Y2K - Bust Or Bounty?

Whenever I think of the that year, Y2K they called it, I think not of the apocalypse predicted by the Cassandras of software but of that masterly opening paragraph in Dickens’ ‘A Tale of Two Cities’. The one that went against all the tenets of writing by being both enigmatic and repetitive: ‘It was the best of times; it was the worst of times' and all the remaining paradoxes. 2000 was summed up by the first paradox - both my worst experiences and best ones came that year.

I had persisted in an abusive marriage for nearly fourteen years before that; at first merely verbally and emotionally abusive, later it escalated to the physical. ‘Only' emotional abuse, why is that always the qualifying adverb? I found the emotional abuse hit deeper and the pain lasted beyond the sting of a mere slap or the dull ache of a fisted blow. It ached from within, the kind of injury that left no bruises to show. Not that I ever showed my bruises to anyone; no, I was too ashamed to admit that I, bred in a metropolis, educated and financially stable, could invite such punishment.

That fateful April day, it all came to an incandescent head. The day began with a hurried and nervous breakfast, supervising two subdued children who were suppressed from exhibiting childish traits. At seven and ten, they had been exhorted to be ‘more grown-up’ for years.

Running back and forth to have the pancakes soft and light golden brown, each delivered piping hot, the butter melted just so, the preserves lined up within reach of his left hand.

Sigh. It was uneventful; some deft changing of subject and covert eyeball rolling had the kids out their chairs without any heads being ‘lumped’. Four eager feet had scampered into the bedroom to change and I had taken a premature breath of relief. We were to go to a puja

An elaborate ceremonial ritual prayer

and then a birthday party. The kids were buzzing just with the idea of going ‘out’, we lived so far from town that even vegetable shopping was a treat for us.

I cannot bring myself to say his name, he must remain just ‘he’ or ‘him’, bile rises to my lips at the thought of letting him back into my life by forming his name. But, the nameless one shall be understood to be my then husband.

He was in the bathroom, clad just in his lungi

a six-yard length of cloth wound around the lower half of the body

; he never wore anything more at home. Legs athwart and weaving gently in rhythm to a tune whistled between his barely parted teeth. He would shave twice, once with and once against the direction of growth. I guess he was on the second pass since I could see traces of foam outlining his cheeks even as he slathered more on.

Oh, what whims of Fate decreed I should pass the open door just then? What made me glance at the shelf above the sink? There reposed that mundane instrument that changed my life: an open tube of toothpaste that oozed a thick paste onto the glass, the top stood about two inches away in bright red accusation.

It was automatic - my stepping in, I who was always careful to stay out of arm’s reach; perhaps my mind was on the children and I thought only of correcting what one of them had left undone. My hands reached out for the top and affixed it on the tube with two quick turns; he stepped back a little and glared at me.

Heedless me, I then used two swoops of a finger to scoop off the paste and rinsed my hands; maybe an involuntary sigh or that ‘tccch’ of tongue and palate escaped my lips. It was not criticism, not a word was said; but he was the perfect one, the one who always kept things in order – how dared a mere imperfect creature like me correct him?

The fist exploded out of nowhere, suddenly a stinging blow to the side of my head. I stumbled backwards and fell, two half steps of the stumble and my well endowed behind preventing any further injury. I was too dizzy to understand what was happening, why was there blood on my hand – it was my ear that was now swelling and tingling as if on fire. The bloody hand went back to cradle that tender part. Priya, my daughter was babbling and crying somewhere far off, yet her arms were around my neck.

I sorted out the event only much later: My ear stud had been driven into my ear lobe and had cut it, it had bled profusely. In fact the stud had telescoped into the tissue from the blow, taking it out from the swollen plum-pulp mass elicited more tears than the blow did. The children had seen it all from the bedroom, they were frightened out of their wits by the violence – the inexplicable nature of it. For once, all his smooth talk of order and method and control could not make them believe I was wrong and he was right.

If that toothpaste tube was a tool of Fate, that blow was Providence disguised. The second is unveiled as a benign entity, who looks out for me; the first is a leering monster who makes sure any attempt to get free fails. It was actually my own courage that had failed before, but if I choose to call it by some other name, who shall blame me? Now stung by the fact that I could no more avoid abuse by my good intention, awake to the evidence that it only got worse with each day, appalled that my children had been witness to such turmoil – I walked out then and there.

