Thursday, January 21, 2021

Late night thoughts, can’t sleep... the fan hums like it knows I’m up, thinking, always thinking... marriage, na? Feels like just another box to tick, right? Nanna, Amma—they’re on it, setting the stage... “Find a girl, Sid, it’s high time!” or “We’ll just place an ad,” they chuckle. They think it’s that simple. I let them—maybe it’s easier this way. What do they call it? Delegation? Haan, delegation of life’s choices... ha!

Why marriage though? Do I... need someone? To complete this circle? Or is it to please them, make them feel... victorious, involved? “We’d find the perfect girl for Siddharth!”—I can already hear them announcing over phone calls, swelling with pride...

Life so far, it’s been like running on a track—engineer at BT Infra Inc., the good son, the reliable guy... always performing. They said, “Be strong, Sid, boys don’t cry,” and I listened... God, I listened well. Emotions—locked away like those old diaries in the attic, dusty and forgotten.

And school days... remember those? All hustle, no play, study, they said, it’ll pay... and it did, but at what cost? Lost my first love to “not enough time”... she wanted a poet, not a robot. And here I am, designing bridges when I can barely bridge my own emotional gaps.

Marriage... it’s like signing up for another project, isn’t it? Qualifications? Check. Stability? Check. But what about... compatibility, love, understanding? They never talk about that part in those matrimonial ads... “Tall, fair, well-placed engineer”—like I’m just another item on the shelf.

Flash forward—ten years? Sitting with her, whoever ‘her’ is... kids running around or maybe quiet dinner dates, talking about bills, schools, what’s broken in the house... Is that it? Or maybe, just maybe, it’s laughter, love, someone to actually share this... madness, this life?

Nanna once said in his stern voice, “You’ll understand when you’re older, beta.” Am I older now? Do I understand? All I understand is pressure... be this, do that. And now, find a wife, be a husband, a father...

Amma’s refrain in softer tones, “It’ll be nice to see you settled, Sid.” Settled... that word. Like the dust after a storm. Is that what marriage is? Settling... dust?

My mind races, and it’s late... need to shut these eyes, but thoughts... they’re loud, persistent. Tomorrow, another day, another step towards... what? That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?

Maybe I’ll find an answer in her eyes. Maybe she’s lying awake too, wondering about me, about us... or maybe not. Maybe it’s just me and these four walls... and this diary.

Goodnight, thoughts. Let’s do this again, tomorrow.

~*~

Friday, January 22, 2021

Late night, can’t sleep... again. Thinking, always thinking—about instincts, nature, the whole mess... Marriage is coming, fast. Have to live with someone else soon, real soon. Someone new, the other sex, all that. And here I am, wrestling with my own nature... like it’s some wild beast on a leash.

Instincts—haan, they’re a problem. Big one. Like a constant buzzing in my head, need... desire... all that. Yaar, it’s exhausting, keeping them in check, all the time. Society’s got these rules, right? And here I am, trying to fit this square peg of natural impulse into society’s round holes.

Just me, or does every guy go through this? Feels like walking a tightrope. Lean too much one way, you’re a saint. Too much the other, you’re a monster.

College days—was at this party, friendly, you know? Just talking. Girl laughed, I laughed. But later, friends ribbed me, “Watch it, Sid, don’t wanna come off too strong.” And there it is, the double standard. She’s just being friendly. I’m... what, creeping?

Women, they’ve got it rough too, sure. But sometimes, feels like the script flips. They show interest, it’s cute... secret admirer stuff. Me? Do the same and bam, labels fly—stalker, creep. Terrifying, how quick it flips.

And yaar, testosterone—what a thing! Drives you, pushes you... always wanting more. Not just about intimacy, no—it’s deeper. Competition, aggression... it’s a lot. And haan, society’s got a lid for every pot—morals, laws, the works. But the pot’s still boiling, isn’t it?

Sometimes think, what if I just... didn’t? Didn’t follow every rule, every line? But no, can’t do that. Have to be the good guy, the role model. But it’s tough, yaar, real tough.

Late at night, when it’s just me and the dark, thoughts spin out... What if I slip? What if the beast gets out? Nightmare stuff. But have to stay strong, stay controlled. For her, for us. Whatever us is going to be.

And tomorrow? More of the same, I guess. Keep it together, Sid. Always together.

Haan, it’s unfair, all of it. Men, women—different battles, different fields. No getting away from it.

Alright, brain, enough for tonight. Have to try and get some sleep. Big day tomorrow, another step closer to... well, to whatever’s next. Goodnight, chaos. Let’s do it all again tomorrow.

~*~

Saturday, January 23, 2021

Late night scribbles, na... Marriage, marriage, marriage—buzzword of the year. Everyone’s in on it—Amma, Nanna, uncles, random aunties I barely know. They’re all about it, like it’s a season finale they can’t miss. And me? Just here, trying to sift through the noise...

Independence—it’s sweet, right? The freedom, the space... all mine. But these traditions, rituals... feels like a straitjacket sometimes. And everyone’s just nodding along. Why?

Mind slants to last week—Trilok’s wedding. Glitter, smiles, dances... but those side talks, yaar. “He’s compromising a lot, eh?” “Haan, she’s totally in charge.” And I’m there, thinking—what if that’s me? Trapped, playing a part... Na, can’t be.

Then, Amma’s voice, yesterday evening, “It’s about happiness, beta. Your happiness.” But her eyes, Nanna’s tone... all screaming, “Get married, stay in line.”

And my friends, na, what a joke. Half of them divorced, the other half... well, pretending? And they tell me, “It’s not that bad,” with that look... you know, the ‘help me’ look.

