Futility

She had it all. A perfectly decent middle-class existence, which nearly two-thirds of the population would envy.

A good husband who brought home a five-figure monthly salary, paid without fail the monthly installments for the second-hand Maruti 800 they had recently bought, bought a washing machine at a discount during the festival season, was taking out a loan from his PF for purchasing an apartment in a good area of the city, just like his colleagues.

A good son, who was obedient, was now in his 7th grade, worked hard at his books, went to the market with her to help her with the purchases, and was fearful of his father’s wrath.

Good parents, who had arranged the wedding in a grand manner, invited them over for every festival unfailingly, plied them with good food whenever they visited, and showed utmost deference to their most respectable son-in-law.

Good parents-in-law, who welcomed her into their house like their own daughter, didn’t object when they moved out to their own home, invited them over for every festival, plied them with good food, and showered their love upon their favourite son and grandson.

Good friends, who loved to call her up and chit-chat for hours, loved to go shopping to the discount sales for ‘slightly damaged’ sarees at throwaway prices, loved to bitch about their mothers-in-law and husbands, and loved to drop by for a cup of coffee and stay for lunch.

So, when they found her hanging from the ceiling fan of the bedroom, they were all puzzled. Why would she do such a thing?

They discussed amongst themselves at length and the decision was unanimous. What ingratitude towards such a good life!