Latest / My Playful Wife — A Tender Literary Love Story / My Playful Wife — Season 1, Episode 8: What a Man Learns

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My Playful Wife — Season 1, Episode 8: What a Man Learns · My Playful Wife — A Tender Literary Love Story

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My Playful Wife, Episode 8, What a Man Learns,
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written by Mia. I started going to the gym in
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January. The connection between that choice and
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everything else was not something I understood
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at the time. I simply woke one morning. Early,
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before Saloni, before the city had fully committed
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to the day, and found myself standing in the
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gym three minutes from my office at 6am with
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a membership card and no specific plan beyond
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the need to do something with my body. The trainer's
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name was Samir. He was 26 and built in the way
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of someone who had decided, at some point, to
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make the body into a project and had been working
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on it seriously ever since. He looked at me with
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the eyes of a professional assessor. Goals, he
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said. I don't know yet, I said. He wrote something
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in his notebook with a neutral expression of
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someone who has heard this before and knows what
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it usually means. I found out what it usually
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meant. A man who has had something happen. A
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man who, in the absence of a clear target, needs
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the discipline of an external structure, a man
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who is too much in his head and needs somewhere
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to put the energy that thinking generates. The
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gym became a habit for mornings a week, early
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enough that it was finished before the day properly
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started, before the flat was awake, before Saloni's
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alarm went off in the other room. I had those
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hours to myself, just the body, just the work
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of it. just Samir's efficient instructions and
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the particular satisfaction of effort. Something
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changed. Not overnight, not in any way I could
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point to directly, but over the weeks, the body
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I had been carrying without much attention became
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something I was in dialogue with. Something that
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responded. Something that had more to it than
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I'd understood. Saloni noticed. She didn't say
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anything for two weeks, and then one morning
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she said, You look different. Good different,
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I said. She looked at me with the expression
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she used when the answer was obvious, and she
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had decided to let the obviousness do the work.
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She went back to her chai. I went to the gym
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the next morning with something extra in it.
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What a man learns when he starts paying real
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attention. is that the person he married is a
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continent he has been treating as a postcard.
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Three years. I had been married to Celonie for
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three years, and I was discovering, in the months
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after October, that I had been skimming the surface
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of her the entire time. Not for malice or in
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curiosity. From the comfortable habit of thinking
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I already knew, the trap of the familiar. the
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way long acquaintance produces the illusion of
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full knowledge. I was learning her properly now.
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The way she read, fast and complete, one book
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per sitting, the way some people eat, as though
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the experience requires total commitment and
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divided attention is an insult to the thing.
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She would pick up a book at nine and set it down.
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Finished at midnight, and her face in the interval
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would be the face of someone who has been somewhere.
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The way she called her sister every Friday. Always
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Friday, always between 7 and 8. Always conducted
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in the register of two people who have shared
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something large and are maintaining the connection
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through the ritual of weekly contact. The sister
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lived in Pune. I had met her three times. I understood,
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listening to the Friday calls from the kitchen,
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that there was a version of Celonie that existed
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in that relationship that I had not met. The
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notebook. She kept a small notebook in her bag,
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not her sketchbook, which was larger and lived
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in the workroom, but a different one, personal.
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She wrote in it in the odd pockets of time, waiting
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for food in restaurants, on the sofa after dinner.
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Occasionally in the morning before she'd fully
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woken up, the pen moving before the mind was
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fully operational. I had seen it. I had never
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read it. I had held back from reading it with
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a specific self -discipline of a person who has
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decided that some privacies are not his to breach,
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no matter what permissions the broader situation
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might seem to grant. One evening I said, What
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are you writing it? The small notebook. She looked
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up from where she was sitting, cross -legged
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on the bed. The workroom's materials spread around
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her. She looked at me with the measuring look
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she used when she was deciding how much to give.
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Ideas, she said. Sometimes just things. Things
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like what? She looked at the notebook for a moment.
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Then she held it out. I took it. I sat with it
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in my hands for a moment, feeling the weight
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of it, before I opened it. The page I turned
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to had a color swatch taped to it, a dusty terracotta,
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a burnt orange that leaned toward earth, with
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notes beside it about weight and drape and whether
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the collar should close or open. And below the
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fabric notes, in smaller writing, something that
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was not about cloth. He is learning to see. I
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can feel it. I don't know yet if I'm glad. I
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sat with those words. The notebook in my hands.
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The person across the room, watching me read
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it. Watching my face for what I would do with
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what I found. He is learning to see. I can feel
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it. I don't know yet if I'm glad. I thought about
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what it meant for her to not know yet. About
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the specific uncertainty of that. Not indifference,
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not fear, but genuine unknowing. She had been
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managing a situation, managing me and Piyush
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and the arrangement, with a competence and confidence
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that she brought to everything, and underneath
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that confidence was a question she hadn't yet
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answered. Is this okay? Am I okay? Is this man
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who is learning to see going to see something
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that will unmake what we are? I closed the notebook.