It’s like betting everything on a single number, right? Spin the wheel... where it stops, nobody knows. Could end up happy, or just stuck. And stuck... can’t do stuck.

Late night talks with myself, sort of funny... What’s freedom, really? Just another word tossed around at 2 am? Or something more, something worth holding onto?

Today, saw this old couple in the park. Quiet, just together. Made me think... maybe it can work? But then, reality checks in—loud, clear. Not everyone gets that, Siddharth. Remember Trilok, remember...

So here I am, jotting down half-thoughts, maybes and what-ifs. Tomorrow’s another day. More pressure, more “when are you getting married, beta?” And me? Just dodging, weaving... keeping the peace, keeping my peace.

Alright, enough rambling. Need to shut these eyes, dream a bit... maybe of a world where “to marry or not” isn’t the question. Or is it? Who knows...

Goodnight, diary. Let’s see what the sunrise drags in.

~*~

Sunday, January 24, 2021

Late at night as usual... just me and my jumbled thoughts. The whole concept of arranged marriages, yaar... it’s like a coin toss, isn’t it? Head or tails... do you win or lose? Or maybe it’s more of a puzzle—haan, a puzzle you’re putting together with someone you barely know.

Thinking about it—arranged setups, I mean... They’re tricky, no doubt. You meet, you talk—everything’s surface level. Caste, sub-caste, prospects, stars aligning... But what about the real stuff? The deep, gritty real stuff—kids, where to live, in-laws... That’s the meat of it. But how often do we dive into that before the big ‘yes’?

Flashback to cousin Kamal’s wedding... everyone smiling, everything perfect. But behind closed doors? He barely knew her favourite colour, let alone her thoughts on life or where to settle. “We’ll figure it out,” he said. But yaar, it’s a gamble, isn’t it?

And everyone’s putting on a show, right? Best foot forward—always. It’s like everyone’s selling this ideal version of themselves. “Look at me, I’m perfect!” But then, the wedding’s done, reality kicks in... chores, habits, quirks. The mask slips. Who are you really waking up next to?

Then there’s the family—oh, the family. They weigh in on everything... comparing, expecting. “She’s not like so-and-so’s wife, he’s not rich like so-and-so’s husband...” Never ending.

But—haan, there’s a ‘but’—there’s something about arranged marriages. Stability, duty, respect... It’s all structured. You’re not just marrying a person. You’re joining a mission, sort of. Both stepping into roles, defined by generations. It’s daunting, but... is there comfort there? Maybe.

That moment when you’re discovering each other, from scratch. No history, no baggage. Every day something new—could be thrilling, could be petrifying. Depends on the day, I guess.

Sitting here, scribbling... it’s like I’m trying to convince myself one way or another. Adventure or misadventure? Security or a straitjacket?

Alright, enough for tonight. The clock’s ticking, and these thoughts aren’t settling any time soon. Need to catch some shut-eye, try to dream of clearer things. Tomorrow’s another day—another step towards... well, whatever this journey has in store.

Goodnight, chaos. Let’s see what you morph into by morning.

~*~

Sunday, January 31, 2021

Today was... you know, that formal “Bridal Showing” thing. Me, Nanna, Amma, and Pavan all crammed into the car, endless small talk, while I just stared out the window. We reached Mansa’s place—buzzing, like a scene straight out of a festive movie, but with those undercurrents of... what’s the word? Scrutiny, haan.

Her house—smells of sweets and samosas, laughter tinkling, eyes darting. And there, Mansa... kind of like me? Maybe. Overthinking, introspective, her eyes scanning too much, too fast.

Then, the moment. Just us, finally. Privacy, but not really—curtains can’t mute whispers, can they?

Mansa jumps straight in, no small talk.

“I don’t change my surname after marriage.”

Na, okay, straight to the point. Me, trying to keep up, “Let’s see how it goes.”

“No cooking on a daily basis,” she fires away.

“We’ll figure something out, won’t we?”—me, sounding like those self-help books I never read.

“After marriage, you can’t claim any rights on my dowry.”

“Let’s just see how things go,” I mumble. Where’s this going?

“You should not compel me to accommodate your parents in our house at any cost. I can’t live with them... they’re not my responsibility. You know? You can take care of them as well. After all, they’re your parents.”

“Understood, I’ll handle it.” Am I negotiating a treaty here?

“One more thing, I need my freedom, I am an independent woman. I hate if anyone tries to control me.”

“We’ll work that out together,” I say. Somehow, my voice keeps calm.

Flashback—college, English lit class, The Way of the World, Congreve’s characters bartering over love in the Proviso Scene, like it’s a business deal... and here I am, feeling like I’m in a remake.

Wasn’t ready for this—thought we’d talk favourite movies, music, silly fears, or how she feels about rainy days. But no, it’s all rights, independence, clauses like a legal document. I gave her those vague answers, haan, but what was I supposed to say? The real me wanted to ask about her dreams, her perfect Sunday, or if she gets scared watching horror movies.

Now, back home, it’s quiet. Just me and these buzzing thoughts... Did she see me? Like really see me? Or just checking boxes, setting boundaries?

Maybe tomorrow, I’ll understand more. Or maybe not. This is how it goes, right? Step by step, learning, adjusting... or just nodding along, figuring out as we go.

Well, goodnight diary. Let’s see what tomorrow’s pages bring. Maybe more answers, or just more questions.

~*~

Monday, February 01, 2021

Meeting with Mansa yesterday. Hmm, not what I expected. Felt like... what? A business deal, not a meet-cute from those rom-coms. Everything so transactional, so dry... And Mansa, she didn’t really click with me. But then again, what was I expecting?

