摘要：当最亲密的爱人变得沉默，当熟悉的呼唤从此消失，婚姻中最痛的或许不是争吵，而是被视若无形。一位南印度女子远嫁美国，曾拥有融入骨血的昵称和令人艳羡的家庭，却因孩子的一场大病，目睹丈夫从生命中“幽灵般”退场。她不再是他口中的“Chellamma”，而成了一个透明人。

有趣灵魂说

当最亲密的爱人变得沉默，当熟悉的呼唤从此消失，婚姻中最痛的或许不是争吵，而是被视若无形。一位南印度女子远嫁美国，曾拥有融入骨血的昵称和令人艳羡的家庭，却因孩子的一场大病，目睹丈夫从生命中“幽灵般”退场。她不再是他口中的“Chellamma”，而成了一个透明人。这不是一篇关于离婚的文章，而是一个关于名字、爱与身份的故事——当一个人从你的世界里彻底消失，你却还住在他的隔壁。她最终如何找回自己？或许，我们都该问问：爱是否真的会静默地死亡？

译文为原创，仅供个人学习使用

The New York Times | Modern Love

纽约时报 | 摩登情爱

Ghosted by My Own Husband

我被丈夫视若无形

When our once boisterous household fell silent, I longed to hear the sound of my pet name.

当我们曾经喧闹的家变得寂静无声时，我渴望听到有人呼唤我的乳名。

By Chidambarakumari Ponnambalam

Brian Rea

在我出生和长大的印度泰米尔纳德邦，我有一个美丽的名字：奇丹巴拉库玛丽（Chidambarakumari）。对大多数非泰米尔语使用者来说，它可能太长且拗口，但它依然很美。在我成长的家庭里，大家总是叫我更短、更顺口的“Ammai”，这是一个常见的女孩乳名，意思是“母亲”或“女神”。

大多数女孩在幼儿时期就不再使用“Ammai”这个称呼了，但对我而言，它一直保留着。不仅我的父母这样叫我，整个大家庭，包括阿姨和堂兄弟姐妹，也都这么称呼我。这个词对我来说意义重大，象征着无条件的爱和支持。

在学校和大学期间，我也有过各种昵称，多到记不清。几十年后，我遇到一位老同学，她记不起我的全名，说她只记得我是“那个名字很长很奇怪的女孩”。

我并没有抱怨。

二十年前的一个二月，当时我24岁，我同意与一位来自我家乡的潜在结婚对象见面。他一直在美国生活和工作，那次是回家乡探亲。在过去的几年里，我见过很多男性，但都拒绝了他们。然而，这个人不同。

也许是他坦诚地邀请我参与讨论，让我觉得他更有趣。在过去，我被禁止在见面时向潜在结婚对象提问；双方长辈交谈，而我只有在被问到时才回答。但在我们15分钟的会面中，他欢迎我提问。他甚至对我关于不会做饭的轻率言论笑了笑，说：“我会做就够了，够我们两个人吃。”

于是我同意嫁给他，婚事就这样安排好了。四个月后，六月初，我们在蒂鲁内尔维利市举行了一场盛大而亲密的婚礼。那里是我们的出生地，也是我们家族的根。

两周后，我在新罕布什尔州开始了新生活——距离我唯一熟悉的世界近9000英里。

对我的丈夫来说，我现在是“Chellamma”，意思是“蜂蜜”或“最亲爱的”，而“Ammai”和我留下的故乡一起逐渐消失在 rearview mirror（后视镜）中。但我在“Chellamma”中找到了安慰和安全感。

“Chellamma，”我丈夫会说，“遥控器在哪儿？”

“Chellamma，这是你的咖啡。”

“Chellamma，《宋飞正传》开始了——快来看。”

Chellamma 成了我们生活的背景音，而那是多么美好的生活啊。

几年后，我自己的“Ammai”来到了——我们的第一个孩子——两年后，我们的儿子也出生了，他的乳名是“Kannappa”。当我们搬进新罕布什尔州带有后院的自家房子时，我们实现了典型的美国梦。

