The Inherited Custody

CHAPTER II

1

Charles,

I don't know why you left. Or perhaps I do. I'm not sure what is real and what isn't anymore. We're still married, just a reminder in case you'd forgotten. And you didn't do it on the tip of a gun to your head. I believe, at least before the vows, we both were severely sober.

That very night we conceived our first child. You're a parent, Charles: another gentle reminder, or perhaps an alarm for you at this point. Do you even remember their names? A son and a daughter. I know, believe me, I know. Parenting, family ethics are very tough. I know. But what were you thinking? Leaving in the middle of the silence? In the middle of all the love we were building here at the Ashram? The children keep asking about you. Well, not Aarti, as she is young. And yes, the Guru named her.

You pretending that I simply do not have existence is no longer something to be taken lightly.

I love you. You know that. And you know that deep down, you love me too.

Then why leave like this? Have you erased all of our memories? When we got married? Do you even remember what hill we are on? The name of the Ashram we are at? Are you planning on going back? Even if you are, where will you go— to your parents? And you think they'll let you stay?

Fine, I am sorry. I shouldn't keep pushing it all like this. Let me remind you once again, though: I am your wife. And you have two children with me. Have you really no heart for them, at least? Do you miss them? I understand that all of this here irritates you. It bothers you that I spend most of my time working in the kitchen and cleaning the library. But if it isn't me, it would be somebody else. Does it make a difference if we spend our time alone being intimate on a bed, isolated somewhere far away, or rather help the people here by bettering the quality of our lives?

We meditate every day. I keep visiting Mother almost all day long. She said once, perhaps jokingly, that she wants me as her assistant to handle the place. Isn't that exciting? But I know that she still looks at me as the second-best. You would've always been the first choice.

I told her about your absence. She smiled. She said that she had known all along that you only wanted a family. Then she looked me in my eyes, the gray ones that you told scared you, and said to me that she also knew that I am not necessarily a family person. And I do not know how to feel about that because I keep thinking of you and keep thinking of how you, me, and the children could be happy here, together, achieving something more significant than the simple, materialistic life out there, in this haven of an Ashram.

Don't you want to have that with me too?

Please write back to me.