Flash to today—chatting with Pavan. He’s all sunshine, always sees the bright side. “Yaar, girls have these phases... feminist ideas and all. Just phases, yaar. They’ll settle,” he says. But I’m not so sure, right? Is it just a phase or is it who they truly are? Indoctrinated, ideated, and all that stuff, I guess... a bunch of tongue-twisters.

Pavan keeps talking, “Look, yaar, it’s tough out there. Not many women, have to grab what you can.” Sort of harsh, no? Mansa is... well, she’s plain, average maybe. But Pavan thinks she’d be grateful to have me... Handsome, well-set Siddharth. Sounds a bit snobbish when you say it out loud, doesn’t it?

And then there’s this idea of lowering my standards. “Don’t chase perfection,” Pavan advises. “You’ll end up alone.” Settle. That word. It hangs in the air—a bit heavy, a bit scary. Is settling wise or just settling for less?

Nanna and Amma are on board though. Told them about Mansa’s wish for space post-marriage. “We’ll win her over with love,” they say. Can love really flip a script so completely?

Now, lying here, thinking... if I go through with this, have to be the best I can be. Not just a husband, but a true partner. Strong, yet open. Faithful, in control, but not controlling. Respect her independence, stand by her side—good times, tough times. Keep our squabbles to ourselves, treat this marriage as a journey... a journey together. No letting ego turn us into rivals.

Can I be that guy? Really? Can I live up to that image I just painted in my head?

Sleep’s dodging me tonight. Too many thoughts, too tangled. Tomorrow’s another day, another decision to face. But tonight, just tonight, let me dream of a life where everything fits—perfectly, beautifully. No settling, just fitting right.

Alright, brain, enough for now. Let’s try for some shut-eye. Tomorrow, who knows? Maybe clarity will come with the sunrise. Or just more questions. Either way, have to face it head-on.

~*~

Tuesday, March 02, 2021

Late night... or is it early morning now? Everything’s a blur, a swirl of unexpected conversations. Thought tonight, our first as husband and wife, would be... different. More whispers, less terms and conditions. More holding hands, less... financial planning?

Mansa walks in, all business-like with a glass of warm milk. Sets it down, no shy glances, just straight to business. “Let’s talk,” she says, and talk we do. Not about dreams or what colour we might paint the living room. No, straight into the nitty-gritty—plots, shares, gold... her assets, her rules.

“Listen, Siddharth,” she starts, and I’m all ears, not sure where this is heading. “My dowry, my assets stay mine. And yours, well, they’re for the family. You’ll see why it makes sense.” Her tone, matter-of-fact, as if we’re in a board meeting, not our nuptial night.

And then, the kicker—intimacy. Rules already? “And just so we’re clear,” she adds, “consent is key. Always. And post-two kids, we might just revisit this whole arrangement.” I nod, partly because it’s odd, partly because I’m too stunned to speak.

Stunned and tongue-tied—never had words with her before. Day after our first meet, sent that hesitant text to her... fingers trembling, heart racing... hoping to weave some emotional thread, ignite a conversation. Maybe kindle something, anything. Her response came quick, sharp as a slap—”Do you think my parents are dead? Why are you contacting me directly?” Her words slammed shut like a door. I recoiled... didn’t dare text again. Silence stretched, long and heavy, until... here we are, in this closed room after our marriage vows, surrounded by walls echoing with the unspoken, the unanswered.

Pavan, ever the optimist, his words buzzing in my ears, “You’ll settle into it, all do.” But is this settling? Or just settling in to a new, unexpected reality?

Here I am, scribbling away. Was hoping for a night of gentle discoveries, not strategic disclosures. But that’s marriage, isn’t it? Unpredictable, like a puzzle where you fit pieces not knowing the final picture.

Can I handle this? Can we handle this—together? Mansa’s practicality, it’s not a flaw, not really. Maybe it’s strength, foresight, precaution? But where’s the line between practical and personal? Between planning and... living?

Alright, enough for tonight. Need to sleep, process... But sleep’s elusive, dodging me like a shy cat. Tomorrow, another day—our first full day as a married couple. Let’s see what it brings... More terms, more conditions? Or something softer, something closer to those dreams we all dare to dream about?

Goodnight, or good morning—whichever it is. Here’s to finding out what comes next.

~*~

Wednesday, March 10, 2021

Just a week, barely seven days and everything’s upside down. Mansa’s got her rules, her ways, and now this—she wants the house, just us, no one else. No Amma, no Nanna... “They make me uncomfortable,” she says, “always watching, ordering me around...” But that’s not true, right? They were just being... them, happy, hopeful. Wanted to see us thrive, maybe dream of grandkids someday...

But Mansa, she set her terms. Ultimatum hit like a storm, deadline swooshed past, and then—hunger strike. One day, two, three... Not a drop, not a bite. “It’s me or them,” her silence screamed.

So, I talked to Amma and Nanna. Hardest chat ever. Had to tell them, “Please, you need to move out.” Their hearts broke right there, I think. They cursed, not Mansa, but me, and the day I was born. Wished they’d dumped me as a baby, to be mauled by street dogs. Harsh, so harsh, but pain does that, right? Makes you say things...

They packed up, moved to KPHB Colony, far edge of Hyderabad. Quiet there, maybe too quiet. They’re with a cousin now, who’s single, but it’s not home, not their home. Nanna, Amma... I’m sorry. Really am. You pushed for this marriage, haan, but didn’t see this coming, did you?

Now the house feels different. Mansa’s in charge, completely. My stuff? Cornered. Her stuff? Everywhere. Like she’s marking territory, claiming space. Says it’s improvement, making things ‘better.’ But better for who?

