Latest / My Playful Wife — A Tender Literary Love Story / My Playful Wife — Season 1, Episode 10: The Question

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My Playful Wife — Season 1, Episode 10: The Question · My Playful Wife — A Tender Literary Love Story

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My Playful Wife. Episode 10, The Question. Written
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by Mia. Piyush took the job. He called on a Thursday
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evening to say, so, Seloni's phone, my flat,
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the three of us briefly inhabiting the same moment
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from our different places. She put it on speaker,
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which I understood, as its own kind of statement,
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you are part of this. You are allowed to be part
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of this. We congratulated him and asked the questions
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that the news warranted, and he talked about
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the timeline and the firm and the flat he would
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find in Bengaluru. When he hung up, the flat
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was very quiet. Saloni set the phone on the table.
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She sat with it for a moment, her hands flat
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on the surface beside it, and I watched her do
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this. The specific stillness of someone containing
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something large. She was good at this. It was
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one of the things I had always loved about her.
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The capacity to hold large feelings without letting
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them spill. To be moved without being undone.
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She stood. She went to the kitchen with the decisive
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purposefulness of a woman who has decided that
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motion is the correct response to feeling. I
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heard the tap. the stove, the sounds of preparation.
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I let her go. I sat in the living room and thought
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about what Bengaluru meant, about distance and
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proximity and the specific geography of what
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we had built, the three of us, over these months.
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I thought about how much of what I had become
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had been shaped by the pressure of the visits,
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the way a thing takes its form under heat and
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force, and whether what I had become would hold
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without that pressure. I thought it would. I
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thought I was, now, a person who held his shape
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under his own power rather than the situational
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power of being continuously tested. After a while,
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I went to the kitchen. She was making something
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elaborate, a dish with many stages, the kind
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that required sustained attention and produced
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the particular smell of ours. Her back to me,
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her shoulders carrying something. I leaned against
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the counter. Say what you're not saying, I said.
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She kept moving. I'm not not saying anything.
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Saloni. A pause. The knife slowed. She set it
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down. She turned. Her face, I want to describe
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it accurately, was not crying because Saloni
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did not cry easily, the way some people don't
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cry easily not because they feel less but because
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the feeling has nowhere to exit through that
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particular channel. But it was near the territory,
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the edges of it, something close to the surface
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that was staying there through an act of will.
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It's fine, she said, her voice steady. It's a
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good opportunity. He should go. Yes, I said.
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And it's not. It doesn't change the... She stopped.
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Started again. He'll still come. For visits.
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The distance isn't impossible. No, I said. It
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isn't. So it's fine, she said. Yes, I said. And
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it's also not nothing. She looked at me. No,
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she said. It's not nothing. I crossed the kitchen.
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I put my hands on her shoulders, my hands on
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her shoulders gently, steadily, the grip of a
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man who has been practicing at a certain kind
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of steadiness for months and has got reasonably
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good at it. She was warm under my palms. I felt
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her shoulders drop slightly. It's allowed to
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be something, I said. You don't have to make
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it smaller than it is to make it acceptable.
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It can be what it is. She looked at me, her eyes
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very clear and slightly too bright. You're being
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very good, she said. I'm trying, I said. You
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keep trying, she said. You don't stop. No, I
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said. I don't. She looked at me for a moment
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longer, and then she leaned her forehead against
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my collarbone. The weight of it, the specific
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gravity of a head that has been holding itself
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up for a while and has decided, for just a moment,
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to rest. I put my arms around her and held her.
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Outside the city. March getting warm, a dog somewhere,
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the sound of traffic, inside, her forehead against
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my chest, her hands between us, and the feeling
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that I was something she was coming back to,
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not settling, not resolving into, but actively
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returning to, the way you return to a thing that
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is yours. After a while, she straightened. She
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looked at me. He'll come at Diwali, she said.
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He mentioned it. Then we'll make something good
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for Diwali, I said. She almost smiled. Not quite.
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Still too full. He might bring someone, she said.
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He mentioned a woman from the firm. Casually.
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You know how he mentions things casually. Yes,
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I said. I did know. He had always done this.
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Embedded the significant thing in the ordinary,
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mentioned it sideways so you had time to adjust
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to it before he asked you to meet it directly.
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How do you feel about that, she said. I thought
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about this honestly. How did I feel about my
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brother building a life in Bengaluru that included
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a woman from his firm? About the geometry of
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all of us rearranging the way it would rearrange?
