Between Respectability and Desire
By Lokanath Mishra:
Lalita was considered fortunate by every measurable standard that mattered in her world.
She was beautiful in a restrained way—sharp eyes, calm posture, a voice that carried confidence without arrogance. She completed her postgraduate degree in English from a reputed university and secured a coveted post as Senior Translator in the State Assembly Secretariat. The salary was high, the work respected, the office air-conditioned and dignified.
She was the daughter of a professor—raised among books, debates, and the belief that discipline and dignity were life’s highest virtues.
Her marriage followed naturally.
Arun Pratap Singh was a State Administrative Officer, well placed and well spoken. His family was respected; his career spotless. The marriage was arranged with careful attention to status, horoscope, and social parity.
The wedding was grand. Lalita smiled endlessly, accepting congratulations for having “everything.”
Arun was gentle, responsible, and deeply conscious of social propriety. But he carried a private medical condition—never spoken of directly, never named—that limited physical intimacy. Lalita learned of it gradually, through awkward silences and postponed conversations.
At first, she told herself adjustment was part of marriage. Indian women were trained for it from childhood.
Months passed. Then years.
What was absent was never acknowledged. What was missing became permanent.
Lalita’s life appeared complete from the outside.
She left for office in official cars, attended government functions, hosted colleagues, visited temples on festivals, and sent gifts to relatives. Arun was attentive in public, courteous in private.
But the marriage existed as a partnership of logistics, not desire.
Lalita did not crave excess. She craved connection—to be held without hesitation, to feel chosen rather than accommodated. She never spoke of it, because there was no acceptable language for such needs in her world.
Silence became her companion.
Sanatan Bisoi entered her life without drama.
He was already married, already respected, already embedded in the same administrative ecosystem. He was older, experienced, and carried the ease of someone who had learned how to balance public life and private contradictions.
They worked together on legislative drafts. Conversations began with work, then drifted—towards books, politics, disappointments, unsaid things.
Sanatan listened. Not out of courtesy, but genuine interest.
Lalita noticed it immediately.
Their relationship did not begin with intention.
It grew in shared understanding—two people who had done everything “right” and still felt incomplete. Sanatan spoke openly of his wife. He did not deny her place in his life. He did not pretend his marriage was broken.
It was simply insufficient for him in ways he never elaborated.
Lalita knew exactly what that meant.
When the boundary was crossed, it was not impulsive. It was quiet, deliberate, and burdened with awareness. There were no promises of escape, no talk of leaving families.
They entered the relationship knowing it would exist alongside everything else.
Sanatan continued to live with his wife. He fulfilled his duties—to home, society, reputation. Lalita remained married to Arun, performing her role flawlessly.
Between them existed a parallel life.
They met discreetly. They spoke honestly. Lalita felt seen in a way she never had before. For the first time, she experienced intimacy without apology.
She did not imagine a future with Sanatan. She only allowed herself a present.
Guilt visited her often. But loneliness had already done its damage.
Indian society did not prepare women for emotional contradiction.
Lalita was admired—at work, in family gatherings, among younger women who saw her as accomplished and enviable. No one asked whether she was fulfilled. That question was considered unnecessary, even dangerous.
Sanatan never lied to her about his wife. He never promised exclusivity. That honesty, paradoxically, made the relationship bearable.
She knew she would never be acknowledged publicly. She accepted it.
Time moved on.
Sanatan’s health declined quietly. Stress, age, untreated ailments—common to men who lived disciplined public lives while suppressing private truths.
Lalita sat beside him during hospital visits as a “colleague.” She signed no papers. She had no authority. His wife stood at the forefront, rightful and visible.
Lalita remained in the background, invisible but devastated.
When Sanatan died, the city mourned a senior officer. His family received condolences. Official notices were issued.
Lalita received nothing.
There were no rituals for Lalita’s loss.
She went to office the next day, translated speeches, answered emails, and smiled at meetings. At night, she cried silently in her bedroom beside a husband who never asked what she had lost.
Her grief had no social legitimacy.
She mourned alone.
Years passed.
Lalita aged gracefully. Arun remained steady, unchanged. The marriage continued—not broken, not complete.
Sometimes Lalita wondered whether her life had been a compromise or a quiet act of courage. She had never rebelled openly. She had never abandoned duty.
But she had allowed herself love—however imperfect, however temporary.
In a society that demanded women erase themselves, Lalita had lived two lives and survived both.
She understood now that happiness in India was rarely whole. It came in fragments, negotiated and hidden.
And perhaps that, too, was a kind of truth.