Every corner whispers their names, Amma, Nanna... Haunted almost, echoes of a life that was supposed to be ours, together. But now? It’s just... different. She sees it as setting things right, making it ‘civilised.’ But this civilisation—so cold, so calculated. Do I fit here? Do I want to?

What if I pushed back? No, can’t risk it. Section 498A, whatever it’s called now in BNS, it hangs over us like a thunderhead. One wrong move, and it’s not just me, but them too—Amma, Nanna—behind bars. No power, no say, just... trapped?

Sorry, Amma, Nanna. Spineless, maybe that’s me. But this net, it’s tight, woven with new rules, new norms. Where do I stand? What do I do?

Mansa’s asleep now. House quiet, too quiet. Miss them, Amma’s laughter, Nanna’s stories. This ‘gem’ of a life, is it shiny, or just sharp, cutting deep?

Need to think, need to figure this out. But for now, just... missing them. That’s all. Just that.

~*~

Wednesday, May 05, 2021

Here I am, trying to untangle—Mansa, us, this marriage puzzle. She’s clear, crystal clear, like those sharp morning skies... Marriage for her? It’s a step up, a move—social, economic. Smart, right? Maybe... She sees it, this whole ‘us’, like some kind of strategic move on a chessboard. Marrying me, the ‘well-set’ guy, handsome—yes, frankly yes. Job’s good, pays well. Checks all her boxes, I suppose?

And then, the kids. Future kids. Beautiful, she hopes, another set of trophies for her curated showcase life. It’s like... like she’s collecting pieces for her life’s exhibition. Each piece must shine, must impress.

But then, there’s me... Why do I love her? Really, why? It’s her, just her—her being, her essence. Not what she brings to the table, not her plans, just... her. Her body, the closeness, the intimacy... It’s raw, real. Not about gains, not transactions. It’s about her natural self, the simple, pure existence of her...

It’s strange, isn’t it? Our loves, so different... I’m here, valuing her for just being Mansa. Not for anything she does, not for what she owns or will own, or what she makes the world see. Just Mansa. And this love, my kind of love—it feels deeper, richer. It’s not about adding value or ticking off social checkboxes... It’s about seeing her, the real her, everything nature just... poured into her without asking for anything back.

Does she ever think about this? About why I love her? Not for benefits, not for status... Just for her. Would she ever understand this kind of love? Or am I just... dreaming too loud in a silent room?

Guess it’s just another night of thinking, questioning. But it’s her—always her—at the centre of these circling thoughts. Always her.

~*~

Tuesday, June 15, 2021

Mansa, her moods, they swing—like a pendulum, wild, before her periods... Unpredictable, haan, that’s the word. One minute it’s calm, next it’s a storm. Her irritation, it just bursts out. Everything’s wrong, everyone’s to blame, old arguments dug up like buried bones... “Why did you? Remember when you?” It just goes on.

“I can’t help it, it’s the hormones,” she says, her voice a mix of frustration and resignation. “You just have to deal with it,” she tells me. And I try, really do, nodding, keeping the peace... But then, there’s me, right? My own body, it’s got its demands too—testosterone, they say it’s seventeen times more, something about nature’s own brew in me.

But when I bring it up, the need, the physical need... her look changes. “You can control it,” she snaps, “it’s not the same.” And I’m standing there, wondering—aren’t my hormones part of nature too? Just like hers? But no, mine are different, apparently—dangerous, something to be tamed, controlled like some shapeshifting werewolf inside me. Her hormones are divine. Mine devilish. She’s made by God, and I by the Devil. “Don’t be a brute,” she throws at me, those words stinging, echoing in the quiet of our room.

It’s this double standard, hits me every time... Her body’s whims, they’re natural, uncontrollable. But mine? Mine are seen as predatory, something I should manage, suppress, sublimate, not let out or else... I’m the bad guy, the brute. She’s a human being, and I’m a human doing… at best!

And here I am, left pondering in the silence of the night—what’s it about me, about us, about being a man? My nature, it’s not accepted, not understood the same way. It’s like walking a tightrope, balancing, trying not to fall into being labelled something I’m not.

Just thoughts, circling, never really landing... Nature, na? Funny how it works differently, so differently on either side of this bed.

~*~

Tuesday, September 21, 2021

Six months with Mansa. It’s like walking on a tightrope, but the rope’s on fire. Feeling taken for granted, haan, that’s the constant vibe. It’s this unending push—be better, always better. Like I’m in this never-ending contest with her expectations, with her—the born perfect—to improve and catch up. If not, apologise for my existence? Why? 

She talks, talks to her mother every evening, spills everything. Our privacy, those intimate corners of our life, just out in the open. Her voice, low but intense, mobile phone held close to her ear... “You won’t believe what he said today...” The phone recorder, always on during our fights. Her mother’s voice coming through, that tone—biased, like she’s the judge and I’m always on trial. “Mansa, you see, he’s...” Each word, a little chip away at the respect I’d hoped we’d built.

And respect, isn’t that the bedrock? More than love even... When it’s missing, it chips away at me, little by little—my confidence, my sense of self, my manhood even. Feelings of... what? Emasculation? Uselessness? Resentment brewing like a storm that won’t break.

Sometimes, I just need space, air to breathe... Think about stepping out, finding laughter, lightness outside these walls. Did I miss the red flags? My brain, it works fine—more than fine, right? Certificates, accolades, they say I’m sharp, have genius-level IQ. But here, with her, it’s like I’m constantly missing a beat. Was it the allure, the chemistry? Hormones overruling head?

I’ve tried, God knows... Distance, keeping my cool, building a fortress around my feelings. Non-confrontational—that’s the mantra. Stay calm, stay detached. Depend on myself, because leaning on her is like leaning on a shadow. But nothing changes, it only intensifies.

