The day arrived. But it looked like just another Tuesday as I reached court. My lawyer took me to the first floor and asked me to wait in the balcony. I gazed around, thinking how it was exactly a year since I found out about my husband’s infidelity. My train of thought was disrupted by a tap on my shoulder. 

“Why are you dressed like a battered housewife?” my ex demanded.

“Wow, that’s the burning question of the hour?” I asked him with a smile, as he continued to glare at the sack-like brown cotton salwar-kameez-dupatta ensemble I had dug out of my mother’s cupboard. No eyeliner, no accessories, no heels, my lawyer had warned me. 

“I don’t think our country is ready for women to get a divorce in denims. The judge might actually judge me,” I explained to my ex.

Our D-day chit-chat was interrupted by our lawyers. “You are in luck, you don’t have to wait too long,” mine said, patting my shoulder. My ex and I exchanged confused glances. “There is a big rape case lined up. The judge won’t spend much time on silly divorce cases,” she explained and immediately bit her tongue.

Dingy, cobwebbed and really small, the courtroom was nothing like what I had seen in the movies. It was like entering the black-and-white era. As we sat down in the second-last row of benches, two men, their faces covered with very dirty gamchhas, were brought in and put inside an iron cage in one corner of the room. 

“See, see, rapist,” said a man sitting in front of us to a woman next to him.

“Don’t put your sunglasses on your head. It’s not allowed here,” my lawyer suddenly whispered to me. I quickly put them away.

A group of people shabbily dressed entered. “All petty thieves occupy the last bench,” a lawyer announced loudly in Bengali. The “petty thieves” obliged silently.

I quietly picked up my purse lying beside me and put it on my lap. “Don’t worry, they won’t steal inside the court,” my ex laughed. I hit him with my elbow.

There was a sudden flurry of activity. People started putting on fake ties and frayed black jackets. The judge arrived. One of the rape-accused lifted his gamchha and took a peek.

The first couple were not granted a divorce. “Take a vacation together,” the judge ordered. 

“I swear, if he asks me to go on a holiday with you, I will drag him along,” I hissed into my ex’s ear. 

As the second couple were granted a divorce, the woman broke down. Her family consoled her. 

Next, it was our turn. We both had to stand together in one witness box, not facing ones like I had imagined. Three minutes later, the gavel was on the table and the words “divorce granted” uttered. 

We both came out of the courtroom. Should I shake his hand? A goodbye hug? One tight slap? I had no clue what was appropriate just-divorced behaviour. 

But I knew one thing. I was done with the cocktail of sex, drugs and disconnect that followed my separation. After dating one new man every month, on my most vulnerable day, I had no man beside me. And I was more than okay with that. Because I had me. 

I am looking ahead, not back, and that I think is my biggest achievement in this year of terrible adversities. Oh, and now I am legally single and ready to mingle.

Life, bring it on!

(Concluded) 
Calcutta Girl is in her early 30s. This was a serialised story of how she came alive the day her marriage died. 
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