Theirs Was A Perfect Marriage (A Fiction by Hdaran)

No one really knew why Shanthi had messed up her life. A mother of two she was the epitome of a perfect Indian housewife. In between managing the notorious duo, Suman and Nikhil, Shanthi oozed radiance from her every pore. Never a frown, never a complaint, never once did the husband say, "the coffee is too sweet", or "my towel needs replacing"; the need never arose. Shanthi never left anything unattended to. Their's was a neat, tidy and pleasantly designed home; one that would make magazine covers any day.

Proud of her upbringing Shanthi's mother always took pride in hastening people over to Shanthi's place.

"Seven o'clock, your aunty Kamala wants a look at how you re-did your prayer alter," her mom always called an hour earlier. Never later, never sooner. Always just an hour. And always with relatives.
"Ok ma, Rishi will be back from work just in time for the evening prayers. Aunty can join us and I have some vadais frying in the pan," she always obliged, in a happy tone even.
"Wonderful!!! Appa sends his love too," much to her delight, Shanthi always appreciated 'love' from her father. The steadfast BA English graduate earned his degree way back in 1965.
"Thanks amma. See you in an hour," so sublimely structured; the mother-daughter conversation never steered far. It was almost picture perfect; right out of a translated, well written Bollywood script.

Suman turned 12 years old that year, Nikhil was three years behind. Shanthi and Rishi planned the pregnancy only after three years into their marriage. Suman was two years old when the couple celebrated their 5th anniversary. Rishi never forgot their anniversary and Shanthi always cooked her husband's favorite dishes. Rishi always came back with flowers never lacking an accompanying piece of jewelery or a saree and Shanthi always managed to put the children to bed on time on that one night; no exceptions. Rishi never worked the day after their anniversary and Shanthi always slipped into her finest Indian ensemble for the night, complete with bangles, earrings, necklace and three spurts of her best; most intoxicating perfume.

That year, at 12 years of age, Suman lost his mother.
At 65 'appa' lost his youngest.
At 38 Rishi lost his wife.
At 37, Shanthi lost her will to live.

That year, Shanthi plunged to her death from the 12th floor right out of the lawyer's office.
She was present there to sign some legal papers regarding Rishi's assets.
The family lawyer had proved his alibi because he was spotted by no less than 12 other witnesses outside his office collecting some documents. Concurrently, the same no-less-than-12 people heard the window breaking and some hurried in to the office to find Shanthi absent. The office was searched for evidence; all leading to one conclusion.

Shanthi committed suicide.

A family was lost.
The portrait of perfection was shattered.
Her doing was unfathomable.
But there stood one suggestion of the contrary; one which was not to be found until years later.

Underneath her perfect life, and her perfect family, in a perfect teak cupboard that stored her perfect pristine white bedsheets, underneath exactly 10 layers of 1000 thread count Egyption cotton sheets, there, laid an imperfect picture.

A flat jewelery casing containing a faded yellow thread, bearing a familiar gold pendant. The pendant, sacred to married Hindu women, was a 'mangalyam', and not that of her husband Rishi's.