posted April 17, 2008 01:02 PM         

Parveen Sikkandar. Is 33. She is a writer, jewellery designer, student, food critic and TV presenter, based in Chennai

IN 1994, AFTER I had completed my BA, my parents began to look for a suitable groom. I am not the kind of person who has a fixed opinion on the institutions of marriage or religion, and I only had to hear his name — Hindu, Muslim and Christian in one — before I said ‘yes’. Prabhu Mohamed Sikkandar (Alexander), was so unique, he mesmerized me immediately.

Prabhu had some interesting ideas. He believed that all religions were essentially the same and that marriage was “the murder of individuality”. It was his idea that after we tied the knot, we’d live like “friends”. In our Madurai home, we had separate rooms, separate routines, separate hobbies. We experienced none of the normal marital complaints — I could sleep while he watched TV and he could sleep if I decided to read till four in the morning. To close friends who knew about our lifestyle it seemed like sheer madness, but for us it was a wonderful way to start a family — one in which each individual was loved and respected for their own thoughts and ideas.

Prabhu was very popular and had a battalion of friends, but he always sought my permission before he invited people over. He was very conscious of not trapping me in traditional “wifely” roles and would apologise even if he asked me to make that extra cup of coffee! He made sure we had a cook so I was free to “pursue knowledge” and housekeeping was always a shared responsibility. Even after our son Salman was born, the arrangement never changed. Salman had the option of spending time in Dad’s room or Mum’s room and his father would often get him ready for school while Mum was fast asleep!

We had our fights too. We argued about “big issues” like religion and small things as well — we once argued bitterly about the average size of ceiling fans! But most of the time, our life was fun. Once, after reading Don Quixote, the three of us fought imaginary windmills inside our home.

We seldom compelled Salman to study or clean his room and once, when he called to say how afraid he was of a maths test, Prabhu picked him up from school and brought him home. He believed that children could only learn in the absence of fear and didn’t hesitate to voice his opinion on the matter. There was a school next door to our house and we could look into one classroom; on one occasion, when a teacher punished a student, Prabhu actually yelled at her through the window, embarrassing both the teacher and his own wife!

Prabhu was interested in politics and genuinely cared about the betterment of society. He wrote to the municipal corporation and to local political leaders several times about cleaning up a lane in West Masi that was being used as a garbage dump. When nothing happened, he just went there himself with a lorry and began to clean up the place. People watched in disbelief, but soon joined him and by noon that day the municipal corporation came in and cleaned up the whole mess. He refused to be interviewed by the press as he said he didn’t do it for a pat on the back.

In 1998 we moved from Madurai to Malaysia to look after Prabhu’s family business. While our new life brought new responsibilities and the pressure caught up with us, we had plenty of money to spend on silly things and our apartment was huge and calm. Life was good and the three of us lived together as great friends. But then one day, Prabhu did the silliest thing. He just died. During dinner at a friend’s restaurant he complained of chest pain. I waited at the restaurant with Salman while his friend drove him to a nearby hospital. Within ten minutes I got a call saying he had suffered a massive cardiac arrest. He was 33.

Five years later, Salman and I live with my parents in Chennai. We have found equilibrium — I work and my mum looks after Salman. Do I think about Prabhu? Yes, approximately 5000 times a day. There is not a moment when I don’t miss him. His clothes and shoes still lie in the cupboard, his contact lenses in the bathroom. Having known such a man, “moving on” is just not an option for me. The word “widow” is just that — a word. I honestly don’t feel that I was once married, that I lost my husband, but rather that I lost my best friend.