我一直相信，当我丈夫抱着我们的第一个孩子时，他真正爱上了我。当然，当他痴迷地看着他的“Ammai”时，我的父母走了进来，为他们的“Ammai”（也就是我）多拿了一个枕头。二十八年过去了，作为一位新母亲，我依然是家人眼中的“Ammai”。

我们的夜晚总是以后门吱呀打开的声音和我丈夫洪亮的宣告为标志：“Chellamma！Ammai！Kannappa！我回来了！”

我们有喷水器舞蹈来召唤电影《龙猫》中的龙猫，有无休止的睡前故事，有电影之夜和迪士尼乐园之旅，还有永不落幕的“Chellamma”背景音。

生活是美好的。直到不再美好。

2017年，当我们的大孩子9岁时，她生病了，需要被送到波士顿的医院接受脑科专家的诊治。

看了我丈夫一眼，我就知道我们陷入了未知的领域。这意味着什么？她会好起来吗？她已经几天没有和我们说话了，更不用说睁开眼睛了。在马萨诸塞州总医院呆了一周后，我们回家了，我错误地以为这将是一段康复的旅程。然而，我们的日子被女儿的情绪所标记，她的情绪毫无预警地从极端摆向另一个极端。

在我们的小型南亚社区中，心理健康问题仍然是禁忌，因此情绪失调的女孩不容易在喝茶时讨论。我丈夫看到他甜美、有趣的女儿变成一个焦虑、愤怒的青少年，他从我们身边退缩了，变成了从前自我的空壳。但我很难关注我的婚姻，因为我醒着的每一刻都充满了照顾女儿和儿子的任务。

我带女儿去接受治疗，这样我和丈夫可以学习帮助她的技巧。但后来我意识到，这个选择在我丈夫心中激起了一种悄无声息的不适，他当时还不认为治疗适合儿童。随之而来的沉默在我们之间扩大了一道我们不知如何弥合的鸿沟。

有趣的是，两个人可以喜欢相同的电影、电视节目、音乐和书籍，分享相同的政治观点和世界观，却在婚姻最重要的方面——如何抚养孩子——存在分歧。

我和孩子们尽可能多地让我丈夫参与活动，但大多数日子只有我们三个人。后门可能还会像过去一样吱呀打开，但再也没有洪亮的问候声，因为他现在回来时我们已经睡了。而最大的变化是，再也听不到他叫我“Chellamma”了。

名字有力量，但只有在被呼唤时。我可以通过别人如何称呼我来衡量任何关系的温度。当我的父亲“Appa”用我的全名而不是“Ammai”叫我时，我知道他对我的行为不满意。即使现在，44岁的我，依然是我77岁Appa的“Ammai”。那个名字不带任何评判，只有经过几十年打磨的爱。

随着“Chellamma”慢慢消失，它并没有被任何东西取代——至少一开始没有。所以我仍然充满希望。我告诉自己，“Chellamma”只是躲在阴影里，如果我少说话，多陪伴我的丈夫，也许她会回来。

但她没有。

三年后，在疫情最严重的时候，“Chellamma”依然无处可寻。但失望无处不在，通过砰然关上的门和压抑的沉默宣告它的存在。砰然关上的门和沉默，哪个更好？我永远说不清。

过了一段时间，“Chellamma”成了一个遥远的记忆。响亮的门被更响亮的侮辱所取代。在多年没有听到“Chellamma”之后，我开始想：这些侮辱是我剩下的唯一名字吗？它们就是我变成的样子吗？

在几十年前的泰米尔电影《Sindhu Bhairavi》中，男主角从不叫妻子的名字。这部电影令人不安地性别歧视，我不想回去观看以确认，但据我回忆，丈夫因为妻子缺乏音乐知识而不断辱骂她为低能儿或白痴。她心里是怎么想的？她是否还记得自己曾经是“Bhairavi”而不是“白痴”的时刻？我渴望知道她如何应对这种抹杀。

