A second-hand husband

Is there any relationship in this world that we can own? A person who will just ours to be.

Can we own anyone? or Do we have to live with the subtlety of our ephemeral relationships?

I read a book recently The Far Field by Madhuri Vijay, which won the JCB Prize for Literature 2019. Though the book emphasized on a fractured family revolving around a political history of Kashmir and India, I liked the book because it focused on ‘Nameless Relationships‘.

Do we need to ‘label‘ every relationship we have?

We are born with some relations and some we make during our life. Some of them are bonded with blood while some are just bonded with our emotions. They may not fall into the category of a friend or a paramour. They just exist without any labels, without any apprehensions of its existence, just because it makes us happy, it gives an escapade to our dull boring lives.

A second-hand husband is a story of my relationship with a project that was half-done by somebody and was given in my naive hands to complete. It was given to me as a favour to make me learn something I never knew and in-return to give me a recognition, the deal was closed. To a person who never ate a Turkish-delight before it seemed an enticing opportunity to give-in.

While I was trying to make ends meet, I happen to develop a relationship with it. A relationship I never wanted to put a label on, but it was irresistible not to. It is not easy to start where someone has left off. You need to study every circuit of it and re-wire the things in order to give it the shape it needs to finish. Sometimes, you need to clean-up the other person’s mess or let me say, the mess of the first wife.

I was nurturing it day-and-night facing criticism and failures with all my might. I loved it with all my heart but I couldn’t call it mine.

I was delving into this relationship to the extent that I could never comprehend the morbidity it is leading me into. I wasn’t aware of the melancholy I was indulging in, so I allowed myself to plummet. Maybe, somewhere I knew, but I presumed that someday it could be mine.

Why do we crave for pensive sadness? Why do we want it to hurt us brutally so we can find reasons to weep and mourn over it?
Why do sadness and demise seem so comfortable that I yearn to be in it?

Did it ever occur to you? You fell in love with a boy, you invest in a relationship which existed only in your head. You transformed this boy to a well-groomed gentleman, only to find out someday that the man is still in love with his ex-mistress. The One that got away leaving him in the puddle of insurmountable hope of existence, you picked it up and fostered to every need of his, but it still beats for someone else. How fragile can a human heart be?

You don’t really know how attached you are until you move away until you’ve experienced what it means to be dislodged, a cork floating on the ocean of another place.

Michelle Obama

Maybe, I was fine while I had an un-named relationship with it all this while. At least, I could hold it into my arms with fondness and would never let it go. But, now since it has groomed into someone worth recognition, it had to be labelled. It belonged to someone else.

That’s my second-hand husband!

The one I could never own!

Photo by Mike on Pexels.com

Published by amillionstitchesoflife

The creative person with unbridled passion that she was, she wanted everything or nothing at all...

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