THE ONE YOU CANNOT HAVE (22 page)

I am blown away completely, and am unable to articulate the range of emotions passing through me at that precise moment—one part horniness, one part excitement, one part pure surprise and one part sheer fascination at the magical transformation from ‘Anjali-the-modern-girl’ to ‘Anjali-the-well-raised-traditional-Indian-girl-fit-to-be-the-perfect daughter-in-law’.

‘Oh my God. You look stunning. Come in,’ I finally manage to say.

I introduce her to my mother and Anjali bends over and touches her feet. I am floored. I have never seen this very Indian avatar of Anjali before. I can picture my mother holding a neon sign over Anjali’s head proclaiming to me, ‘Marry her, NOW’. In my mother’s head, the choice has already been made. I know my mother too well.

Even the normally charming and effervescent Mark is a little in awe now when I introduce her. I can see that he doesn’t know how to greet her, whether to shake her hand or just say a hi. Anjali extends her hand and puts him out of his misery. He is fascinated when he learns that she is a writer. I can see that Anjali is curious about Mark. Just like with my mother, he seems to have struck a chord with Anjali too, as she is asking him a lot of questions about living in the UK, what is different, and I find Mark laying on an extra layer of charm. It is funny how I feel like asking him to stay away from Anjali and how I feel like grabbing Anjali and steering her away from Mark. But they are both laughing about something now and Anjali seems so pleased.

I ask them what they would like to drink. Anjali says she would like anything non-alcoholic and I raise my eyebrows at that and smile.

‘Since when did you become a teetotaller?’ I ask.

She gestures with her eyes towards my mother, who is now in the kitchen, frying some
bhajjas
for starters. I tell her that my mother is okay and I ask if she would like some vodka, whereupon she says she will have it with Sprite, so that at least it won’t look like alcohol. I laugh at how she is so bothered about what my mother will think. I want to tell her that she has totally got the seal of approval from my mother, but I don’t. Instead I hand her the drink.

Mark opts for a single malt neat, with just ice. I am glad that I have stocked up on the whisky, knowing Mark’s fondness for it. I am not much of a drinker and buy alcohol only if I am having company, which is the first time since I got back from the UK.

Mark loves the
bhajjas
and by the time they get over, he is already four drinks down, while Anjali is still nursing her vodka-laced Sprite. One thing that I had forgotten was how Mark has no control over his tongue once he is a few whiskys down. I should have realised that before I offered him the drink, but it is too late now.

Mark is now in excellent spirits and Anjali is throwing her head back and laughing at the jokes he is cracking with a completely straight face.

‘I love the English sense of humour,’ says Anjali.

‘And I love Indian women. They are so different from Western women,’ says Mark.

‘How so?’ asks Anjali.

‘They seem more intelligent, prettier and definitely nicer,’ says Mark, not taking his eyes off Anjali. He is looking into her eyes and narrows his eyes and smiles when he says this.

God—this is his signature move. I have heard him use this line many times on various women at the pubs in the UK. I have heard him tell countless English girls about how she is the most intelligent, prettiest and smartest girl he has ever met. I can’t believe women fall for this crap.

I expect Anjali to call his bluff and see through him. But to my horror she seems to be enjoying it. She is actually blushing and she asks him how he knows.

‘You are a perfect example. Permit me to say, your eyes are mesmerising. And I love your attire,’ he continues smoothly. Anjali is now eating out of his hands.

I can’t bear it anymore.

‘Hey, Anjali, I need to show you something,’ I say.

‘Oh,’ she says and looks as though someone has just brought her out of a trance.

‘Can you step in here a minute?’ I ask as I march towards my bedroom, all the time furiously thinking about what to show her.

‘Sure,’ she says. As she rises, she tells Mark, ‘Excuse me, I’ll just be back.’

She is walking towards my bedroom now.

Think, think, think
... I furiously work my brain but am not able to come up with anything. I look around in desperation and spot my mother’s bag. It is half open and there is a brochure of the Agricultural College. I grab that and wave it at her.

‘Anjali—see this prospectus. What do you think of it?’ I ask.

She gives me a strange look. She is genuinely puzzled.

‘Hmmm, it’s nice. Anything in particular you want me to see?’ she asks as she darts a glance in Mark’s direction.

‘See this, Anjali. I was thinking that you can perhaps write a piece on this course?’ I am improvising wildly and realise I am blabbering.

‘On an agricultural course? Aman, are you drunk?’ she asks.