是的，“Chellamma”只是我多层身份的一个方面，但对我来说，她的消失是我们婚姻恶化中最痛苦和残酷的部分。无法用言语解释被所爱之人忽视的痛苦——即使你不知疲倦地努力修复破碎的生活。

离婚两年后，我依然感受到在那七年家庭生活中被丈夫冷落的原始伤痛。我无法向朋友解释为什么这仍然如此沉重。大多数日子，我很高兴他们无法理解这种痛苦。每周，在治疗中，我谈论如何填补心中那个“Chellamma”形状的空洞。

但在失去那个身份之后，“Ammai”回来了。作为一名职场母亲，我需要帮助照顾孩子，我的父母介入其中，从印度来看望我们，一次呆上几个月，并带来了“Ammai”以及我童年和年轻时的所有其他昵称。

也许有一天，我重新获得的这些名字会超越、存活并比我失去的名字更有爱。也许，只是也许，我终于不再想念“Chellamma”了。但即使“Chellamma”永远不会回来，我也从知道自己回来了中找到力量。 ❤

Chidambarakumari Ponnambalam is a software engineer in New Hampshire.

奇丹巴拉库玛丽·蓬纳姆巴拉姆是新罕布什尔州的一名软件工程师。

In the Indian state of Tamil Nadu, where I was born and raised, I was given a beautiful name: Chidambarakumari. It may be too long and unwieldy for most non-Tamil speakers, but it’s beautiful all the same. Within my family when I was growing up, I was always called the much shorter and easier to say Ammai, which is a common pet name for girls, meaning “mother” or “goddess.”

Most girls age out of Ammai when they’re still toddlers, but for me it stuck. It wasn’t just my parents who called me Ammai but the entire extended family, including aunts and cousins. That one word meant the world to me, a symbol of unconditional love and support.

Various nicknames followed me through school and college, too many to remember. Decades later, I ran into an old classmate who couldn’t recall my full name, saying she could only think of me as “the girl with the weird long name.”

I didn’t complain.

One February day two decades ago, when I was 24, I agreed to meet a potential husband from my town who had been living and working in the United States and was back home for a visit. Over the previous years I had been introduced to and turned down many men who had met with me and my family, but this man was different.

Maybe his candor in inviting me to be part of the discussion made him more interesting to me. In the past, I had not been allowed to ask questions of the potential husbands during our meetings; the elders in the families conversed, and I answered only when spoken to. But he welcomed questions from me during our 15-minute meeting. He even smiled at my flippant remark about not knowing how to cook and said, “I know enough for us both.”

So I agreed to marry him, and it was arranged. Four months later, in early June, we were wed in a grand yet deeply personal ceremony in the city of Tirunelveli, our birthplace and where our families had roots.

Two weeks later, I began my new life in New Hampshire — nearly 9,000 miles away from the only world I had ever known.

To my husband, I was now Chellamma, which means “honey” or “dearest,” and Ammai drifted into the rearview mirror along with the homeland I had left behind. But I found solace and safety in Chellamma.

“Chellamma,” my husband would say. “Where is the remote?”

“Chellamma, here is your coffee.”

“Chellamma, ‘Seinfeld’ is starting — come soon.”

Chellamma became the soundtrack of our lives, and what a gorgeous life it was.

A few years later, my very own Ammai arrived — our eldest child — followed by our son two years after that, whose pet name was Kannappa. We fulfilled the quintessential American dream when we moved into our own home with a backyard in New Hampshire.

I always believed my husband truly fell in love with me when he held our first child in his arms. Of course, while he stood mesmerized by his Ammai, my parents walked in with an extra pillow for their Ammai, me. Twenty-eight years later, as a new mother, I was still Ammai to my family.

Our evenings were always marked by the back door creaking open and my husband’s booming voice announcing his arrival: “Chellamma! Ammai! Kannappa! I’m home!”

