A portrait of the artist as a married man

I have been told that the girl who eventually ended up marrying me had been tricked into marrying me. I have no reason to disbelieve her.

First day of marriage: I opened a blank page on my laptop and began my job of helplessly staring at it for the next few hours when she called from behind.

“What are you doing?”

I reeled back and almost screamed out of horror, just remembering in time that wait, that’s right, I am married now, I got married yesterday, there were the priests in white robes, incense everywhere, and every — “I am writing, di.”

“Wow,” she said.

I turned back to the laptop to resume staring at the pale corpse of a sheet on the laptop which I was expected to resuscitate but something wasn’t alright. Like the door left slightly more ajar than normal. Like a train gliding down the hill without making a sound. Like my english teacher from school looking over my shoulder as I typed. She was looking over my shoulder as I typed.

I didn’t turn around but I knew. She was peering with her large eyes.

I start typing.

G — , Mind your own business.

“Wow. You named a character after me?”

clickity clack. clickity clack.

Leave me the fuck alone.

“Wai. So this is like an inner monologue?”

The first time she told me a story, I interrupted her and told her that she had a bad way of telling a story.

“What the fuck do you mean?”

I already knew I had fucked up at this point but I bravely continued to hold forth.

“You should never tell a story chronologically. Summarize it and give it to me in single bite. Like a tiktok video. If you care even a little about your audience, your story will follow the three-act structure.”

This came back to bite me in the ass a week later when I was telling her about the stuff going on in the college and she interrupted me to say, “Summarize it.”

“I am giving you a summary,” I said.

“Yeah. You have been summarizing for one hour now. Maybe try summarizing your summary.”

Yesterday after almost an year of not writing, and doing a job I can only half-love, feeling the loneliness of writing and not writing at the same time but mainly not writing, of finding friends climbing up the ladder of the world, of mainly not having written a single word, of the deep misery of not being able to explain myself using given words, in the middle of a Youtube video, I suddenly felt the clouds parting in the heaven and heard faint murmur of the muse.

I could feel the my fingers slowly moving towards the keyboard —

“Hey where do you want to go this sunday?”

“Leave me one, G — .”

“Hey what are you shouting about?”

“I am not shouting. Just leave me the fuck alone.”

“Don’t raise your voice with me.”

It’s gone. I look up and heaven is closed and she is priming to throw shit at me.

“You were shouting at me because I interrupted you in the middle of a Youtube video?”

“I — Fuck — ”

“Why are you crying? What is wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing. Let’s go to the beach this Sunday.”

“I was thinking the mountains for his Sunday. But I have a feeling you are going to cry in the mountains too.”



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Ranju Mamachan

Ranju Mamachan

Where a billionaire burns bundles of dollar bills to keep himself warm.