THE ONE YOU CANNOT HAVE (5 page)

Chapte
r
6

Anjali

On Monday morning, when I go to work, there is a big surprise for me. Jeena calls me in and asks if I would like to write a regular column on relationships for
Tiara
. I cannot believe that I am actually being offered this. That I have managed to win Jeena over. The tough-as-nails, hard-to-please Jeena.

The first thing I do is message my mother. My mother is overjoyed.

‘I am so proud of you, baby, this is no mean feat,’ she says and a few minutes later I get a call from my father who congratulates me too. My mother must have immediately relayed the news to him.

After we finish talking, I call up both Sriram and Latika and tell them.

‘Paaarty. So happy for you!’ says Sriram and I can feel the joy in his voice.

Latika and he both insist that we celebrate and that is how we end up at
Zero G
on a Wednesday night, a Bollywood night. The place has a fabulous view of the city and the city lights twinkling like stars add to the atmosphere of our celebration.

Latika has brought her husband Manish along. Manish hates to dance, but Sriram, Latika and I rock the floor. We even have a little co-ordinated number from school and we do the steps in perfect rhythm, synchronised, much to Manish’s amusement.

Looking at Latika and Manish, I feel a small pang of loneliness. They seem so happy together, so content and so much in love.

It is late by the time we are done and Sriram says he will drop me home. We bid goodbye to each other and as I get into Sriram’s car I ask him, ‘Hey, Sriram, do you miss being in a relationship? Don’t you ever feel like settling down with somebody? Look at Latika and Manish—they seem so happy.’

Sriram looks thoughtful. ‘To be honest, I don’t want to, at this point of time. I am too busy having fun,’ he says.

‘What is the fun in changing girlfriends every two months?’ I ask.

‘Ever done it?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Then how will you know what fun it is?’

‘Hmm, you have a point. But the thing is, I haven’t even found a single suitable guy. How will I ever change boyfriends every two months.’

‘You are so darn finicky, Anjali. You have gone on six dates. And each time you have phoned me to rescue you. I must admit I do a rather good job of acting like a jealous ex. Every one of the guys who you have dated has fallen for it.’

‘That is because all the guys I dated so far were dumb,’ I giggle.

Secretly of course, I am happy that I can always count on Sriram, to rescue me from bad dates.

‘Tell me, is there no one you like? Even a little bit?’

‘There is someone I like. He is relocating to India from the UK soon. Hopefully, I will get to see him more often then.’

‘Wow. A UK-returned boyfriend and all that. Somebody’s going places.’

‘Shut up, Sriram. He isn’t my boyfriend. We have just exchanged a few mails. That is it. We’re just friends.’

‘Yes, yes, that is what they all say. “We’re just friends”,’ and he does a perfect imitation of a Bollywood starlet. I burst out laughing.

‘You are such a riot, Sriram,’ I say.

‘Thank you, my lady. I can apply for the position of your boyfriend. Do you think I qualify?’ he says solemnly and that makes me chuckle even harder.

‘Yeah, and you will dump me in two months. No, thanks,’ I say.

Sriram is just kidding. He and I can never be anything more than friends. While he is a fantastic friend to have around, there is no sexual attraction between us whatsoever.

I hug him goodbye and thank him for dropping me home.

My mother calls me up the next day.

‘So, who were you out with last night? Met anyone interesting?’ she asks.

I know immediately that Mr Joshi, my landlord, has informed them that I was dropped home late last night by a guy.

‘Ma, what is this? Some live-relay centre, which tells you even if I sneeze? Stop spying on me! And, God, does he actually wait up and convey to you who I went out with?’

‘He is just keeping an eye on you because Papa asked him to. Come on. No need to take offence. Met anyone interesting?’ persists my mother.

‘Uff, Ma. Sriram, Latika and I had gone out to celebrate my getting a column. And it was Sriram who dropped me back last night.’

‘Oh,’ says my mother sounding disappointed.

‘Don’t worry, Ma, if there is a guy in my life, you will be the first to know,’ I say.

‘I better be,’ she says as she hangs up.

