The Ties That Bind. Praba Moodley

Instead, I sat there calmly as he presented me with a new agreement, not quite giving me what I needed. The house which we had moved into after we were married was still in his parents’ name but he said I could live there with the boys for as long as I wanted to. It was not what I had thought would happen and I sent a silent thank you to my angels for giving me the grace and dignity to walk away with my head held high. I had done nothing wrong but if instant gratification was what Harendra preferred to a life with me, then so be it.

      So I set him free to lead a life of decadence which I thought was self-destructive.

      I remained composed and focused on my boys throughout the negotiation and agreement phase. It was nonetheless a major shock to my system when the summons was issued but it was only after the “D” was granted that I had the nervous breakdown that everyone had been worried about for so long.

      My parents decided to take me under their wing once again and opened their hearts and their home to me and my offspring. I felt a deep sense of betrayal that Harendra, smooth and charming, continued to maintain a relationship with my family and kept his bond with our boys. I wanted them to hate him as much as I did for disrupting our perfect life. I was tempted to destroy all our wedding and family pictures but when I found our sons poring over them I let it go. It pleased my vengeful nature, however, when I noticed that Harendra was losing his creamy complexion in the months that followed. I felt he was playing the wronged husband to a T, and he became very manipulative. His animosity towards me was subtle but brutal.

      “I’ll pay for the boys’ expenses, Gayatri, but I think you need to cover your own,” he said as he scrutinised the bills I placed in front of him. “You’ll need to find employment soon.” He pushed my Edgars account and therapist’s bill back at me.

      I wanted to smack him across his immaculate head but then I noticed the beginnings of grey in his hair and the widening of a bald spot. Was he finally taking strain? I greatly despised him at this stage, and more especially when the topic of finance reared its ugly head. I despised him when he arrived to pick up the boys and I despised the fact that I missed them so desperately when they left. My boys were protective towards me and would never leave my side if I asked that of them. There were many moments when I was tempted to but my boys loved their father and I loved them and I was not going to use them in my fight with Harendra.

      Then a major depression hit me again. Everything remains very hazy for me during that period of my life, but with the support of my family and by the grace of God I pulled through. There were days when I refused to leave my room. I would curl up into a ball and try to cancel out the pain, the anger and the feeling of unworthiness. For once my siblings were at a loss for words and avoided my parents’ home while I was in this deep, dark place. My boys would peek in and come to kiss me and put their little arms around me and I would try to smile at them while I felt like dying. My parents – God bless them – made sure my boys were loved, clothed and fed.

      When I looked at myself in the mirror I was sure I was disappearing. My ribs were competing with my hip bones for prominence. My hair began to fall out and my parents, horrified at the thought that I would have to wear a wig as I withered away, dragged me to a therapist. I took to wearing colourful hats and ignored the fact that there were days when I looked like a bag lady in clothes that hung from my gaunt frame.

      But it was in the therapist’s office that I learnt to vent, to hold up a mirror and really see myself. It was there that I learnt about myself and where I acknowledged that perfection does not bring happiness. It was on the therapist’s couch that I finally grew up and had to accept some responsibility for the breakdown of my marriage. I had trusted so implicitly and given too much of myself to one man and what I believed was a perfect marriage. What a farce of a marriage it had been! It was time to take back my power and reclaim the spirited being I had once been. It was time to be me again …

      It was in the therapist’s office that I allowed myself to be weak in order to grow strong again and it was there that I put aside pride and ego and accepted that I was a single mum and that my boys came from a broken home. I was no longer a wife, but I was a mother and I had to ensure that I be the best mother, mentally and physically, for my boys. I acknowledged that as a family we were going through a remodelling phase. I considered myself fortunate in that Harendra ensured that he still maintained the role of father to our boys. I unwillingly acknowledged his foresight in recognising the holes in our marriage and escaping from what he regarded a prison. I cannot forgive him, though, for choosing the cowardly way out, using another woman as a means to cut his ties with me, his wife. With these insights I made a life-changing decision. I would stop behaving like the victim of a bad marriage.

      It was the best decision I could have made for myself and my boys.

      My concerned father started job hunting for me. He would leave the Natal Witness, the local newspaper, open on the table. When I noticed suitable vacancies had been circled in red I knew I was being given a gentle kick in the butt. I pulled myself together, took the hint and began the difficult task of looking for employment. My brothers suggested I work with them but I could not see myself surrounded by carcasses day in and day out. This was another challenging phase for my fragile ego. There were times when I became utterly frustrated and raged with anger. It seemed I had chosen the wrong era to be job hunting.

      “Are the brown-skinned, black-haired people only good enough for menial work? God blessed all of his children with blood that runs the same colour through our veins so why is it so bloody difficult for an Indian female to find employment!” I ranted as call after call to employment agencies proved futile. I prayed for the end of apartheid and was angry that I was a victim of it. Unfortunately, I was not driven to fight this battle politically and left that to much braver souls. My world was demanding enough as it was.

      One morning, while still in my polka-dotted pink and yellow pyjamas (a Mother’s Day gift from my boys) I noticed a vacancy caught between two of my father’s red circles. Curious, I decided to apply for the post hoping I would stand a chance at a mental institution given my current state of mind and my clownish attire.

      Well, stand a chance I did. I never did ask my boss what made him decide to employ me. My application stated bluntly that I was newly divorced and the mother of three small boys. Perhaps it was my desperation or the look of insanity I saw every now and again in my eyes, or perhaps there was simply a lack of candidates for the post. Whatever the reason, I vowed I would be indispensable to the one man who trusted me enough to give me a chance. My boss, a coloured man in his mid-forties with very light blue eyes and brown hair that hinted of white parentage, reminded me of Harendra. (All well-groomed men reminded me of him in some way.) He was always immaculately dressed from head to toe and for that very reason I did not find him at all sexually appealing. I was turned off well-groomed males. (Akhil does not count!) They loved themselves too much.

      I made my boss coffee, he bought the morning muffins. I opened all the mail for him, drafted letters, handed them over for amendment but more often than not they came back with his signature. I managed his diary and micro-managed his life. He gave me time off when my boys were sick or I needed to attend to matters of a personal nature and I in turn covered for him when he had arrangements to meet his sexy and oh-so-dishy male lover. Our working relationship turned out perfectly for both of us. I felt safe with him.