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I gave it back. The terracotta one, I said. Will
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it be next? She took the notebook with a composure
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that was slightly more careful than usual, the
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composure of someone who has gambled and is waiting
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to see how the cards fell. Maybe, she said. Why?
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I want to see it when it's done, I said. She
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looked at me. Something moved through her expression.
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Relief, I thought, and something else, the beginning
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of an emotion that hadn't fully arrived yet.
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Okay, she said. There was a night in February
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when something shifted. Before I tell you about
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that night, I want to tell you about the mornings.
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The gym mornings had a quality. I hadn't expected.
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Not just the physical part, the weights, the
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sweat, the particular satisfaction of Samir's
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clipped approval when I managed something I hadn't
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managed the week before, but the mornings themselves,
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the pre -dawn dark, the walk from the flat to
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the gym, the city not yet operational. I had
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never had those hours before. They had always
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belonged to sleep, to the compressed unconsciousness
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of someone who didn't think he needed the time.
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I needed the time. In those hours, I thought
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about the year. Not obsessively, not with the
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grinding quality of middle -of -the -night thinking,
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but with the particular clarity that physical
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effort produces, the brain freed from performance,
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just processing. I thought about what I was becoming
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and what I was losing, and whether losing some
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things was the price of becoming better ones.
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I arrived at this. I was losing the comfortable
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version of the marriage, the one that didn't
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require anything from me except presence and
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basic decency. I was gaining something I didn't
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have a name for yet. A marriage that required
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everything from me, that would keep requiring
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it, that was built on the assumption that I was
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capable of more than comfort. I was capable of
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more than comfort. This was what the mornings
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taught me, not through thinking, but through
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the body. The repeated demonstration, every day,
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that I was stronger than I had been, that capacity
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could be built through sustained effort, that
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the thing you thought was your limit was usually
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not the actual limit. Piyush had been in Bengaluru
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for a month. The visits had stopped. The weekly
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calls had continued, the rhythm of them changing
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slightly now that there was distance in the relationship
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rather than proximity. Something settling, adjusting.
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I thought of it sometimes as title, the movement
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between states, the ongoing adjustment to what
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was real. That night Saloni came home from a
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meeting with the boutique owner, Caveri, the
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first real meeting, the one where the collection
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had been discussed properly for the first time.
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She came in carrying the large portfolio she
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used for client work, and she set it down carefully,
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the careful way you set down something you're
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not ready to open yet, and she stood in the hallway
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for a moment. I was on the couch with a book.
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I looked up. She looked at me. It went well,
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I said. She wants all 12 pieces, Saloni said.
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By when? May. I thought about May. About four
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months of the kind of work I had watched her
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do. The total absorption. The 10 p .m. evenings
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in the workroom. The hands that were always slightly
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roughened from handling fabric. That's doable?
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I said. Probably not, she said. I'll do it anyway.
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She came to the couch. She sat beside me, properly
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beside me, not at the other end, but close. She
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leaned back. She closed her eyes. I put down
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my book. This was the thing I had been learning,
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when to speak and when to simply be. There were
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moments when what was needed was not words but
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presence, the specific comfort of another person
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occupying the same space, being real in it, being
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available without demand. I stayed. After a while,
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she opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling.
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She called a distance, she said. The collection.
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She named it in the room. Kaveri? Yes. A pause.
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She held up the rose silk piece and said, This
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is distance. Something that looks like it's closing.
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and is actually opening. The room was very quiet.
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She's right, I said. Celonie turned and looked
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at me, at my face, at whatever was there. That's
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what this year has been, I said, something that
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looked like it was closing. She held my gaze.
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And is actually opening, she said. Yes, I said.
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She looked at me for a long moment in the February
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evening light, the kind of looking that is also
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listening, that is receiving something through
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the eyes that takes a moment to process. Then
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she reached over and took my hand off my knee
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and held it. Her hand was warm. She held mine
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the way she held fabric she was assessing, with
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complete attention. feeling for what was there.
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I held it back. A week later, I came home to
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find her on the phone in the bedroom, door not
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fully closed, the warm voice. I had learned,
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by now, not to leave the room, not to perform
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absence as a kind of statement. I went to the
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kitchen and made tea, and was simply in the flat,
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occupying my own life. While she occupied hers.
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She came out when the call was done with the
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expression of someone who has been somewhere
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good. Bangaluru. I said. Yes, she said. He's
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okay. He's good, she said. She poured herself
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tea. She looked at me across the kitchen. He
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asked about you. What did you tell him? That
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you're different, she said. That you've changed
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since the gym. I looked at my tea. And he said,
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I said. She smiled. The small, private one. The
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one she kept for things that were specifically
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hers. He said that was good, she said. That it
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was right. I thought about Piyush in Bengaluru,
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building his life. I thought about what it meant
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to be asked about by someone who knew you in
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a particular and complicated way, not as a performance
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of care, but as genuine inquiry. He was asking
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because he wanted to know, because what happened
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to me mattered to him, because the three of us
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were connected in a way that the geography of
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cities could not entirely sever. Tell him I said
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hello, I said. She looked at me, something in
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her face. Very still. Tell him yourself, she
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said, and held out her phone. I took it. I looked
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at the screen, the open chat, the small photo
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of him in the corner, the most recent message
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visible. I thought about the lift, the corridor,
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the handshake. It's fine, isn't it? Between us.