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I think it's right, I said. I think that's what
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should happen. She looked at me. You mean it,
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she said. Yes, I said. He should have his own
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life. The full version of it. Her expression
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was complicated in the way of someone receiving
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something they wanted and hadn't let themselves
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expect. Okay, she said. Go back to cooking, I
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said. The smell is incredible. She went back
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to cooking. I sat at the table and watched her
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and thought about the particular quality of the
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moment. The grief in it, real and present, and
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the love in it, also real, and the strange gift
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of a marriage that had been forced into a kind
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of honesty it might never have arrived at on
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its own. Piyush came for a last long weekend
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before the Bengaluru move. Four days. More deliberate
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than the previous visits. Chosen, planned, the
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last instance of this particular geography. He
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and Saloni went to Lajpat Nagar on the second
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day, just the two of them. She had suggested
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it. I had said go, genuinely meant it. I was
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home when they came back, late afternoon, the
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city golden, both of them carrying bags. She
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brought me cloth. She had bought a small length
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of something for me without telling me she would.
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A cotton in a muted blue, the kind of simple
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thing she said would make good cordas. For you,
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she said, setting it on the table. I looked at
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it, then at her. You thought about me. I said.
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I always think about you, she said simply. I
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picked up the cloth. It was soft, had good weight,
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exactly the kind of thing I would have reached
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for myself if I had been there. Thank you, I
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said. She was already moving to the kitchen,
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but she paused at the doorway and looked back
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at me, and in that look was the whole complicated
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truth of what we were. The love that had always
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been there, and the love that had been added
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to it, and the difficulty and the chosenness
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of all of it. And then she was in the kitchen,
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and the moment was done. On the last evening,
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we went to the terrace. I had not suggested this.
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It was Saloni's idea, the practical solution
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to the last night's wait. She brought a rug and
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cushions up, the small logistics of making something
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possible. and we sat on the roof as the city
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lit up below us. The three of us. December becoming
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warmer air, the city spreading in all directions,
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the particular view from the roof that I had
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never fully appreciated before. You could see
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the shape of the neighborhood from here. The
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density of it, the lives compressed into those
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few square kilometers, the whole unlikely assemblage
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of people living their lives. We talked. Real
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talking, the kind that happens when the occasion
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gives permission for it. Piyush talked about
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the future with an honesty I hadn't heard from
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him before. What he wanted, what he was afraid
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of, the specific shape of his ambition, and the
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parts of it that still felt uncertain. He talked
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about Bengaluru with the specific ambivalence
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of someone who has chosen to do something and
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isn't entirely sure they've chosen correctly.
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Saloni listened with the complete quality of
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her attention. She asked questions that came
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from actually hearing him rather than from constructing
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responses. I watched her listen and thought about
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what it was to be received by her fully. to have
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her attention without remainder, and how lucky
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my brother was to have had it, and how lucky
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I was to have it still, and how strange and true
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it was that those two things could coexist. I
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asked questions, too. We talked for two hours.
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At some point, Piyush looked at me directly.
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Biyahi said, Yes, I said. Can I ask you something?
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Yes, I said. He looked at the city. He took a
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breath. Are you okay, he said. I mean, actually,
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not the answer you give people. The actual answer.
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The question sat in the night air. Celony was
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very still. I looked at my brother. I thought
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about all the things the question contained.
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The history of this year. The kitchen, the balcony,
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the framework I had built in the absence of instructions,
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the gym, the notebook, the phone call to Bengaluru,
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the nights that had been transformed, the marriage
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that had been broken and remade. I'm something
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better than okay, I said. I don't have a word
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for it, but it's real. He nodded, slowly, absorbing
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this. I didn't mean for any of it to, he started.
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I know, I said. It wasn't planned. We didn't.
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I know that, I said. I've always known that.
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He looked at me, his face young in the dark,
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the same face that had cried at cartoons and
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hidden a cat in his hostel room and shaken my
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hand in a lift and asked me to confirm that things
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were fine. What you did, he said. What you chose.
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I don't think I could have. You would have, I
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said. If you loved someone enough, you'd find
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what you needed to find. He was quiet for a moment.
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It's good that you're going, I said. To Bengaluru.
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It's right. He looked at me sharply. I mean it,
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I said. Build something there. The whole version
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of it. That's what should happen. Something released
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in him. I could see it the specific release of
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a thing that has been held in tension for a long
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time. He looked at Saloni. She looked at him
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with an expression that confirmed whatever he
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needed confirmed. Okay, he said. Come at Diwali,
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I said. Bring the woman from the firm. He looked
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surprised. Then he laughed, genuine full. You
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know about that, he said. You mentioned it casually,
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I said. You always mention things casually. He
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left the next morning. The goodbye at the door
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had a different quality from all the others.
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Less weight in it. Not because it mattered less,
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but because it had been settled. The unresolved
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things had been, over the months, slowly resolved.
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Not finished. Finished is the wrong word. But
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settled, like sediment finding its level. Clear
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water above. He hugged Saloni. She held him.
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Brief. Complete. He shook my hand. He held it.
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Come to Bengaluru, he said. Both of you. We will.