She wants a reaction, always prodding, poking... When I don’t give in, she ups the ante, words sharper, more cutting. If nothing works, she turns away, dismisses the effort, flicks on the TV. Drama from the screen flows into the room, fills up spaces between us. Drama there’s got to be, real or reel, for her to entertain herself.

And in these moments, lost in thoughts, I wonder—where do we go from here? How do we steer through this? Is there a ‘we’ in this at all, or just her and her drama, me and my attempts to duck the blows?

Just thoughts... circling, fading in and out. Night deepens, the page blurs, life goes on.

~*~

Monday, January 10, 2022

Late again, mind’s a whirl... Thoughts about Mansa, marriage, and all these... obligations. Every second or third day, it’s something. A cousin’s—hers not mine—second son’s third birthday here, an uncle’s—hers not mine—brother-in-law’s third daughter’s sari ceremony there—always something, always far. Hyderabad to who knows where... Hundreds of kilometres, feels like chasing the horizon.

And Mr Aryan Reddy, the boss at BT Infra, his eyes on me like hawks. Can’t miss work, not too often. Corporate life doesn’t bend that way. “Siddharth, we need consistency,” he says. But try explaining that to Mansa... “What’s marriage if not showing up together?” she’d argue. Her words, like echoes in a large empty hall, repeating. Wants to show the world—her handsome husband, her silk sarees, her jewellery. Family, friends, all eyes on her. Love on display—performative, not experiential!

Tried reasoning... These invites, just formalities, right? A text, a call, should suffice. But no, she feels caged, neglected. “They’ll think we’re unhappy!” she claims. Can’t she see the bind I’m in?

And then I offer better alternatives—movie nights, dining out, board games, hiking, biking, picnicking in parks on weekends—but no, that’s not the ‘quality time’ she has in mind. If not faraway functions it’s got to be pilgrimages, far-off temples, gods waiting in distant lands... Why not the temple here, in Hyderabad? Even our home has a puja room. Yet she craves journeys, trains, planes... Says it thrills her. But there’s more—she feels outmatched by my career, my education, my smarts. Rites and rituals are her thing, her way to shine and even things out, to show she’s got an edge somewhere.

So I say, “Spirituality’s fine, but does it need to disrupt our lives?” Her eyes flash, “You don’t get it. This is my time, now... not like with my parents.” But then, what about her role? Homemaking her chosen career... Shouldn’t there be sacrifices from her side too? Marriage isn’t just a stroll through KBR, right?

Effort, sacrifice, hard work—not just words, but essentials to make it work. And compatibility... that looming question. Corporate demands are real—I need to be there, on time, efficient, productive, sincere. Isn’t part of personal life always a sacrifice for greater goals? Food on the table, roof over head... When she sees homemaking as her career, shouldn’t she, too, bend a little for our collective good?

Just thoughts... looping, fading. Night deepens, another day tomorrow, more demands, more negotiations. Where’s the balance, where’s the understanding? Just me, my thoughts, and the relentless ticking of the clock...

~*~

Friday, March 25, 2022

What a whirlwind—inside my head, a storm, outside, just another silent night. The bed feels cold, detached—like it’s just another piece of furniture, not a place where love resides. Sometimes, I wonder what it’s like to be truly close, the way I imagined closeness to be...

Mansa and her calculations—every touch, every moment, priced like some rare commodity. Thousands of rupees, she says, as if she’s handing out cheques with every kiss. Charity, she calls each act of intimacy. And me? Supposed to be eternally grateful, bowing to her wishes like some temple deity. Feels like I’m more of a ledger entry than a husband...

Every time we’re together, it’s... mechanical. Transactional. As if we’re just checking boxes in some fertility clinic form. Pleasure? That’s my job, both mine and hers, apparently. She wouldn’t move a muscle, wouldn’t even think of exploring what joys might be there. In bed, there’s this... cold efficiency. Aim? Reproduction. Nothing more. If it doesn’t lead to a baby, she says it’s wasted effort. And if we ever hit that mark—two kids—she says that’s it. Period. No more touching. Like flipping off a switch.

Never had an orgasm—The Big O—never even heard of it, she says. In her world, intimacy doesn’t exist outside those textbook sketches of human biology. Our bed? More like a kitchen sink—tasks to be done, emotionless, before sleep.

Shouldn’t I just level with her low desires? Gender equality, she says, as if desire can be negotiated like a contract.

Maybe I should just... perform. Like handling a delicate experiment—no feelings, no mess. “Be done with it quickly,” she says. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. But some wounds are too deep for quick fixes. And every quick fix leaves me emptier, the void growing, an abyss that stares back each night.

But oh, the rules! Only when she’s ovulating—just that one week window. Else, it’s yoga or self-gratification for me, as if bending my body can straighten out the tangled mess of my emotions. Anything more? Betrayal, she calls it. Violence, even. During that sacred week, it’s a race against time—”Finish and go… to your room” she says. Can’t stand my smell, she says, even though she married me partly for my looks. What irony, to be desired for a shell, discarded for the scent.

And why do I want more? That baffles her. “Why can’t you be like normal men?” she asks. “Look at my Nanna, never even held my Amma’s hand.” Insist for a second more. Turns me into a villain in her eyes. A pervert for wanting more than this clinical setup.

This gap between us... it’s like a chasm now. I feel rejected, unloved, almost... worthless? It’s crushing, really. That void of intimacy, it’s heavy, suffocating.

What if? What if I stepped outside the lines she’s drawn so rigidly around us? But then, the consequences—society’s harsh glare, the legal chains. A monster, she’d call me. Would stepping out make me one? Or am I already one, here in this bed, alone and unloved?