I just grabbed my purse and slipped on my sandals, grabbed one shell-shocked child in each hand, and walked right out. They too had put on the first footwear they could get their feet into, Ravi had on one black slipper and one brown. He had on that mismatched pair for two days before I noticed.

I walked out that door for the last time; I did not know where I was going, or how I would manage but I just knew I could.

It took much hardening of resolve to ignore his fervent pleas of affection, of vows to change; but I had heard those many many times before and always regretted falling prey to those entreaties. It took more to ignore the streams of invective that alternated; the implications that I was a bad wife, a bad mother and even the degrading descriptions of my morals or lack thereof.

I took rash decision to the level of implacable resolve – I quit my job and took up another offer in some remote location, the further from him, the better. I hid myself from the world, but it was the end of hiding from the world what it knew from the beginning.

We had nothing but ourselves, but we knew a peace, a freedom from the niggling worry of ‘what-could-go-wrong-next’. I got up at five to send the kids off to school by seven, got to work by eight myself. Home again at two to receive the kids, lunch together and back to work. Playtime, homework, dinner, storytime. Cleaning, planning, getting things ready for the next day.

My life was too busy to allow me to wallow in pity or regret.

Priya stopped stammering, my little girl had crystal clear speech for the first time since she was six years old. Ravi was too young to be other than his ebullient self by day, his nights were disturbed by dreams and sleepwalking. I was a far cry from forthright and confident, except at work. There I threw myself into proving to myself that I had not ‘lost it’. It took us most of that year, but by the end of it we were different people.

I was more empathetic and patient than I had been before, I had learned to look beyond the obvious. Priya was quiet and ready to please, but yet sure of what she wanted; she stood her ground without arguing much but was ready to wait and negotiate. Ravi became our protector; he would fight our battles with anyone, pugnacious where it concerned our well-being. He became a champion of the under-dog everywhere.

The mills of the court grind exceedingly slow, slower than that of the Gods. For me though, they obliged at dizzying speed, before the year was out the Order for Judicial Separation and the Custodial Order for Children were both through. Both unconditionally in my favour.

I had doubted the outcome, the court appearances were scarred with accusations of impropriety and infidelity and God knows what else. I cannot even remember the absurd thunderings of his lawyer. The judge had reprimanded me more than once for my intemperate emotional responses. But how can you stand unmoved when your own husband claims you are supporting the children by prostitution and yet produces not a shred of evidence.

Maybe it helped I had waived maintenance, accepting even one rupee from him was anathema to me. It would allow him to peep into our lives, he would have control over that part of it. He could irritate by delay and force me into agitated dialogue.

Then too, he had insisted on full custody whilst I had offered him custody in the holidays and visitation at reasonable intervals. Since he wanted it all, he was denied even the part custody. Serves him right said my bruised soul. At least the court spared the children what society might have tried to impose.

So, it came in black and white – black and green, actually, judicial paper is light green – “Full custodial rights and separation granted due to irreconcilable differences”. I could have kissed the hem of the crusty judiciary authority, it disapproved of my demeanour but not of my rights.

The year bloomed in late autumn for me – I was free to lead my own life. No screaming if I could not account for that elusive rupee from the grocery money. Not questioning about ‘wasting’ money on non-uniform clothes. No snooping about five minutes spent talking over the gate to a neighbor. No rehashing of the day’s conduct to show me my ‘errors’. No more breath-holding, waiting for the ‘other shoe to drop’.

It turned out to be a hard road, but we remained happy in being together, drew closer because of the struggles. If we had to do without things like television or cable or even a humble music player because money was needed elsewhere – at least it built the reading habit. Newspapers and discussion - it made us want to talk things over every day. It made us tease and laugh and store precious memories that now warm an empty nest.

I look back now and give thanks to the Someone who looks over all of us: if He led me through a rocky patch, He also showed me the way out. If I went through hard times, it at least tempered me and made me stronger, perhaps even better.

So, that year – the worst year of my life, the best year of my life. Here’s to you, Y2K!



Word count: 1888 (as above)

Entry for

Ten Years Ago in 2000  (E) Write an essay about where you were in 2000, the year that Writing.Com was born! #1701993 by Diane

(Essay on what I was doing in the year 2000, when WDC was born.)