Today, Tomorrow

It’s just one day.

One inconsequential day among a sea of other inconsequential days.

However, if by some miracle today had any meaning, then it would be Valentine’s Day. 

It would also be my birthday. 

Varun walks in with roses.

He should know by now I’m allergic. 

“Thanks, Varun,” I say, reaching out to accept the flowers. I don’t even bother to correct him anymore.

He shoots me a look, pointing to his ear to show the concealed earbud. After shoving the flowers in my hand and planting a dry kiss on my forehead, he walks away and closes the office door behind himself. 

I try to smile, try to feel butterflies in my stomach, but the only sensation I have right now is an itchy nose. Placing the roses beside me on the sofa, I get up to take a Benadryl before anything worse happens. 

I take note of the growing pile of coupons I hoarded from Costco’s newsletter the other day and make my way over to organize them. Varun hates my habit of collecting coupons; it usually starts arguments over my obsession with picking the cheapest options, so I started keeping my coupons in a folder in the kitchen where Varun doesn’t often look in. As I sort through the pile of coupons, my phone rings. 

“Hello, uncle?” I whisper into the phone, not wanting to disturb Varun’s call. 

“Ah, Anika. How are you?” A firm voice replies.

I hesitate, a small part of me wants to tell my uncle the truth, but I can’t bring myself to. So, I divert from the question. 

“Varun forgot my birthday, again,” I admit, immediately regretting voicing my complaint as I hear my uncle’s tone shift in response. 

“Anika, these things happen! He’s probably stressed out at work.” My uncle says defensively, as though it's his pride on the line.

“You’re right, how are you, uncle?” 

“Good, is Varun there?”

“He’s busy on an office meeting.” 

“I see, it’s a shame. So hard-working, that young man is. You should learn a thing or two from him. Anyway, I have to go, Anika, take care.”

“Bye, Uncle.” 

Only after hanging up do I realize, my uncle never wished me happy birthday either. 

I hear Varun’s signature “Thank you, good day,” and I shove the rest of the coupons in the folder and stand awkwardly in the now-empty kitchen. 

Varun walks out of his office and glances at the roses on the sofa, then at me. 

“Do you not like them?” He huffs, folding his arms over his chest.

Before I might have reminded him that I was allergic, I might have felt the need to explain myself to him. 

“I like them—I was just looking for a vase.” I lie.

He unfolds his arms, stands a little straighter. I can tell he’s taking the second to pride himself on getting flowers that his cheap wife actually likes. 

“Good. Go get ready, I made a reservation at that new place. And once you’re ready, take a photo with the flowers and send it to your mother-in-law.” 

I nod and make my way to our shared walk-in closet. 

On one side are business suits and kurtas, and on the other are sarees and chudidars. As I flit through the variety of colors, shades, and textures, I remind myself I should be grateful. Varun puts nice clothes on my back and good food in my stomach, a privilege I only discovered after marrying him. Besides, he doesn’t ask much of me in return; just expects from me what is expected from any wife. 

I nod, affirming my gratitude, and pick out a modest red chudidar. Just as I am about to unclasp my bra, Varun walks into the closet. I quickly cover myself as best as possible and look back at him; his eyes scan me up and down with more emotion than he usually looks at me with. 

“Is there something you need?” I ask, trying to hide the shame and embarrassment in my voice. 

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” He says instead, a slight smirk to his words. He walks past me and pulls a blue kurta from his side of the closet. “I just forgot to say—wear something bright. I’m wearing the dark blue kurta.” 

“Ok.” I quickly respond, waiting for him to leave before hanging the red chudidar back where it was and picking out a bright pink one. 

After we get ready, we make our way down to the parking garage.

As we ride in the elevator, I remind myself that my parents would be happy to see where I am in life right now. Healthy, satisfied, and well taken care of. And if my parents are happy, so am I. 

So it doesn’t bother me when he doesn’t open the door for me like in the movies, doesn’t ask me what music I’d like, doesn’t care that his rolled-down window is messing up my carefully done hair. 

“Anika, I’m going on a business trip tomorrow and won’t be back for a few days.” He says casually as he parks in the lot of the Tabla. 

“Be safe. Do you want help packing?” I ask, a bit surprised to hear my name come out of his mouth. He rarely ever refers to me by name, unless he’s yelling at me or lying. 

“Am I your son? No, I’m fine on my own.” 

I nod and move to open the door, but Varun tsks and places his hand on my arm.

“By the way, I forgot to tell you. My parents arranged for this dinner, and they are already inside, so do your best to smile, ok?” 

I give him my best smile of assurance and watch as he walks to open the door to the Tabla for me. Even though it is a crowded room, my eyes immediately lock in on my in-laws sitting at a table in the center. Varun is two steps ahead of me, pulling out a chair for me to sit down in. 

I smile at him and then at my in-laws. 

“Vanakkum, mamiyar, maminar.” (Hello, mother-in-law, father-in-law) I say, bowing my head and putting my palms together. 

