“Did you love him more than you did Daddy?”
Devi sighed. If only she had burned that letter. And if only her daughter, now almost 45, had not decided to snoop.
But Mira was behaving as if she was 14.
“He was suave, witty, he could argue wonderfully,” she said, remembering Ali. Their meetings had always been peppered with conversation, and he gave her the attention that Muthu, no matter how faithful and loving, would not. He reminded her that she was a woman of the world, made her feel flattered and happy. And there had been nothing more than that.
“And so, you had an affair with him?”
“Well we wrote to each other, and yes we met, and spoke, but if you were expecting rolling in hay type of debauchers, that wasn’t really my style.”
Mira scowled, and got up in a huff. “My poor Daddy” she said as she stalked off.
Devi looked at her retreating back and though Mira wouldn’t understand even if she explained.
Muthu had been everything that she wanted. She had loved him dearly, as he had her. And they had a happy life. She remembered Muthu even today, almost 20 years after he had died. And Ali had been everything she had not placed on her list. What she had felt for Ali, had been so ephemeral, so fleeting, and yet it had made her smile.
She had truly been lucky.
Sruti Sagaram 