‘No, no, I was just thinking that not many women would know of this scheme that the government offers. And you know what, many women would benefit from this ...This mushroom-growing course which they offer. See—you can grow mushrooms in your home. They give you all the equipment, teach you and it is very lucrative,’ I finish, all the time reading fast about what is described about the course in the prospectus.

For a moment Anjali is distracted. I know that for her, when it comes to work, she is undeterrable and focused. She so loves her job.

‘Mmmm, that’s not a bad idea actually. Maybe I can write about it or maybe I can pass it on to the features department,’ she says.

‘Ummm…and hey Anjali, one more thing,’ I say.

I just have to do it. Warn her about Mark and his ways.

‘You know Mark is quite the ladies man. He has a way with women. Everyone, you know, kind of falls for him,’ I say lamely, not able to articulate exactly what I have in mind. I want to tell her that once Mark sleeps with a women, that will be the last that she will hear from him. Till he gets them into bed, he is all charm. Mark is one of those guys who is thrilled about the chase and once the conquest happens, he drops them like a hot potato. For him, it is a game. But I am not able to explain all this to Anjali in detail. I don’t even know what to ‘warn her about’ without appearing like an old-fashioned, silly boor. Besides, we are not even in a relationship. If she wants to get into bed with him, I do not have any say in the matter. Also, isn’t that stretching things a bit too far? Maybe Anjali is just flirting with him, enjoying his company. I do not even know why I called her away in the first place. It was a silly idea.

She is looking at me curiously now. Then she chuckles.

‘Yeah, I can imagine!’ she says and with that she walks out.

I have no choice but to follow her.

‘So Mark, Aman tells me you’re quite the ladies man, eh?’ she says.

‘Oh Aman isn’t bad himself. In fact, he had an amazing time on that last night that he left for India, didn’t you, Aman? You know she went ballistic the next day. She turned up outside our office and tried to gain entry. When she couldn’t, she waited till Andrew and I came out for a smoke. Then she cornered us and asked for your number. She didn’t believe us when we said you had left for India. She threw a huge tantrum for your contact details, and finally the security had to intervene,’ says Mark.

Anjali looks at me questioningly as though to ask if this is true. I turn around and I see my mother too standing there.

I do not think that any situation I have faced so far in life has prepared me for the kind of embarrassment and total awkwardness I face now. I want to strangle Mark for saying what he did. But then a sane part of me tells me that in the world he comes from, one-night stands are truly no big deal. Of course I am certain that even there, one wouldn’t normally blurt out one’s escapades in front of parents. Or maybe they do. I don’t know.

‘Ummm, nothing like that. Mark’s just exaggerating,’ I say and I try to fix him with a glare. But in the inebriated state that he is in, he finds it hilarious and roars with laughter.

‘Ooopsies, have I put you in a spot mate? I am sorry. I think I have just broken the bro-code,’ he says and laughs again. I don’t think he even realises that he is the only one laughing.

What I actually want to do is break his face and make him shut up.

Instead what I do is just play along and try my best to hide his gaffe and my embarrassment as much as I can.

Chapte
r
25

Shruti

Dearest Aman,

I don’t even know where to begin and yet I must begin somewhere. I don’t even know what to say, yet I want to say a lot. So let me start in the way the usual mails start, although I am aware this mail is far from the ‘usual’ mails you get.

How
are
you, Aman?

I know you probably hate me and will not even read this mail and I don’t blame you. But tonight is one of those nights when I just
have
to write to you.

Trust me, I have thought of you a million times in these last two years. I have wondered if you are happy, if you are okay. I have replayed the events that led to our separation a hundred times in my head. I still believe that I probably couldn’t have done anything different at that point in time. It meant a lot to my parents for me to get married into Rishabh’s family, which is one of the most well-known families in our community. I guess from their point of view it was a ‘match made in heaven’ and the fact that they had approached my parents and wanted no dowry, and a whole lot of other things made a world of a difference. I don’t know, Aman. But please believe me when I say that I was powerless. All I wanted was my mother’s cancer to go away, for her to get well again, and I did not want to be the cause of any more stress to my parents.

Rishabh is a nice guy, Aman. I get along well with him. There is nothing for me to ‘be discontent’. And yet the heart has its ways. In these two years, I have thought of you, longed for you, many times. I have tried to move on. Make a new life with Rishabh. I have tried my best to put the past behind me. Let sleeping dogs lie kind of a thing.

