You are the Best Wife: A True Love Story Read online

  About the author:

  Ajay K Pandey grew up in the modest NTPC township of Rihand Nagar with big dreams. He studied Engineering in Electronics at the IERT (Allahabad) and MBA at IIMM (Pune) before taking up a job in corporate firm. He is currently working with Cognizant, Pune. He grew up with a dream of becoming a teacher, but destiny landed him in the IT field.

  Travelling, trekking and reading novels are his hobbies. Travelling to different places has taught him about different cultures and people, and makes him wonder how despite all the differences, there is a bond that unites them. Trekking always inspires him to deal with challenges like a sport. Reading is perhaps what makes him feel alive.

  You are the Best Wife is his debut book based on his life events and lessons.

  Apart from writing, he wants to follow his role model Mother Teresa and make some contribution to the society. He aspires to start a charitable trust that would support aged people and educate special children.

  To share your feedback and for more information, contact him at www.facebook.com/AuthorAjayPandey.

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  First published by

  Srishti Publishers & Distributors in 2015

  Copyright © Ajay K Pandey, 2015

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This is a true story. The author has tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from his memories. He may have changed some identifying characters and details such as physical properties, timings, occupations, dialogues and places of residence of people mentioned herein.

  The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the Publishers.

  Dedicated to Bhavna’s parents.

  I will always be thankful to both of you for blessing me with such a loving wife.

  There are two kinds of personalities. There are those who have everything and still complain as if they have nothing. And there are those who lose everything and act like life has given them everything. Sometimes both these personalities exist in the same soul. Kill the first one, I love the second.

  –Bhavna

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Ragging is a Criminal Offence

  My First Interaction with Bhavna

  Freshers’ Party Preparations

  Pioneer Computers and my Dreamliner Cycle

  The Most Romantic Hour of My Life

  It’s easy to make friends, but difficult to keep them

  How do I propose?

  Love you, Bhavna

  Breakup Day

  Welcome to the crazy world of love

  My struggle for placements

  Hyderabad to Pune

  Pune to Mumbai

  Winning half the battle

  My first tsunami

  Operation Emotional Drama-1

  Delhi to Raipur

  Operation Emotional Drama - 2

  My quilt and my guilt

  Love you, everyone

  My happiest video clip

  The quality of life is what matters

  A house turns into a home

  Married life; bachelor friends

  My colourful life

  A loving daughter and a would-be-father

  Bhavna’s sleepless nights

  Fight for your husband

  You are the best wife

  The world is beautiful

  The world is beautiful…indeed!

  The biggest truth of life

  Her hurting presence

  Love makes us secular

  On behalf of Bhavna

  Two broken people; one unbroken promise

  The quality of life is what matters

  The right thing for the right reason

  I can forgive, but will never surrender

  Acknowledgement

  Prologue

  28 November 2012

  Fortis Hospital, Noida

  Those memories still send a sharp, stinging pain through me.

  I walked to the Fortis internal medicine ICU. My heart was racing and I was flooded with emotions. After a few minutes, I was standing outside the ICU door; Bhavna was behind a green curtain.

  “Listen, you have to be brave and calm. I want to inform you that Bhavna’s condition is deteriorating further and we’re planning to put her on a ventilator,” the doctor said in a concerned tone and handed me a document to sign.

  I felt numbed. As these icy words pierced me, it felt as if my blood was freezing.

  “What are the chances of recovery?” I asked bluntly.

  “Rare chance; once she is doing well we can remove her from that, but her condition is getting worse. The ventilator is not the problem, the infection is.”

  “So, is she not on ventilator yet?” I asked. “Can I see her?”

  “That is what I called you for. This ventilator will only be removed once she starts recovering or there are signs of improvement. She’ll be administered anesthesia which will make her unconscious so that the ventilator doesn’t cause any damage.”

  “What if there are no signs of improvement?” I asked.

  “Then, I’m sorry…” he sighed. “It is possible you’ll be talking to her for the last time.”

  I went behind the green curtain. I thought I would hug her, but that would make her feel that something was wrong and she might break down completely. With a heavy heart and this dilemma in mind, I went to her. There was blood around her lips. She lay with her mouth open and her eyes closed. It was the most horrifying moment of my life. Watching her struggle to breathe made me insane. I wished I could have given her my breath and a part of my life, but I was helpless. I had never felt so disabled in my life.

  With great difficulty I said, “I love you, Bhavna. And you are the best wife.”

  She collected her strength and whispered something with ragged breaths.

  My life changed from that day onwards. What my life was before and what it became after, is something that forced me to write this book. I wish I could rewind time and go back and relive all the beautiful moments that we had cherished together.

  Ragging is a Criminal Offence

  There are three kinds of students: ones who are sure what they want and achieve it, ones who know what they want but never achieve it, and finally (the kind that I am) those who don’t know what they want.