I can only smile at my mother’s repartees.

The next day I ping Latika from work.

Me: Hey there. Busy?

Latika: Hello
Tiara
columnist. Never too busy for you.

Me: You know what? Between you and me, we should have postponed yesterday’s celebrations.

Latika: Why?! We had a great time, didn’t we?

Me: Yeah, but if we had gone out on Saturday instead, I could have asked Aman to join us. He gets back to India on Saturday morning.

Latika: Oooh. So plotting to get time with Aman, eh?

Me: Not like that. Just thought it would be nice if he was there.

Latika: Nice for whom?

Me: Heh heh. How is work?

Latika: I haven’t had time to even breathe since morning. We have a team from the US arriving next week. Going crazy with all the work. What
is
it with you and Aman? Tell the truth.

Me: We exchange emails now and then. I have chatted online with him a few times. But, I somehow get this feeling that Dipika knows something about him that she isn’t telling me.

Latika: Why?

Me: Because any time I ask about Aman, his background, his girlfriends, she gives some vague replies and changes the topic. I’ve asked twice and both times she did that. After that I stopped. I wonder why.

Latika: Hmmm. I can see your journo mind dying to investigate. Do you think there’s something going on between Dipika and Aman?

Me: OMG. I hadn’t even thought of that. She is very fond of him. But, hey, come on, I don’t think so. She is too loyal to Vikram.

Latika: Ha ha. That’s what it seems like on the outside. I have been married three years and have friends who have been married much longer. Three years and that is when the cracks appear in a marriage. You cement them, fix them, seal the cracks and it lasts. Else they grow bigger over time and poof! One day, it falls apart. Sometimes couples deliberately choose to ignore the cracks. They hope they will go away on their own. But they never do. Trust me on this.

Me: Wow. Profound. I think you ought to be a writer.

Latika: You can quote me on this. Wink.

Me: Ha ha ha. No, this one is too good. I will pass it off as my own.
I will use it in some article and pretend I wrote it.

Latika: Feel free!

Me: Do you think I should ask Aman out?

Latika: Do you like him?

Me: Well. Sort of. He is interesting.

Latika: Then what are you waiting for? Go for it!

Me: Don’t know. Somehow I feel odd to make this move.

Latika: Then what will you do? Keep waiting till he asks you? Life is short! Go for it. You keep saying that in your writings. Practise what you preach.

From: Anjali Prabhu

To: Aman Mathur

Sub: Free on Monday?

Hey Aman,

Welcome to India! Dipika told me that you arrive on Saturday and that you are staying with them for the weekend.

When do you join work?

And hey—free on Monday evening? If so, let’s catch up.

Anjali

Chapte
r
7

Shruti

‘Look Rishabh, I do not feel ready yet. We have already discussed this. And is this why you brought me out for dinner and why you’re plying me with wine, hoping I will soften my stand? Mr Rishabh Prasad, it just isn’t working.’ I am annoyed now as he seems hell-bent on bringing up the dreaded C topic again—the topic of Children.

That too in this very upmarket Italian restaurant. I had been so pleased about this ‘surprise date’. Rishabh isn’t a romantic guy. In the time that we have been married, it is always me who has made all the plans—for an outing, a movie at the multiplex, for the only vacation we have taken. Rishabh is laid-back and happy for me to co-ordinate every detail. Therefore, his taking the initiative to book us a table in this place had impressed me—until now.

I glare at him, willing him to shut up. I definitely do not want to discuss this issue now. But Rishabh is relentless.

‘See, sweety, it is easier if you have a child now than later. Anyway it is not like you don’t want to have kids ever right? The sooner, the better.’

‘Says who?’

‘Say all the websites. I have been reading up on the advantages of having children before you hit thirty. This way, when the child is twenty-four, I will still not have retired. We will still not be too old to enjoy life.’

‘God—how crazy is that argument? If we plan our finances properly, it is going to be fine.Which era do you live in? And, yes, I can show you ten other websites which tell you it is better to have a child after thirty.’ I try hard to be patient, but my voice betrays me. Though I try to keep it normal, I notice it rises a few decibel levels higher than usual.