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I said, and meant it. The lift, the doors. Saloni
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and I alone in the flat. She stood at the door
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for a moment, her back to me, hands still on
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the handle. Then she turned and crossed the flat
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and stopped in front of me and looked up at me
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with a gaze that held nothing back. You want
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to know something, she said. Yes, I said. I chose
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you, she said. I've been choosing you since the
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beginning. I know that doesn't sound right given
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everything. I know you have every reason not
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to believe it, but it's the truest thing I know.
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I looked at my wife. I thought about the green
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chutney she made because she knew I forgot to
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ask. The chai at the right hand, the right temperature,
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without my asking. The three years of small,
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ordinary choices that had added up to, I see
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this person. I know this person. I am staying.
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I thought about what she had said in the notebook.
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He is learning to see. I can feel it. I don't
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know yet if I'm glad. She knew now. I could see
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that she knew. I know, I said. She put her hand
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flat on my chest. The sentence in a touch. The
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thing she said with her hand that she couldn't
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say with anything else. Good, she said. I put
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my hand over hers. The flat was quiet. The city
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ongoing. The question the year had asked, what
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kind of man does this make you, was still not
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entirely answered. It was a question I would
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be answering for the rest of my life, probably.
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That was the nature of real questions. But I
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was answering it here, in this flat, with this
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woman, with my hand over hers, and the March
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morning coming in through the kitchen window
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at its usual angle. Same light. Different eyes.
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Still choosing. The rest of that day was quiet.
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We ate. We moved around the flat. She went to
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the workroom for two hours. The collection pressing
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made deadline real. The work that had to happen
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regardless of what else was happening. And I
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sat with the notebook and wrote. Not about the
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morning. About something smaller. The cloth she
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had bought me in Bengaluru. The specific blue
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of it. The weight of it in my hands when she'd
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set it on the table. She thought about me. That
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was what I had said. She always thinks about
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you, she had said. I wrote. The ordinary evidence
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of being loved. The cloth she chose in a market
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because she knows the blue I reach for. This
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is also love. This is love's daily form. The
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one that doesn't require occasion. When she came
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out of the workroom, at six her hands were roughened
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from handling fabric and there was a trace of
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chalk on her sleeve from marking. She saw me
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looking. Don't, she said. What? Look at me like
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that. Like what? She sat down across from me,
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like you're going to put it in the notebook.
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I looked at the notebook. I looked at her. I
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picked up the pen. She laughed, the real one,
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from the stomach, surprised out of her. I hate
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you, she said. No, you don't, I said, writing.
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What are you writing? Chalk on her sleeve, the
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real laugh. She knows when I'm watching. She
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shook her head. You've become insufferable. You
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made me this way, I said. She reached over and
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tried to take the notebook. I held it out of
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reach. We were briefly ridiculous in the best
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way, two adults struggling over a small book
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in a kitchen at the end of a day. And she was
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laughing and I was laughing and it lasted maybe
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30 seconds before she gave up and sat back and
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looked at me with the expression that was specifically
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for me, the one I hadn't known she had until
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recently. The one that held the full weight of
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what we were. I'm glad you stayed, she said.
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I know, I said. I'm glad you kept choosing it.
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I know, I said again. Every day, she said. Not
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just once. Every day you've chosen this. Yes,
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I said. She looked at me for a long moment, her
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hands in her lap, chalk -marked warm. Then I'll
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keep being worth it, she said. The light was
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going outside, the city settling into its evening,
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the flat around us, our life around us, the one
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we had not planned and had not been given instructions
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for and had been building from the available
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materials of who we actually were. You already
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are, I said. Later I wrote in the notebook. March.
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The chalk on her sleeve. She said, I'll keep
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being worth it, I said. You already are. We ate
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dinner. The city did what cities do. And below
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that, three years of marriage. Seven months of
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knowing. The knowing did not diminish the love.
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The knowing expanded the love into a shape I
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didn't expect. Larger. Less comfortable. More
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true. This is what I'm learning. That love is
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not a thing you have. It's a practice. A daily
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decision. A series of choices. Each one informed
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by the last. Each one building on what has been
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built. I choose her. The full her. Not the version
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I thought I was getting. The actual one. I put
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down the pen. Saloni came to the kitchen doorway.
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Come to bed, she said. One minute, I said. I
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wrote one more line. She called me from the doorway.
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She is standing there now. I should go. I closed
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the notebook. I went. I put the notebook away.
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I went to the bedroom. She was already in bed,
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reading, her hair loose, the specific domestic
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piece of the end of a day. She looked up when
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I came in. Done, she said. Done, I said. Good,
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she said. She went back to her book. Symbolo
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episode 10 of my playful wife. If this story
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is staying with you, the next episode is already
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waiting. Subscribe so you don't miss it. The
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complete book is on Amazon and early episodes
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plus bonus chapters are on my Patreon. Links
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are in the description. I'm Mia. Thank you for
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listening.