  After completing my schooling from Rihand Nagar, Sonebhadra, UP, I was like all the others who took the age old path of engineering. There was no decision making involved in the choice; those who took maths would appear for the engineering exams, so I too joined the rat race.

  I joined a coaching class for the IIT entrance exam. I wasted two years in the hope of gaining admission into an IIT. Being a brahmin by birth, I had always prayed to God at the top of my voice, considering him deaf. This time, the prayers were centred on just one thing.

  “God, please let it be IIT, please let it be IIT.”

  Sadly, IIT and IERT sounded alike to God and in this confusion, he gifted me IERT. It seemed as though God used BSNL operator services, which go down during the rainy seasons, and with the sounds of thunder around him, God heard IERT instead of IIT.

  And so I landed up at IERT and finally realized that it was what I w
anted. Nevertheless, I was not disheartened and accepted the same with love and respect. I was full of respect because when all the colleges had shut their doors, only IERT had accepted me.

  August 2003

  IERT (Institute of Engineering and Rural Technology)

  Allahabad

  I joined the IERT hostel on the second day of college and my father and I both received a warm welcome from the hostel warden at the reception.

  “Welcome to one of the finest engineering colleges in the country,” he said with a sense of pride and achievement.

  I looked at my father; his chest had swelled with pride at the warden’s warm welcome. My father and Sachin Tendulkar suffered from a similar disease: the ‘nervous nineties’. But in my father’s case, it was his weight that was always swinging between ninety and ninety-nine kilos. He certainly scored a century then as he watched his son entering the Rural Technology Institute. I was the first in the Pandey family to study engineering. My father had another reason to be happy. Finally, I had got admission into a college, which would mean an end to money grubbing by coaching institutes.

  “Sir, is ragging a big problem for freshers?” my father asked the warden, concerned.

  “Pandeyji, you don’t have to worry as the Supreme Court has declared ragging as a criminal offence.”

  The manner in which he said this seemed to indicate that he was personally in touch with the Supreme Court judge who gave the verdict.

  “Are the seniors staying in the same campus?” Papa asked in the same concerned tone.

  “Yes, but their building is a different one,” the warden answered.

  After sometime, when Papa had settled me into my hostel room, I sensed one of his ‘gyaan sessions’ was about to start.

  “Sonu, you have to study seriously. You are at a very crucial juncture of life, as you have to handle everything by yourself from now onwards. No cigarettes, no alcohol, no bad company, and no girlfriends! We belong to a very middle class family, and you are our only hope.”

  He sighed.

  Sonu is my nickname. I was surprised by my father’s remarks. He had never had an opportunity to study at a professional institute. His words made me feel emotional but at the same time I felt overburdened by my family sins. Suddenly, I didn’t know why my hopeless family was searching for hope through me.

  “Ok Papa,” I nodded, although I knew I would not follow any of his instructions. But I said this to stop him from repeating his old refrain. That day however, he was unstoppable.

  “Now all the family glory is in your hands and lastly…” I felt relieved on hearing the word ‘lastly’ from him, ‘Remember, beta, you are my brave son.”

  With those inspiring words, he left for Rihand Nager.

  His last words bewildered me. Why would he call me his brave son?

  ❖

  That evening at around eleven, I entered the common room to find many new faces. I met Arvind.

  “Hi I’m Arvind Chaubey, computer science. I’m from Rihand.”

  “Hello buddy, I am Ajay. In electronics, from Rihand Nagar, NTPC colony,” I replied.

  Arvind frowned, “Just Ajay?”

  “Oh it’s Ajay Pandey.”

  In a place like Allahabad, surnames matter a lot. People may forget your first name, but not your surname. We both exchanged a half hug, or to be more precise, a manly hug. The sense of belonging to the same place seemed to have brought us closer instantly.

  Before I go on, let me introduce all my hostel friends since their names will come up time and again:

  Arvind Chaubey: We both came from the same town. He was a very simple, but often irrational man. Love and girls were all Greek to him. He was heavy set and we thought of him as a clone of Salman Khan.

  Gaurav Singh: My roommate. He was cheerful, talkative, confident and confused at the same time. No one dared to talk to him as it meant only listening for the other side.

  Dipendra Singh: I hate to say it but, he had been my junior at take to next line St Joseph’s School and he was a master at analyzing girls. I can’t even bear to mention the kind of things he would find out about them, things Google itself would fail at. He was a master at talking to girls with no hesitation. Sometimes, I felt he might have committed suicide if IERT was a ‘boys only’ institute. He was almost six feet tall, thin, smart and, yes, handsome, too. Because of him, I realized that looks matter a lot.

  Sorry friends, but that is my description of you guys. If any of you are going to file a case against me, please remember: all the above characters are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Now I’m free to tear your undergarments, but you know the truth – I love you all.