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I called him. He picked up on the second ring.
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Yeah, he said. Surprised genuinely, but the surprise
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warm. Just calling to say hello? I said. Don't
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make it a thing. He laughed. We talked for 20
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minutes. About Bengaluru. About a restaurant
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he'd found. About the kind of nothing that brothers
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talk about when they have decided to continue
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being brothers. When I hung up, Saloni was looking
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at me from across the kitchen with an expression
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I had never seen on her face before. Something
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entirely unguarded. Something that had always
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been there, but had not had the conditions to
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surface until now. What? I said. Nothing, she
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said. Her voice was slightly uneven. Nothing.
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I just... She stopped. She crossed the kitchen.
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She put her arms around me, properly, fully,
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the kind of embrace that isn't comfort or desire
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specifically but contains both and more, the
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embrace of a woman who has been carrying something
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and has just felt a part of it lift. I held her
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back. Outside, February. Inside, the two of us
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in our kitchen, in the ongoing work of being
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who we were to each other. The distance closing.
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And opening. Both simultaneously. Both true.
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That night was different. I don't mean the night
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after Piyush called about Bengaluru. Not immediately.
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I mean a few days later. In the middle of an
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ordinary week. When nothing particular had happened
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and there was no occasion for anything and Saloni
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came to find me where I was sitting with the
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fourth notebook and she stood in the doorway
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of the living room and looked at me. Just looked.
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I looked back. She crossed the room and sat beside
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me and she reached over and took the notebook
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from my hands, gently. just taking it, setting
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it on the table, and she turned toward me with
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an expression that had no management in it at
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all. You've been different, she said, since the
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gym, since, since all of it. Yes, I said. I notice
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it at night, she said. You're more, she searched
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for it, present. Your whole body is more present.
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I thought about Samir, about the early mornings,
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about what happens when you ask a body to do
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hard things over months, not just the physical
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change, but the other change, the proprioception
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of it, the increased awareness of where you are
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in space. I feel more like I'm actually here,
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I said, in my own body, rather than managing
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from slightly above it. She looked at me, processing.
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I want that, she said, from you, the actually
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here version. I know, I said. I'm trying to give
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it. She studied my face in the way she studied
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fabric, feeling for the weight of it, the fall,
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whether it would do what it was supposed to do.
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Then she put her hand against my face, palm against
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jaw, thumb near my eye, the hold of someone who
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is deciding something. I know things have been
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complicated, she said. That I've made them complicated.
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We've made them, I said. I've made them more,
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she said. And you've, she stopped. Started again.
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You've been so careful with everything. With
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me. With Piyush. With what you feel. I know what
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it costs. It's worth it, I said. Is it? Yes,
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I said. Every day it's worth it. She looked at
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me for a long moment, her hand still on my face.
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I'm going to try to deserve that, she said. You
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don't have to try, I said. You already do. She
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shook her head. Don't let me off easy, she said.
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I want to earn it. I thought about what it meant,
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a woman who could have coasted on being loved,
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who instead wanted to do the work of being worth
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it, the specific integrity of that. Okay, I said,
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then earn it. She almost smiled, her hand dropped
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from my face, and found mine. We sat like that
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in the living room in the lamplight in the ongoing
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life of our marriage. Present. Both of us. Samir
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pulled me aside at the end of the session on
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a Friday in March. What changed, he said. What
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do you mean? He made a gesture. Up, down, meaning
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me, my body, the change in it. Three months ago
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you couldn't do that, he said. Now you do it
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like it's nothing. What changed? I thought about
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this. I started paying attention, I said, to
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things I wasn't paying attention to before. He
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looked at me for a moment with the eyes of someone
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who has seen many men in various states of falling
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apart and putting themselves back together. Same
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thing, he said. Body, life. Same thing. I walked
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home from the gym that morning instead of taking
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the auto, the longer route, 20 minutes, the city
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going about its morning around me. I thought
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about what Samir had said. Same thing. When I
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got back, Saloni was making breakfast. She had
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her back to me and she was humming the same song
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she hummed when she was absorbed, not really
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aware of herself, just making the sound the way
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a body makes warmth. I stood in the doorway.
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He is learning to see what she had written in
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her notebook. I don't know if I'm glad. She knew
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now. Sit, she said, without turning. Two minutes.
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Iset. I paid attention. To be continued in Episode
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8 of My Playful Wife. If this story is staying
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with you, the next episode is already waiting.
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Subscribe so you don't miss it. The complete
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description. Thank you for listening.