Just thoughts, spinning late into the night... Where do we even go from here?

~*~

Friday, July 21, 2023

Office party tonight at BT Infra—families too. There’s a buzz, lights, chatter... Mansa’s by my side, and there’s Julie, the new girl, front office executive... bold, dressed to kill, well, you know—daring amount of cleavage. She’s around me, talking, laughing a bit too loud. Important stuff she says, can’t wait. Whatever. I just nod, play along, part of the job, right?

Mansa’s eyes... burning holes. Julie, then me, back to Julie. Smoke might just start coming out of her ears, seriously. Feels like she might blow up, right there, middle of everyone. But no, she holds it, just those glares.

Drive home is quiet, too quiet. Storm’s coming, can feel it in my bones. But then, it’s not what I expect. No third degree on Julie, none of that. Instead? Mansa’s on about last year’s party. What saree she wore. Do I remember? Nope. And that’s it—floodgates open. I’m suddenly on trial for every forgotten detail—market lists, cousins’ birthdays, her new hairstyle yesterday... Yaar, who keeps track like that?

Her voice gets louder, the list longer. I’m scrambling here, trying to find ground. Then—lightbulb moment. “Mansa, I had a haircut today. You didn’t even notice. Why do you think I should notice everything you do, and remember it years later, when you don’t even notice that I’ve had a haircut today?” I throw it out there.

Silence. She blinks. Words caught in her throat. Pakdi gayi—caught.

I’m thinking, Siddharth, you did it, yaar. You got one over her. Not a win to celebrate, maybe it’s not about winning or losing. Maybe it’s about seeing, really seeing each other. I head to my room, quick. Lock clicks. Safe. Room’s quiet, my fortress—my man cave. Just me and my thoughts... spinning. Round and round, like a stuck gramophone. Tonight, I chose to score points. Did I solve anything? Nope. But tonight, can’t think anymore... Just silence, a kind of peace... Temporary? Haan, probably. But I’ll take it.

~*~

Wednesday, December 06, 2023

Bangkok. The city breathes differently, feels different—in ways that Hyderabad... isn’t. Here on office work—metro deal, big stuff, lots of numbers and handshakes. But after hours? They are mine, all mine. Freedom tastes different here, lighter, more like a breath of fresh air—no, a gasp.

So, Sukhumvit Road, right? There’s this place—Flora Spa & Massage. Heard about it. Had to see for myself. Can’t come to Bangkok and not dive into the whole massage scene. Chailai was her name. Young, vibrant. She laid out the options like a menu at some high-end restaurant—just massage, massage with a bit extra... or a lot extra. Mansa’s face flickers in my mind—sudden, unwanted—I flinch. “What about a week?” I ask. “A week-long escort service.” Chailai smiles, nods, and we settle on a hundred thousand baht. Simple. No guilt in her eyes, no judgement. Just business, clear, clean, honest.

The week? It’s like stepping into another world. Chailai’s there, really there, saying yes to everything—easy flowing, no limits, only approval and appreciation. She’s into it, really into it, and it makes all the difference. Nights are no longer just blank spaces of time Mansa’s indifference carved in me. They’re alive, filled with laughter, enthusiasm, shared secrets, genuine connection.

Chailai talks about her family, how she’s the breadwinner, how what she does is her way of holding things together. It’s her duty, she says, sacred even. And I get it—there’s respect in her voice, pride. When the week’s up, I add twenty thousand more baht—a gift, a thank-you. Her gratitude, not just spoken, but felt. It’s different, so different.

But then, the thought creeps in... Did I betray Mansa? No, it’s not betrayal if you’re invisible in your own marriage, right? With Mansa, I’m just a prop—an accessory for social status, future father for beautiful kids. Nothing more.

And Chailai? It was transactional, sure, but different—it was acknowledgement, mutual. Respect was part of the deal. With Mansa, respect’s just... absent. And thinking about it, isn’t there more honesty in acknowledging what’s exchanged? With Chailai, everything’s upfront, clear. No illusions. With Mansa, it’s murky, a swamp where I’m sinking, slow, inevitable.

Leaving Bangkok, there’s this ache, a wish to keep that life with Chailai going. Imagine that—a life where respect and affection are part of the transaction. Sounds almost like a fair trade, doesn’t it?

This detour, this brief escape, it’ll linger—like a scent, like a whisper of something else.

~*~

Tuesday, October 21, 2025

Been married for over four years... No kids yet. Everywhere we go—those looks, those whispers. Mansa feels it, all of it. The questions never stop. “When are you two giving us good news?” “What’s the delay?” It’s like our marriage needs to be stamped ‘Valid’ with a child. In her world, her friends, family... someone’s always announcing a pregnancy. And then, the comparisons start. She’s on the spot, again and again. “Look, she’s a mother now. And you?” as if motherhood is a race and she’s lagging behind.

Mansa, she sees motherhood... as her identity, almost her duty. Her way to contribute, to be valued. Without that, she feels less, invisible maybe... And here I am, building bridges, literally. For me, it’s about creating, contributing in other ways. Maybe not bringing a child into this teeming country is our contribution, but try explaining that...

Breakfast. The air heavy between us. I suggest, maybe gently, maybe not enough, “Could be something medical, you know, with you...” Bad move. By evening, her Amma’s at our door, furious. Accusations thrown like grenades. “How dare you?” she says. “Infertility? In our family? Never!” It’s like I broke some unspoken rule just suggesting it might be she, not me. Her daughter, born perfect, she says. It must be me, only me. Logic? Reason? No audience for those here.