‘Shhh… Look, be calm. Even your mom agrees it is a good idea. My parents are also both in their sixties. It is not unreasonable to want a child after almost two years of marriage, surely? And think of how happy your parents will be.’ His tone is gentle, persuasive. As though speaking to an errant child.

That does it. What does he mean by ‘Be calm’. How patronising is that statement. Like I am the unreasonable one here. I am fuming now. How can he not think from my point of view? Understand how I feel about it? About my not being ready. After all, it will be my body inside which this baby will grow. I feel like throwing up at the very thought. Pregnancy terrifies me. I don’t feel ready to have a child. I am only twenty-six. I don’t want to be a mother now. Heck, I don’t even want to think about it now.

Yet here is Rishabh looking at me like he expects me to say yes, and we go home, do the deed and produce a baby in nine months. What the hell?

I am very upset now.

So I grit my teeth and say nothing.

Rishabh takes this as a sign of giving in. He takes my silence as acquiescence.

‘Shruti—I promise, I will do everything for the baby. I will change the diapers, I will wake up at night, I will sing lullabies. Seriously I will. I will be a very involved father,’ he says earnestly, his eyes shining and hopeful.

I am so upset at how he goes on and on about it. How can he not see how strongly I feel about this? I do NOT want a baby. Not now. I don’t want to have a baby just because his parents are in their sixties. To have a baby, one must be ready to give unconditional love. A baby must happen because two people want the same thing. Not because one feels forced. Also, one must be selfless enough to put another human being first. I know from my friends how demanding children can be. I certainly am not prepared for motherhood.

‘Do one thing then,’ I say.

‘Yes, darling, anything you say,’ he replies as he reaches across the table and takes my hand.

‘Grow a pair of breasts, get a uterus, fuck yourself and go produce your own goddamn baby,’ I reply coldly as I yank my hand back and stand up, pushing back my chair which makes a grating sound against the stone floor. People have turned towards our table and are looking at me now.

I pick up my handbag and quietly walk out even as a stunned Rishabh stares at me, not knowing what to do.

He recovers in a few seconds and is beside me as I reach the door.

‘Shruti, don’t be silly and please don’t create a scene. Wait for me outside. I will pay the bill and join you,’ he hisses, his earlier shock having been replaced by embarrassment and anger now.

But I am angry too. Too angry to care. Too angry to give a fuck about what people think and what people will say. Too angry with Rishabh, his parents, my mother and the great Indian society. Like a woman is worth something only if she gets married and produces a baby. Like her thoughts and her wishes don’t matter. Like it is this whole damn concept of motherhood which makes a woman complete.

I march outside and walk. I am shaking with rage. I just want to get away from Rishabh. I look for a cab or an auto and I don’t see any. I have no idea what I am doing. I am too angry to think. This topic of ‘have a child, have a child’ has been going on for so long now and today I have reached breaking point. I had been relieved when he hadn’t mentioned it for the past two weeks. I was sure he had started seeing my point of view. But no. This was his gameplan all along. To lie low till I ‘cooled off’ so he could bring it up again.

I remember the last time after we had had sex, he had said, ‘You know what I should do, I should throw away your birth control pills. Then you will have no choice.’

I was stunned at the callousness of his remark. For a few seconds I had been unable to speak. I had been so hurt. The look on my face perhaps betrayed me and Rishabh had made a joke of it. ‘Hey, relax. Just kidding,’ he had said.

But it wasn’t a joke to me. He knew very well that it was an issue I felt strongly about. How could he make a casual remark like that?
Throw away the birth control pills
. I had chosen to keep quiet and did not mention it. Rishabh sensed my irritation and he was extra nice to me the next morning. He even made coffee and breakfast for me. I knew it was his way of making up. And then he hadn’t brought up the topic of having children at all, until today.

I start walking along the road, hoping to find cab or an auto. The Italian Bistro is not too far from Juhu beach. Before I realise it, I find myself walking in the direction of the beach.