But Rishabh happened to read all the mails that we exchanged. I never anticipated that. I am cringing as I type these words. He accused me of still seeing you. I have denied it till I am blue in the face, but I think he doesn’t trust me anymore. Or perhaps he feels betrayed and cheated. His behaviour in the past few months has undergone a 180 degree change. I do not recognise the man I married anymore.

One of the basic things in a relationship is trust. You just have to have faith. If you are going to view everything through coloured glasses, everything you see is going to be submerged in those shades that you choose to see it with.

On my part, I have tried my best to tell him, to make him understand that it is all history. I still haven’t succeeded. It’s been at least three months now. I don’t know what to do anymore. I am beginning to give up.

And hey, guess what happened? I ran into Mr Adani. He still remembers us. I was very surprised to run into him and it took me down memory lane. We have some wonderful memories, Aman, and I shall cherish the time spent with you all my life. They were indeed one of the happiest times that I have ever known.

You had mentioned once that no matter what happens, you would like to be there for me and we could be friends.

Does that offer still hold good?

Or do you hate me too much?

Please write back, Aman. I hope that isn’t asking too much.

Love

Shruti

I have poured out my feelings and thoughts in that mail. That is all I can do at this moment. I take a deep breath. For a few seconds I contemplate whether or not it would be wise to contact him. Then memories of the past come calling and they possess me entirely. The time I had with Aman flashes before my eyes—Aman smiling, Aman on his motorbike, Aman telling me that I look great in black. Aman and I laughing together, the plans that we had made for our future, the hopes that we had, and above all, it is the promise of undying friendship that lures me into hitting the ‘send’ button before I can change my mind. The mail is gone. I panic for a few seconds after I send it. But now I have taken that step. I have initiated contact. All I can do is wait to hear from him.

My eyes are drooping now and I am not able to stay awake anymore. I shut the laptop and I curl up in bed. I can still hear the din of the television when I fall asleep. My last thoughts as my eyes shut are that never have I, since getting married, felt so confused, so unsure, and so scared.

Early next morning Rishabh announces that he will be taking leave for the entire week to look after his parents. He says he has some urgent issues to sort out at work and will be done by noon. He requests me to go to the hospital in the morning and go to office after that. I readily agree as I am secretly relieved that I don’t have to take any more time off from work. I don’t have any meetings scheduled in the morning and so am able to swing it without too much of a hassle. The recruitment drives are starting soon and we begin with Bangalore. We are doing two colleges in Bangalore and I am travelling with the HR team, taking care of all the arrangements, publicity, co-ordinating with placement cells and ensuring that the whole process goes smoothly. This time we also have a visitor from overseas and hence have to be extra careful to ensure that everything goes like clockwork.

Rishabh calls his mother to check on her and tells her that I am on my way and that he will be there by noon. I take a cab to the hospital and on the seat find a copy of
Tiara
someone must has left behind. Idly I flip through the pages and a piece titled ‘How To Get Over The One You Cannot Have’ catches my eye. I read it and the words leap out at me.

If you are in your mid-twenties or older, chances are you have definitely been in a relationship before. Perhaps two or three or maybe even several. They have ended for whatever reasons, but sometimes, there is that one person, no matter how hard one tries, that one cannot get over.

Oh my God. The article seems to be speaking to me. I read all the points it mentions and realise that I have not followed a single one. No wonder I cannot get over Aman. Perhaps this would have helped had I read it two years ago. It is too late now. Aman is like a constant ache I have learnt to live with. Except that I have now initiated contact. I don’t know if it was wise. I don’t even know if he has moved on. But something tells me that he still has a place for me in his heart. You cannot erase four years of memories just like that.

No matter how much you try, no matter how much you want to love somebody else, no matter how much you convince yourself that you have moved on, deep down you know the truth. If you are deliriously happy when you think about someone and a smile creeps up on you, even when you are in the worst of moods, if even a mere thought of that person has a power to send a jolt of energy through your weary body, then it is nothing but love. You can try to squish it, pretend that it does not exist, ignore it, try to make it go away, but it never entirely does.

It always finds a way back.

The cab driver announces that we have reached, and it is only then that I even realise that I have been so lost in my thoughts. At the hospital my mother-in-law looks relieved to see me. The duty doctor is making his rounds soon and once he examines my father-in-law, we will get an update on his condition and when he can be discharged. My father-in-law seems perfectly fine now, save for the stitches he has on his forehead to seal the gash.

