#uncoffeed...

My love is like sand that clings to my feet when I walk on the beach: it's cold, yet giving, conforming to my shape and then falling away, leaving irritating particles that must be brushed aside when dry. Beginnings of a thousand novels, like case files of long-forgotten crimes never to be solved, clutter my shelves and our computer. I keep them buried, but at hand; perhaps one day something will spark and all will become clear. I call the shelves mine, because my husband has no use for them. They hold things waiting for me, not us. I tell him how important it is to always have a "me" in my culture. Mine, not his - his, not mine. What is his? Where is ours? The cats are ours. He tells me his mother doesn't think we should live with cats. "I think she wants to be the woman of this house," he says, his eyes twinkling while his face remains placid. He looks at me from an angle, waiting for response. "Of course she does," I reply. You le...

Today is the anniversary of my (to-date) only legal marriage. I feel like I should give an official statement. I'm not angry. I'm not sorry. I made my peace before proceeding with divorce. There was some awkwardness, mostly outside the marriage, while I tried to maintain calm in the household during the steps leading to the divorce. It was important to me that there not be a messy blow-up, and there wasn't; apparently that was important to my former husband, too, if predictably so. We arrived at the court successfully in a state of calm. The judge seemed confused, possibly relieved. I'm sure the rest of his day didn't go so smoothly. My counterpart shed a few tears when I gave back the wedding rings; I wanted to dissociate myself from them and leave him to decide their fate. That was my only bit of meanness, because I knew deciding what to do would be harder for him than for me. My first year of divorce was a sea-storm. The surges and doldrums were to b...

I made a joke long ago that you could tell which Desi husbands were the most difficult and the most contrite by the number of bangles their wives wore. Pakistani husbands apologise with jewelry. Mine didn't apologize, maybe twice – once for calling me a whore, apology in email, and I still have it.  The other time is a different story. When we married, I knew there was a possibility that things could end, and even a possibility that things could end badly. So when we hit the 5-year mark, I was excited. I wanted a badge to commemorate the accomplishment. I suggested rings to my husband. “Of course,” he said.  This meant he wasn’t really listening, or interested. I really wanted a 5th anniversary ring, though, and I found something online I thought suitable:  silver Celtic rings, made in Ireland and representative of my part of our multicultural marriage. I bought one for each of us. “I don’t really wear jewelry,” he said.  And it was true; he still had th...