  At 11:30 p.m., I was lying in my boxers and was about to fall off to sleep. Suddenly, a group of half a dozen gregarious men started pounding heavily on every door, shouting like military men.

  “Everyone assemble in the corridors! Move! Now!”

  The shouting was very scary, but seeing everyone moving towards the corridor, I followed. We stood lining the walls of the corridor while the seniors stayed in the middle. They seemed like dacoits and we shivered like poor villagers.

  “Third button! No eye contact!” one senior shouted at me. I hung my head like a war prisoner.

  The introduction had a set pattern: full name, branch, and place of origin. We did this in a flash. Then one senior shouted in a horrible voice.

  “Lights off,” he instructed one of his friends. I was a bit at ease and I raised my head a little, but it was just the calm before the storm.

  “Remove all your clothes,” one senior shouted.

  Everyone, including Gaurav, took off their clothes. I could make out their nude bodies even in the dim light. I could have never imagined such a sight even in my wildest dreams. Now I understood why my father had called me his brave son.

  They switched the lights back on. Manav Bahadur and I were not a part of the exhibition, yet. We were still wearing our boxers since we had joined on the second day of the ragging.

  “Do you need a special invitation?” one senior shouted at Manav.

  “It is not possible, sir,” Manav said.

  Five seniors jumped on him and forcefully took off his boxers. They started swinging his boxers in the air with pride, their laughter echoed in the corridors and our ears. A rape scene from an eighties Hindi movie flashed across my mind. By the time they had turned to me, I had taken off my boxers and was standing nude, hiding my family jewels with my palms.

  Manav’s dark ass had also joined the group of nude freshers. I mentally pleaded with all the known gods, hoping at least one would listen. My turn, I thought. I was once again reminded of my father’s words, our family glory is in your hands.

  I thought to myself, I don’t know about the family, but yes, my glory is in my hands.

  “Give your introduction again!” a senior shouted.

  “Ajay Pandey, Electronics from…” I was interrupted.

  “Landey, he is also a Pandey. Handle him,” the senior said while looking at one of the half dozen seniors. A creature with dark brown eyes and dozens of pimples on his face approached me. I had guessed his name was also Pandey. I was in a state of shock. What if tomorrow my classmates start calling me Landey?

  While I was busy mulling over Pandey versus Landey, he neared me and started touching my chest. As his fingers inched towards my glory, I pleaded Oh God, please don’t let him be gay! And please have mercy! Hope he belongs to the same caste.

  “Please, Pandey sir,” I begged. Thankfully the Pandey saga worked and he released me.

  One senior shouted, “Juniors raise your hands.” We obeyed; now our glory was visible to everyone.

  I learnt a very important fact that day: one’s glory is inversely proportional to one’s build.

  “Juniors, you have to scream in unison, ‘Hammam me sabhi nange hain. We were all nude.’”

  I was puzzled but consulted with Gaurav who was standing very clos
e to me. “What is ‘Hammam’? God?” I whispered.

  “Shhh! ‘Hammam’ means bathroom,” he whispered back.

  I felt humiliated again, but we shouted, with our glory hanging and our hands in the air.

  “Hammam main sabhi nange hain.”

  It felt like we were provoking the enemy.

  “Listen juniors. Yesterday, we explained the rules and today we are adding some more. No one is allowed to close their room doors before 2.00 a.m. Till then, you have to wear formal shirts and pants. No casuals are allowed. Whenever any senior calls you, you have to be as quick as a tiger and form a queue.”

  What crazy people! First they want us to behave like tigers and then like sheep, I thought to myself.

  “Today we’re leaving you a bit early because tomorrow you have to report thirty minutes earlier for class at 8:30 a.m. You have to grab a seat right behind the girl you like the most. She’ll be your ‘maal’ for the future and the rest of the hostellers will help you. If there is any confusion or conflict of interest, bring it to our notice and we’ll resolve the same. Understand punks, day scholars should not have access to any maal, they should belong to the hostellers.”

  We smiled mischievously. Our nude state only the word ‘maal’ could make us smile in such a terrible state.

  “Any doubt, juniors?” one senior questioned.

  “When will the ragging end?” Manav asked.

  A senior came to Manav and caught his neck shouting, “This is ragging? You think this is ragging?”

  “Explain to him why this is not ragging!”

  The seniors pulled at Gaurav, but he remained silent.

  “Listen, juniors, this is not ragging! It is training! We’re training you to make you stronger and smarter, and the training will end after the freshers’ party.”

  His philosophy went over our heads. I was about to faint.

  “Dress fast and start using deodorants,” the same senior screamed, covering his nostrils. “You guys are really rustic. Please make sure that you are clean shaven from now on,” he added, “including your faces.”

  ❖

  Gaurav and I both settled into our room. I checked my watch; it was 1.00 a.m.