose abruptly, washed his hands, and walked to the bedroom. The air?conditioner hummed softly. He looked around—the elegant curtains, the polished dressing table, the wide bed he had called their paradise. Tonight it felt like punishment.

If only she came this moment.

If only she touched him once, smiled once. The whole week of emptiness would dissolve. Paradise lost—it’s slipping away, he thought. No, not lost yet. She’ll come. She’ll make it right.

A sound outside. A faint knock at the door. Then the latch turned.

She’s here.

He dropped back onto the bed and closed his eyes, pretending to sleep. Better to let her wake him, to make her come closer on her own.

The door opened softly. Her scent—familiar, maddening—filled the room. The goddess who haunted his nights had arrived at last.

“Hello, darling! When did you get in?” her voice rang, light and cheerful.

He didn’t answer. She came nearer; he could feel the warmth of her presence beside him. The temptation to take her in his arms jolted through his body. Yet he clenched his fists under the sheet. She made me ache for a week. She’ll have to pay a little for that.

“Are you cross with me?” she whispered close to his ear.

“No. I’m perfectly happy,” he said, turning away on the pillow.

“Sorry, love—I wanted to be home before you came. But the train must’ve arrived early for once!” she laughed.

“It was late—an hour late.”

“Well, an hour isn’t much. With the distance it travels, it could’ve been three.”

He said nothing. Only silence stretched between them.

“Are you still angry? I went to the beauty parlour today—all for you. I wanted to look lovely when you arrived. I thought I’d be back in half an hour, but they kept me three hours.”

“You went to the beauty parlour?” He turned, startled. For a moment, he simply stared.

“Why look at me like that? My friends from Madras—Vandana and Chandana—met me at the Krishna?Oberoi. They teased me, said my hairstyle looked like an aunty’s. They threatened that if I didn’t change it, my husband might go looking for someone else!” She giggled nervously. “They took me along and made me change it. Now, don’t I look nicer? Younger?”

“Not younger,” he said coldly. “Older. Like a grandmother.”

Her smile faltered. “Why are you speaking like that? You’ll make me cry.”

“I felt like crying too,” he said. “Do you know what your hair meant to me? It was the most beautiful thing about you—your long hair flowing down, that dark shine, that fragrance. Now you’ve chopped it off like a man.”

“Who told you a woman’s beauty lies in her hair?” she flared. “Men like you! Who are you to decide how we should look? It’s my hair—it’s my choice.”

Sukumar’s voice hardened. “Why go to beauty parlours at all, then? All those facials and curls—what are they for? Don’t tell me they’re for yourselves. It’s for us—to make us dizzy with longing, to hold us by your beauty, to keep us docile.”

“No,” she said firmly. “It’s for ourselves. For our own peace—for our confidence.”

“Lies,” he whispered. “Blatant lies.”

Her hair glittered with dozens of clips, her cheeks shone pink, her face smelled of perfumed cream. Desire pushed through his anger in spite of himself. For a moment he said nothing.

Ananya broke the silence. “Have you eaten, darling?”

“You left instructions for the maid, didn’t you?” he answered dryly.

“I asked her to serve you because you must have been starving after such a long journey—I didn’t mean to—”

“Thoughtful of you,” he cut in. “Did it occur to you that I might have another kind of hunger tonight?”

She looked puzzled. “What hunger?”

“You’ll know soon enough. Go on, wash that paint off, take a quick bath, and come to me. I can’t wait.”

“Oh! Is that the hunger you’re talking about?” she said, half?laughing.

“Yes, exactly. Now go. Either eat or don’t—just come quickly. I’ve run out of patience.”

“Sorry, dear,” she murmured.

“Sorry? For what?”

“I can’t. Not tonight.”

He stared at her, incredulous. “Don’t talk nonsense. It isn’t mine alone—it’s ours. We’ve both been starving for a week. What’s stopping you?”

“I don’t feel like it. The beautician fixed these clips. If I remove them tonight, the curls will be ruined. I’ll sleep in the other room.”

“Let your curls rot,” he said, struggling to keep his voice calm. “I want you tonight—no excuses. I’ve waited long enough.”

“Understand my situation, darling. It’s not possible tonight. Please.”

“We can visit the beautician again tomorrow if you like,” he pleaded. “But tonight, at least, don’t turn me away.”

“I said no,” she replied. “I’ve already sacrificed too much. Leave me be.”

She turned, heading towards the door.

“Ananya,” he warned, his voice rising, “don’t test my patience.”

“And don’t test mine. If you can’t sleep, take a tablet. Don’t disturb me.”