And Mansa, caught in this storm of expectations, she pushes back the only way her family has taught her. “You get tested,” she says. “And… and if it’s you, I might’ve to think of other steps...” Divorce, she means. A threat? A desperate escape? It’s all becoming a blur.

I’m thinking, where’s the us in this? What about laughing together, those escapades we dreamed of, those quiet evenings? Can’t we find joy in what we have, not in what others expect? But no, her mind’s made up. What’s it that ties her worth so tightly to motherhood? And why does my worth not diminish in my eyes if not a father? Society’s script, etched deep.

So, I’ll go, get tested. Not because I believe I’m the problem, but because... maybe, just maybe, it’ll show her something. Or maybe it won’t. But we’re in this loop, you see, where no answer might be the right one unless it’s the one she wants to hear.

~*~

Thursday, October 23, 2025

Azoospermia. That word... sounds like a sentence. No children, ever—it’s final, absolute... How to face Mansa? Sent the test report to her on WhatsApp—chaos erupted in seconds. Her voice high and incoherent, “How could you keep this from me, Sid?” “You’ve cheated me!” Really? I didn’t even know... I just found out myself?

Tried calming her, talking... other options? Adoption? Sperm donor? No, she wouldn’t have it. “And the caste? How will we know the donor’s caste?” Her family wouldn’t accept that, she said. Brick wall... every turn.

Wanted to go on leave for the day, to be with her, to support... to sort my own swirling thoughts. Will my family line just... stop? Nanna, Amma—no grandkids for them. I remembered something about genetic legacies—forty percent of men, no more, ever passed on their genes ever since humans started. So, am I among the rest that met a genetic dead end? Thoughts, spiralling...

Mr Aryan Reddy’s secretary called. Boss called for an urgent meeting. Had to go. Left Mansa a message, “We’ll find a way, together.” Promised I’d be back early.

Came home—5 pm. The place—empty, eerily silent. Her things? Gone. Jewellery, documents, even the clothes—nothing left. Like she’d just erased her existence from here. Tried calling her and her parents several times, but no answer—just silence. Then late at night, her Amma’s voice, cold, icy and final, cut through, “Don’t call again. It’s over.”

Over? Just like that? No trace, no goodbye. Years of life together, dismantled in hours? But should I miss someone who chose to leave because of something I couldn’t control? Life goes on, right? Must find a way to not just survive, but live. Must look for light in the unexpected cracks.

~*~

Tuesday, November 25, 2025

Never thought I’d be here... inside a police station, of all places. And not just me—Amma and Nanna too, dragged from home on a charge so alien it might as well be from another planet. Mansa... what have you done?

Friday. They nab me right at the airport, coming back from Delhi, no chance to even breathe the free air. Parents, they pull them from home. All of us, slapped with cruelty and dowry harassment—like we’re monsters straight out of some dark fairy-tale. Section 498A of the IPC. Sounds like a curse now.

I try to tell the Station House Officer Mr Nagraj—they call him ‘the Cobra.’ Fits, because he strikes fast and hard. I tell him it’s all a mistake, a lie. What does he say? “Everyone who beats his wife claims innocence, doesn’t he? Just shut it and wait.” Tried to sit, he kicks the chair. “Stand up—don’t sit!” he shouts. Accused, he calls me. Investigating officer, he claims to be. Who gave him the right to ill-treat citizens? Did he get the okay from the ACP before he arrested me and my folks? That really ticks him off and makes him feel like he’s being challenged.

His words—”bastard,” “son-of-a-bitch”—they echo, bouncing off the cold walls. Try to protest, and it only gets worse. A baton and boots against my back, my legs... first time I’ve ever been hit like that. Tears... can’t stop them. It’s just pain, raw and sharp.

Amma breaks then, falls at his feet. Oh, the sight of it, can’t shake it off. His ego swells, tells us to shut it, like we’re nothing but dirt under his shoes.

Think, Sid, think. No use dealing with this beast. Mr Aryan Reddy—he knows people, right? Get through to him, somehow. He’s already on it, talked to ACP, but nothing doing. Laws too strict, he says. Can’t do anything till Monday—court’s closed, fantastic timing. Just endure, he says. His cousin went through the same ordeal too, he adds.

I look around in despair. Nanna’s down, slumped, a silent scream of his diabetes and no food. Have to beg Nagraj for some mercy, just some stale bread and tea. It’s a joke, this ‘meal’ they bring us.

Night falls, Amma’s in another cell, crying silent, hitting her forehead... God, what is this place? Make it stop.

Nagraj’s done for the day, goes home. Head Constable Yadgiri takes over. Seems kinder, sits down across from the bars, talks. But then, the talk turns. Money—a lakh in cash to smooth things over. Says it’s not uncommon, the way of the world here. Feels dirty, but what choice do we have? Call Pavan, he’ll know what to do. It’s all set, just survive the night.

Mosquitoes, heat, the stench—and Nanna’s face, turned away. Can’t look at me. Can’t face him either. Shame, humiliation, utter helplessness—mix it all up, and what do you get? This. This night. What did we even do to deserve this? How did marriage twist into this dark tale?

Morning’s light, or just the illusion of it. Pavan with the money, Nagraj’s mood flips like a coin. Respectful now, calls me ‘Sir.’ Promises comfort, good food, talks of a quick bail. Can money really switch reality so fast? Feels like a bad dream, hoping to wake up.

And through it all, it’s her face I see—Mansa. Why? Was this the only way? No answers, just the echo of my own questions, bouncing off these grimy walls. Something new has to come from this. Must. For now, survival. For later, justice? Maybe. Just hold on till Monday. Hold on.