There were sprinkler dances to summon Totoro from the movie “My Neighbor Totoro,” bedtime stories that never ended, movie nights and Disney World trips, and a never-ending background score of Chellamma.

Life was beautiful. Until it wasn’t.

In 2017, when our oldest child was 9, she fell sick and needed to be taken to a hospital in Boston to be seen by brain specialists.

One look at my husband and I knew we were in uncharted territory. What did this mean? Would she get better? She hadn’t spoken to us in days, much less opened her eyes. After a week at Massachusetts General, we came home for what I mistakenly believed would be a journey of recovery. Instead, our days were marked by our daughter’s moods, which swung from one extreme to another without warning.

In our small South Asian community, mental health issues are still taboo, so girls with emotional dysregulation are not easy to discuss over chai. My husband, who saw his sweet, funny daughter transform into an anxious, angry tween, retreated from us and became a shell of his former self, but I found it hard to pay attention to my marriage as my every waking moment was filled taking care of my daughter and son.

I took my daughter to therapy so my husband and I could learn skills to help her. But as I later

realized, that choice stirred a quiet discomfort in my husband, who wasn’t yet convinced that therapy was appropriate for children. The silence that followed between us widened a divide that we didn’t know how to bridge.

Funny how two people can like the same movies, TV shows, music and books, and share the same politics and worldview, and yet differ on the most important aspect of marriage — how to raise children.

The children and I included my husband in as many activities as we could, but most days it was just the three of us. The back door might have creaked open with the same sound as in the past, but without any booming greeting, as his return now came well past our bedtimes. And the biggest change of all was the absence of hearing him call me Chellamma.

Names have power, but only when they’re called. I could gauge the temperature of any relationship by how I was called. When my father, Appa, used my full name instead of Ammai, I knew he wasn’t happy with my behavior. Even now, at 44, I remain Ammai to my 77-year-old Appa. That name holds no judgment, only love worn smooth over decades.

As Chellamma slowly disappeared, it wasn’t replaced by anything — not at first. So I remained

hopeful. I told myself Chellamma was just hiding in the shadows, and if I spoke less and showed up often enough for my husband, maybe she would return.

She did not.

Three years later, during the height of the pandemic, Chellamma was still nowhere to be found. But disappointment was everywhere, declaring its presence in banging doors and hushed silences. Which was better, the banging doors or the silence? I could never tell.

After a while, Chellamma became a distant memory. The loud doors got replaced by louder insults. After years of not hearing Chellamma, I began to wonder: Were these insults the only names I had left? Were they who I had become?

In the decades-old Tamil movie “Sindhu Bhairavi,” the male protagonist never calls his wife by her name. The movie is so disturbingly sexist that I didn’t want to go back and watch it to confirm, but in my recollection, the husband constantly berates his wife as an imbecile or an idiot for her lack of musical knowledge. What went through her mind? Did she even remember a time when she was “Bhairavi” and not “idiot”? I longed to know how she coped with that erasure.

Yes, Chellamma was just one facet of my multilayered identity, yet for me, her disappearance was the most painful and brutal aspect of our deteriorating marriage. There are no words to explain the pain of being invisible to your loved one — even as you tirelessly work to make whole a broken life.

Two years after our divorce, I still feel the raw hurt of the seven years I spent in our family home being ghosted by my own husband. I am unable to explain to friends why this continues to weigh so heavily. Most days I am glad they cannot understand this pain. Every week, in therapy, I talk about how to fill that Chellamma-shaped void in my heart.

But in the wake of losing that identity, Ammai has returned. I needed help taking care of my children as a working mother, and my parents stepped in, coming from India to visit for months at a time and bringing Ammai and all my other nicknames from childhood and young adulthood along with them.

Maybe one day the names I have regained will outweigh, outlive and out love the names I lost. Maybe, just maybe, I will finally no longer miss Chellamma. But even if Chellamma never comes back, I find strength in knowing that I did.

来源：左右图史