“Damn it!” he shouted. He hurled the alarm clock onto the floor and smashed it. The pillow followed, the bottles on the dressing table crashed and burst. Powder rose in a small, choking cloud.

Ananya rushed back, frightened and angry. “What madness is this? You behave like a child. Can’t you wait one day—for me? Is this more important than me?”

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “More important than anything. I can’t wait even one minute longer. Do you understand what I’ve felt these seven days? Have some mercy—please.”

“Stop, Sukumar!” she cried. “You’ve no right to touch me without my consent, even if you’re my husband.”

“Don’t preach to me about rights,” he said, stepping closer. “I couldn’t care less about your laws. I want you tonight—that’s all I know.”

She backed away. “If you force me, you’ll regret it. I’m not some machine that answers to a man’s desire. I’m not a prostitute.”

“You talk as if it’s men who make women into that,” he said bitterly. “You make yourselves into it. Why all this beauty business then? All these parlours promising glamour, all this pretence of charm? Isn’t it meant to lure a man? The moment a woman feels she’s lost her power over men, she thinks she’s become a ghost of herself. That’s why these parlours mushroom everywhere—to feed that fear.”

“I don’t know about all that,” she said coldly. “All I know is I want to look good for myself. Don’t you like to look good too? Don’t you want women turning their heads at you?”

“No. I haven’t run begging to beauty parlours as you have.” He paused, drew a long breath. Then his voice softened. “All right. Let’s forget this quarrel. Wash up, wash off that scent. Come back. Let’s make peace. We can still reclaim what’s slipping—the paradise we built. Come to me. Let’s just be happy.”

She shook her head. “Impossible. Not tonight. Paradise won’t vanish. It’ll still be here tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” His laugh broke roughly. “Tomorrow, the world could end. You could vanish, I could vanish. The only real moment is now—this breath, this minute. Once lost, it never returns. Don’t you see that?”

“Then you see me, Sukumar,” she said quietly. “I’m telling you the same thing. This moment is real for me too, but I don’t want it that way.”

“If you push me further,” he warned, trembling, “I’ll do something unforgivable.”

“What will you do—beat me?”

“I don’t know. I might even—rape you.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “How disgusting! I thought you were decent, refined, calm. I never knew you could sink to this.”

“I’m not decent. I’m nothing of the sort. I’m a brute, a beast. You shouldn’t live with me. Get out—right now.”

“Where do you get the right to order me out?” she flared. “My father bought this house. Every chair, every plate—everything here belongs to me.”

He gave a broken laugh. “Yes, your father bought everything. By marrying you, I sold myself. I became his servant—and yours. It’s time I broke that chain.” He bent over his suitcase. “Perhaps marriage itself was the folly. I’ll correct it now. You’ve done me a favour, Ananya—you’ve opened my eyes.”

He threw his clothes into the case, closed it, and reached for the handle.

“If I happen to take anything that’s not mine,” he said bitterly, “I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

He turned towards the door.

“Wait!” she cried. “It wasn’t my intention to drive you out. Don’t go at this hour—please.”

“Your intention is plain enough,” he said softly. “I’ve no anger left—only shame. Both of us crossed limits. I set myself up for this, and I’ve paid the price. I’m not angry with you. Only with myself.”

He started towards the hall.

Tears filled her eyes. She ran after him. “Please—don’t leave. I swear on myself I’ll give you what you want. I’ll remove these clips, I’ll come to you—just stay. Please.”

He didn’t stop. He didn’t look back.

“It’s too late,” he said, almost to himself.

Ananya stood motionless, watching from the doorway, her figure a blur through the mist of her own tears. He’ll come back, she told herself. Any minute now, he’ll walk in again.

But he reached the main door, opened it, and stepped out. The slam of wood echoed across the empty house. She flinched at the sound.

Outside, darkness swallowed him.

Inside, she stood listening, hoping for his footsteps—there was only silence.
 

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“The Exit” (titled in Telugu as “Chejarina Swargam”) by Ampasayya?Naveen was published in Andhra Bhoomi Daily Sunday Supplement, March 23, 1997.

Translated into English by Rajeshwar Mittapalli.

Ampasayya Naveen is an accomplished author and Sahitya Akademi laureate who has to his credit more than 30 novels and 100 short stories in Telugu. The most well-known of his novels are Ampasayya, Antasravanti, Kalarekhalu, and Premaku Avali Teeram. He is a pioneer of the stream-of-consciousness mode of writing in Telugu. His fictional works have been widely translated, including into English. In recognition of his contribution to Telugu fiction, apart from the Sahitya Akademi Award, he was conferred at least two honorary doctorates by universities.