~*~

Thursday, February 26, 2026

Smooth... that’s what they said about the divorce. Smooth like the sliding doors at the court, just parting ways... Mansa, lawyers, and me... Judge Shuja-ur-Rehman, barely asking, nodding. Lawyers murmuring... Deal. Your flat, car, savings—all hers now. Plus, your salary, a slice of it every month... until she gets hitched again. Best deal? Feels like a heist, not a deal. If I balk, it’s the bars for me, three years maybe. No winning... just surviving the grind. The process itself is the punishment... they warned. Mansa walks away clean, no matter what.

Amma... oh Amma. Couldn’t take it, could she? Heart shattered like cheap glass, just a month post-divorce. She wanted simple joys—family dinners, laughter of grandkids... not this mess. Even when she left five years ago, angry words, curses at Mansa... but love, always that love for her wayward son. She couldn’t hold it back. Called at the office, always checking on me... “How are you, beta? The light of my eyes. And that woman, may she…” Her words, love and curses entwined like thorny vines. Police lockup broke her, dignity stripped, worn down to silence... then the coma, and just like that, gone...

Nanna, stoic. Wouldn’t come to live with me, chose a senior living community instead. Said he needed peers, not pity. His pension, his fortress. Me? Left alone, wrestling with ghosts and choices. The flat the office rented feels too big, too quiet.

Suicide? Crossed my mind... society’s brief moment of sympathy, then what? Coward’s way out, isn’t it? Marriage again? Who’d have me? A man who can’t make a baby... no, won’t go there. Adopt? Long roads, tangled in red tape... told I can’t even adopt a girl. Other options?—friends with benefits, live-in, sugar daddy... but this is India, too risky, too raw. Monk mode? Deny my nature, cool down the human urge... can’t be that harsh on myself.

The police station... still haunts me. Amma’s face, Nanna’s quiet despair, my own helplessness. But from that... something. Must be. From the ashes, right? They say that, don’t they? Ashes to... something new.

Then, this flicker... a thought, unusual, out of the blue. Not about people, not about fitting in... something else, something... liberating. Can’t pin it down yet, not fully formed... But it’s there, like the first true breath after a lifetime of gasping. Something creative, something mine... the way to step out of this shadow.

~*~

Friday, April 10, 2026

Mansa is history now... She thought—really thought—she stripped me bare, left me a pauper. Ha! That’s her folly... She’s never really known the depths, never ventured outside her bubble... Comfort zones, right? But me? I’ve got layers she’s never even touched, never seen—books, streets, faces... learnt lessons everywhere. Loaded with more smarts and guts than she ever had—seventeen times more intelligence, at least...

Before it all started, I did something—call it foresight, call it plain luck—dropped a cool two crores on Bitcoin, way before we tied the knot. That stash? It’s exploded—over a hundred crores now, tucked away from prying eyes. No trace, no digital trail. Mansa, her lawyer—clueless, grasping at thin air...

Needed that foresight, because marriage in India… yaar, it’s a minefield. One minute you’re in love, the next it’s war. One wrong step—boom, everything’s gone. Your own wife turns against you, strips you of everything... Had to be ready, right? Have to protect what’s rightfully mine. Took those precautions, because you never know...

Those nights in lockup, the cold walls, the mosquitos, quietly falling apart inside, oh the humiliation of it! Mansa’s doing. Makes my blood boil just thinking... Revenge? Haan, but not the petty kind. Living well—that’s the real slap back. And live well I shall, but on my terms. No more traps, no more risks.

But not with another Mansa, another human mess. No way. But a companion? Yes... A true companion, without the chaos.  No walking on eggshells, no jumping through hoops—only my terms, every minute. An anthropomorphic bot, fully functional, haan, that’s the future. Top-tier AI, oozing emotions—love, intimacy on tap. Better than any flesh-and-blood drama queen. Ten crores? Pocket change if it gives me peace, companionship without the chaos...

And kids—why not? Sperm aspiration, designer babies, high-tech artificial wombs. Another ten crores? Worth every paisa. My legacy, no mess, no fuss.

Rebuild my life? Absolutely. But this time, my life, my rules. Full control, no compromises. Me and the guys, fellow engineers, burnt by love and marriage—martyrs of marriage. We’re onto something big, pushing this tech... pleasure bots, artificial wombs... not just gadgets, yaar, they’re freedom.

Imagine it—freedom from nature’s cruel sport, society’s harsh judgements. Men, they’re stuck in the middle, right? Nature pushes them, society sucks them into the plantation... Pressed from below, pressed from above, and from the sides too. It’s a mess. High testosterone? Society labels you a monster... But why? For just following the hard wiring. But tech, beautiful tech, it can save you.

We’re talking revolution here, yaar... not just making life easier but changing the game. If AI can sell, can handle stocks, drive cars, why not redefine companionship, meet deeper needs? That’s the vision. I’ll lead this charge, break these chains. A gift to men everywhere—freedom from nature’s tyranny, society’s rules. It isn’t just business. It’s a crusade. The dawn of a new era.

Here’s to the new age, to freedom, to living on your own terms... Cheers!

~*~

A Note from the Author

“Man and Marriage” and “Marriage Musings” are companion pieces—the former initiates the story and the latter responds to it. “Man and Marriage” combines two classical narrative techniques, stream of consciousness and diary mode, while also partially qualifying as a confessional narrative in its raw, unguarded intimacy. Readers will recall the stream?of?consciousness technique, practised and perfected by such literary greats as James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, William Faulkner, and Dorothy Richardson. The diary mode (often loosely described as an epistolary form of writing) was employed by Bram Stoker in Dracula, Sue Townsend in The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, Aged 13¾, Helen Fielding in Bridget Jones’s Diary, and many other writers.