The duty doctor is a pleasant lady perhaps in her early forties. She looks at all the charts and says that a few more reports have to come in, and if they are clear, he can be discharged today itself. She tells us to keep his diabetes in check and to take care of his diet.

After the medical team leaves there isn’t anything much for me or my mother-in-law to do. The mail I sent out last evening to Aman is playing on my mind. I am dying to know if he has replied. So I log in on my phone and check my messages. There is no reply from his end.

I am a bit disappointed. Maybe he hasn’t seen my message yet, I tell myself. But my inner voice tells me, ‘
You haven’t contacted him in two years and you write to him and expect an instant reply? You have some nerve!’

Then I remember that I haven’t even contacted Mr Adani and thanked him properly for all his help. I call him instantly and update him. He is on his way to the hospital as he has a meeting with his volunteer team. I tell my mother-in-law that I am going to the canteen and ask her if she would like something to eat or drink, and whether she is comfortable. My mother-in-law waves me away and says that she will probably nap for a while.

Mr Adani arrives almost immediately.

‘Good morning, my dear girl. How are you today?’ he greets me like an old pal. He sounds positive and upbeat. It is in total contrast to my current mood. I feel so dead inside.

But I force myself to smile and I return his greeting.

Mr Adani speaks to the volunteer team for a few minutes. He has something or the other to enquire of each one. I can see that he is closely involved in all his projects, and is the kind of person who is genuinely interested in people and their welfare. No wonder he is so successful in life.

Once he is done with them, he turns to me.

‘Sorry to have kept you waiting,’ he says.

‘Oh no, not at all. You have indeed been very kind,’ I say.

He asks about my father-in-law. I tell him that he is likely to be discharged by evening and that I am filling in for Rishabh who will arrive in the afternoon. He is observing me intently now and his sharp eyes do not miss a thing. Maybe it is the sadness in my voice or the resigned dispiritedness to my current situation that I find hard to shake off, that he picks on. He asks me if everything is okay.

It is not. I am confused, tired, stressed and stretched. But I do not want to impose my troubles on him. Besides, it is not like he can help anyway. It seems as though he can read my mind.

‘I think it will do you good to have a cup of coffee. Want to join me?’ he asks and there is no reason for me to not accept. I have some time to kill till Rishabh makes his appearance.

We go to the hospital cafeteria which is more like a posh fast-food eatery than a canteen attached to a hospital. Mr Adani goes to get the coffees. While I wait for him, I look around. It is crowded, noisy and there are delicious aromas wafting across. Most people are relishing their food. Human nature surprises me. One would almost never believe that in the floors upstairs are other people—some dying, some fighting for their lives and some getting better. But the hospital canteen has nothing to indicate that. Here people are celebrating life, enjoying food, chatting away animatedly. Just one or two diners look sad and worried. For the rest it is business as usual. The irony strikes me hard.

Mr Adani returns with two cups and takes me away to a less crowded place, a room which is like a lounge meant for hospital staff. There are fewer people here compared to the cafeteria. I find myself asking him about how he started all this, and how he founded so many philanthropic organisations. He says that there were a few turning points in his life that prompted him to start an institution for counselling for emotional problems (which he says was a pioneer institute in India, as in the early eighties when he established his, it was unheard of in this country). I am curious now. I want to know more.

‘It’s a long story, Shruti, and it is all past. But every event that happens in our life, every trauma we go through, it is for the better. I am not sure if you even want to hear about it.’

‘I do, sir, and would be honoured if you shared it with me.’

‘Dispense with the formalities,’ he smiles ‘We’re out of college now. You can call me Sanjeev.’

But in my head I find it hard to address him as anything but ‘sir’.

‘Sure…er…Sanjeev. I would love to hear your story.’

‘Many years back, I underwent treatment for depression. I had to undergo counselling for more than two years. I was based in Australia then. In those days, the counselling facilities in India were woefully inadequate. I returned to India and I spoke to a friend who is a doctor. Together we founded the counselling centre, the first of its kind in the country. It was very successful and we expanded from there.’

I am surprised to hear that a person like him who is the epitome of positivity actually underwent treatment for depression.

‘I didn’t think I would either, till my wife eloped with my best friend. I lost two people who meant the most to me.’ He states it without a trace of emotion in his voice.

I am stupefied by what he has just revealed.

‘Didn’t you…you know…ever try to…?’ I am unable to complete the sentence.