Our marriage took place in Rajahmundry, and almost within a fortnight my parents brought her to Hyderabad to live with me. I was working as a Design Engineer at Hindustan Aeronautics Limited. We could get a decent house in Mehdipatnam and lived as man and wife for nine months.
Saraswathi is not attractive in the conventional sense. She did not talk much, and this bored me to my bones. She is dark in complexion. There is nothing that I could talk about her to convince anyone that I had an attractive wife. She is not attractive in the worldly sense. I was hardly 26. How could I look at her from any other sense? I found her stunningly beautiful when she draped herself in a sari. She knew the art of being clad in a sari quite well. When I introduced her to strangers, they liked her and used to tell me that I was fortunate to have such a modest innocent girl as my wife. Innocent? Yes. This innocent girl appeared to be romantic as well to my mind.
I was proud to have an innocent wife, and her highly cooperative, non-complaining serene attitude planted seeds of romantic feelings in my mind. This dark lanky taciturn girl appeared to me sensuous, and there was a strange aroma around her persona. We lived in Hyderabad for only nine months—it was really a memorable part of my life. My neighbours used to ask me how a handsome man like me could choose a dark-complexioned girl without much education. They used to ask me whether my father-in-law presented me with a fat dowry. What could I say?
Why did I choose her? No one compelled me to marry this innocent girl with little education from a rustic background. It was all like a dream. Things happened to me on their own accord. Virtually I was not on the earthly plane. I did not take any decision in choosing my wife. My parents did not force her on me. They did give me ample time and advised me to choose her only if liked her. How can I like her? What did I know about her? Liking her means liking her bodily appearance? There were strange thoughts in my rather philosophical psyche. May be I did not like her? I did not dislike her either.
My father used to speak often about my future father-in-law quite highly, and used to emphasize that he studied in Madras. When I went to Charla with my father to see my future wife, I was curious to see my future father-in-law. When I met him he lived up to my father’s frequent briefings about him. He was short, humble, talkative and knowledgeable. He was describing the silt problem of Ramapadasagar dam to his village folk. He would occasionally drop a few immpressive phrases from English. I liked his English and his simplicity. He was completely devoid of the artificiality usually found in feudal areas. I loved English. He dropped in his speech rather inadvertently a few lines of Shakespeare. He studied at Madras Christian College. It appeared very natural for him to slip into English even when he was talking to rustic country people in that small obscure village.
My mind started working. I was to choose the daughter of the man who spoke English so effortlessly. I was not there. I was not participating in any event. I was merely observing everything during that crucial time as though it had nothing to do with me. It was the time when I was shown the girl and I had to take a decision in choosing her as my future wife. I was not a male chauvinist. I believed in fair play. I did find her dark. I did find her lean. I did observe the difference between her and her elder sister. Her elder sister lacked the serenity that I could clearly see on the face of my innocent dark girl. I can not say that I consciously chose her. I was not in a stupor. Simply I did not feel the need for choosing.
I asked myself. Did I have the right to deny her? She is dark? She is lean and looked rather weak? Not much educated? What was so great about me? My weight was merely 42 kilograms a few months ago. I was tall and my height was two inches short of six feet. I was lean and looked weak. Almost all through my childhood I was weak, and my friends considered me weak, and my parents were quite worried about my physique. My body shape was an obsession with me. Only a few months ago I gained a little weight, and the additional weight made me look handsome. It was a recent phenomenon. I was aware of my own features. How could I deny her?
How could I tell my people that I could not choose her since she was weak and lean? I was weak and lean all through my childhood and my early youth. I was silent and my people thought that I liked her. Certainly I did not dislike her. I liked her father and his education, and his cultured way of talking and dealing with his people. He is a wise man. He must have brought up his daughters in a healthy decent way. There was a hale and hearty tradition in their family. She did not ware any ornaments and did not ware any makeup. She was natural and serene.
Can’t this dark innocent girl take care of this young philosopher who lacked even an iota of worldly wisdom? She must be wise. The serenity on her face reflected her wisdom—the wisdom she inherited from her father. She looked wise. I was looking for wisdom in my life mate. Perhaps I chose her subconsciously. Otherwise what stopped me from denying her? I do not know the answer even to this day—after nearly thirty years of married life.
I was in Bapatla. I was expecting our child. I was thinking of our first meeting in Charla in her parents place. Now she was with her parents—expecting our child. I knew that she could not write romantic letters nor could she appreciate one if I wrote one and send it to her. I was rather lonely in Bapatla. I attended college on that day. My friend Varada Raju asked me whether I received the telegram. I told him I did not receive any. It seemed that he knew the contents of the telegram. He was unruffled and told me that the message that my father-in-law sent me was with Ramesh Babu. He took me to Ramesh Babu who appeared a little other-worldly and seemed to lack one night’s sleep. Varada Raju pulled out the small sheet of paper from the telegraph office and handed over it to me.
I read the contents on the paper. I got excited. Varada Raju asked me whether we could have a cup of coffee in our canteen. I followed him. I read the message several times. My father-in-law did not write poetry. His message was poetry to me all the same. The scrap of paper carried a poetic note: I was blessed with a son. Saraswathi gave birth to a baby boy on 6 February 1983.