The cool breeze hits me and I feel the saltiness of the ocean in it. I keep walking along the path. This seems to be some kind of a lane that reaches the beach. I am so immersed in my thoughts that all the food stalls, the crowd, the couples strolling hand in hand, families, vendors and the general mass of humanity that throngs the beach are a blur to me. A little boy walks up to me selling some kind of a snack, wrapped in paper cones.

‘
Didi—channa
?’ he asks, imploring me to buy.

I ignore him and continue walking towards the water. I find it difficult to walk in my heels now and so pause to remove them and carry them in my hand, rolling up my formal trousers.

My phone rings and I see it is Rishabh. I am too angry to answer and so I put it on silent and continue walking towards the water.

I walk till I reach the water. It is low tide and the sea has receded leaving behind a vast expanse of sand. I keep walking and my feet leave a trail of footprints in the moist sand. The solitude is comforting. I spot a couple, a few metres away from me. The guy holds her tightly and she has her arms around him. Her
salwar
is rolled up to her knees and the wind carries the sound of her delighted laughter to me.

The waves lap at my feet and soothe me. I stand for a long time in shallow water, my feet sinking into the sand a little deeper each time a wave comes and recedes. Soon my feet are buried in the wet mud and are not visible anymore. I cannot help thinking that a marriage is just like this. You get into it without planning too much. It grows and grows, ever so slowly and before you realise it you are deep into it, your identity submerged. You are now so-and-so’s spouse. There are compromises. You have to take joint decisions. Your decisions are not yours alone. You have to be considerate towards what your spouse wants.

What if you want something completely different from what your spouse does? No marriage considers that. I have no answers to that question as I stare at the dark waters of the ocean and the glint of the waves as the moonlight falls on them. The sound of the ocean is comforting. I stand there for a long time.

Then I turn and start walking back. I have no idea how long I have stood in the water but it has cooled my anger. I now feel that perhaps it was a bit immature of me to have walked out of the restaurant like that. So I take out my phone and see twelve missed calls. Ten are from Rishabh and two are from Asha.

I am sheepish now.

I call up Rishabh and he picks up instantly.

‘Where are you? ’ he says. He sounds cold, curt, unfriendly.

‘Sorry,’ I reply in a tiny voice, ashamed now.

‘Where are you? Let me come and pick you up.’

‘I am at Juhu beach.’

‘Hold on. I am coming right now. Don’t take public transport at this time.’

I glance at my watch and realise it is 11.30 pm. Mumbai is a city that never sleeps. I am certain that I will not have a problem taking a cab home but I don’t want to argue with him. ‘Okay. Did you call up Asha? There were two missed calls from her. How did you get her number?’

‘We need to talk, ’ he says and hangs up.

I rack my brains to figure out how he could have got hold of Asha’s number. I have only mentioned her name a few times. Maybe he got it from my office. But the security guards would not have her number. After all, we have several office blocks spread over fifteen acres of land and even though the central board (which is where his call would have gone, presuming he had called up my office) would have Asha’s number in their data base, they wouldn’t give it out to anyone who called. Or would they? I have no idea.

Rishabh pulls up and I get in silently.

‘Okay, I am sorry. Look, I lost it. I agree I shouldn’t have walked out like that,’ I say.

He does not answer. His expression is one that I have never seen before. A kind of silent rage. I get a sinking feeling. Something does not feel right.

‘Hey baby—I am sorry, okay?’ I apologise further.

Yet he is quiet.

So I am silent till we reach home. In the elevator, I try to hold his hand but he pulls it away. There is nothing left for me to do except follow him meekly.

It is only after we enter our apartment and he closes the door behind him, that he speaks.

And what he says sends a chill down my spine and tautness in the pit of my stomach.

‘Who the fuck is Aman?’ he asks as he looks at me accusingly.

A million thoughts run through my mind. How does he know about Aman? Why is he asking this now? I haven’t had any contact with Aman for the last two years. Heck, I don’t even know where he is. Who has told Rishabh about Aman? And why is he angry?

Rishabh is looking at me accusingly now. He is waiting for answers.

And I have no idea what to say.