“Ah, vanakkum, vanakkum Varun, Anika.” Suhana coos, pinching Varun’s cheek and smiling at the two of us. 

Swatting his mother’s hand away, Varun bows his head and puts his palms together as well, mumbling a half-hearted “vanakkum”. 

“We already ordered, since you came quite late. Hope it is to your liking.” 

Under the table, Varun kicks my leg. “Thank you, mamiyar.” I say, and wait for her to serve me. 

It didn’t take long to understand what kind of wife Suhana and Muthu expected me to be. The problem was filling in those expectations, being the perfect wife for their perfect son. Fitting into their perfect, traditional family that an orphan like me has no place in. A perfect family that, a girl like me, who lost both her parents at a young age, should feel nothing less than thankful to be part of. So when Muthu and my uncle agreed to an arranged marriage, I was grateful that maybe I’d actually have a shot at finding someone who loved me. 

I can’t help the small laugh that escapes my lips, quickly catching and correcting the mistake with a small fit of faked coughs into my elbow. 

“Are you ok, Ani?”

I smile at Varun, remembering that Ani is the nickname he calls me when he’s around other people. 

“Yes, thank you.” 

Suhana offers more food but I politely decline; now I am able to see through her caring gaze and discern her offer for what it really is: a test. 

As Varun and Muthu talk, Suhana coughs to get my attention. 

“So, have you and Varun been, trying?” 

I smile gently and nod.

“Yes.” 

“Good, good, no wonder you are eating so much then! Must be working!” She cheers, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see Varun’s smile flicker into annoyance for just a second.

I clench my fist, knowing he’s going to berate me for that comment later tonight.

As dinner wraps up, Suhana brings me in for a hug and kisses my cheek. Against my better judgment, I cave into the motherly affection and hug her back. 

“Thank you for tonight,” I say with another bow of my head, and Varun and I make our way to the car. 

Tonight, like many nights before, I wait on the edge of the bed in my undergarments only. Varun walks in and closes the bedroom door behind himself. 

“Did you enjoy dinner? Eating for two like that.” 

My throat goes dry, before I might’ve argued that I ate half of what he did, but instead, I look away. He gives a dissatisfied grunt and makes his way over to me.

He never asks me if I want it, if he’s going too fast or too hard, if it hurts.

I’ve heard sex is supposed to be fun, and maybe the first few times it was. I can’t quite recall. Regardless, now I have gotten rather good at forcing my mind to go elsewhere; if I focus hard enough on my breath I can hardly feel him on me at all. 

Tonight, I think back to my 5th birthday. We couldn’t afford a cake, so as usual, my parents put some biscuits in a pile and lit a cracker on fire in place of a candle. I remember never caring that I didn’t get the new toy that everyone at school was talking about, never sad about the lack of any gifts or friends on my birthday; I had my parents—that was all I needed. They were all I ever needed, even when my American classmates made fun of my lunches or my skin color. All I ever needed even after they passed away, and I was stuck with a distant uncle who didn’t care about me at all. 

Varun grunts. 

I ignore him, instead recalling the way my dad pulled a single daffodil from behind his back. “Happy Birthday, kanna!” He sang excitedly, handing me the fresh flower. I remember being worried that my dad had used his precious salary on a gift for me instead of fixing his old, broken eyeglasses. Peeling back the plastic wrapping, I brought the flower to my nose and inhaled its soft, floral scent. “Thanks, Appa,” I said, kissing him. 

Now that I’m older, I wonder why he got me the flower, instead of giving it to his beloved wife on Valentine's Day. “Ah,” I realize, “they probably couldn’t have celebrated Valentine’s Day, even if they wanted to; they were too busy making me happy.” 

Varun finishes and gets up to shower leaving me lying on the bed. I put my undergarments back on and pretend to have fallen asleep once he walks out of the shower. Only after his soft snores fill the room do I get up and make my way to the bathroom. 

A towel and a nightgown are already waiting for me, as they usually are the nights before, and as they will the nights to come. 

I wash myself in a daze, put my clothes on, and stare at myself in the mirror. 

I’m disappointed in the pathetic woman staring back at me. So disappointed, so dissatisfied, so incredibly sore and tired, that I can’t stop the tears from forming rivulets on my face as I sob quietly into my palm. 

I am the fruit of my parent’s sacrifice, and look how I’ve turned out. 

For a second I fear he might wake up and see me crying, but that fear is subsided by the numbness. 

At this point, I don’t care. I can’t.

I let my palm fall back to my side and look at myself in the mirror. My parent’s beloved Anika reduced to a sniffling mess.

I’ve tried not to let it bother me since I married Varun, this one inconsequential day. 

But, because no one’s said it to me all day, because I used to love today when I was younger, because my parents used to make it a huge deal, because I feel sad when I think about all their sacrifices, I whisper to the woman in the mirror.

“Happy birthday, Anika.”