THE ONE YOU CANNOT HAVE (9 page)

At the guesthouse, I bump into an old batchmate from my engineering college days whom I have completely lost touch with. It takes me a few moments to recognise him.

‘
Yaar
, you have forgotten me,’ he says.

I blink for a couple of seconds.

Then the penny drops.

‘Oooh yes. Omi Shukla! How have you been? Oh my God. You have changed quite a bit.’

‘Yes, say it directly. I have put on weight and lost my hair,’ he says.

He indeed has and he looks about ten years older than me now. Had I seen him on the street, I wouldn’t have recognised him. We had both joined as management trainees, after our engineering stint. During our engineering college days, we had organised many events together. We weren’t very close, but Shukla was one of the guys I had got along very well with. Later when we joined the company, we had been given our postings in different cities and we had drifted apart. We chatted about work. Shukla too was moving to Bangalore after a stint in Jaipur.

‘Glad to be back to civilisation, man. The last stint was truly lousy. You got to work Saturdays too,’ he says as he shakes my hand and makes himself comfortable on the sofa.

‘But you must have got a chance to learn so much, right?’ I ask plonking down, as the guesthouse attendant takes my luggage to the room.

‘
Kyaa learning-verning
.
Goli maar
learning
ko
, I just want to chill a bit, man. There is absolutely no night life in Jaipur.’

I laugh at that statement and he wants to know what I have been upto all these years and then he asks about Shruti. I wince. Shruti and I were a well-known item those days. We were the envy of all our batchmates and we were considered to be a ‘solid-sure-shot-will-get-married’ couple. In fact, we had roped in Shukla once, as a proxy attendance for me, at a seminar, when I had spent the whole day with Shruti.

‘We broke up,’ I say simply, not offering any details. I know that he is dying to know. But I certainly do not want to talk about Shruti.

He looks at me questioningly as though expecting me to tell him the whole story.

I just tell him that things changed and I have moved on. I also say that I have a date for the evening, just to throw him off-track. He grabs the bait and perks up. But now he quizzes me about Anjali and I deliberately give him only the briefest of details, just mentioning that she writes for a magazine and I have met her only once. I myself am not sure what this ‘thing’ with Anjali is and I don’t want Shukla to presume she is my girlfriend.

When Shukla figures out that it is a first date, he asks if I have transport and how we would be going. Then he surprises me by saying that I can borrow his bike for the evening if I like.

‘Oh, that is very kind of you,’ I say, floored by his gesture.

‘
Arey
, no problem, bro. It isn’t mine,’ he laughs.

He goes on to explain that a friend of his had left the bike in Bangalore, and was on a project in the US. The project had got extended. So he had wanted someone to use the bike, as it had been lying neglected for very long now. When Shukla had said he was moving to Bangalore, his friend had been glad to have him use it.

I get an even bigger surprise when Shukla shows me the bike. It is a Ducati Monster.

‘Holy cow! He lets you have this?!’ I ask in disbelief.

Shukla nods as though it’s nothing.

‘Does he know you are lending it to me?’ I ask.

‘You want to use it, take it. How many questions you ask! It must be your journalist girlfriend’s influence,’ comments Shukla.

I let his comment stay. I am too besotted with the bike. Besides, even if I correct him and tell him that Anjali isn’t my girlfriend Shukla will not believe it.

It is a long time since I rode a bike. After I moved to the UK, I haven’t driven a vehicle at all. In Norwich, my office was just a five-minute walk from my home. I did not see any need to get a car, as during the weekends, I was always with Mark and the others and they had their cars. After I had moved, I had decided to buy a car ‘at some point’, but the ‘some point’ never came and before I realised it, my stint in the UK was up. I feel excited at the prospect of having a bike all to myself after so long.

I take a small test ride down the road, just to get familiar with the controls. She roars to life under me. I am riding a bike after years and I feel a rush of adrenaline as I accelerate and the machine leaps to life. ‘Woo hoo!’ I want to scream. The bike is indeed smooth and the controls are awesome. The ride is a ballet of grace and for a brief moment I feel invincible, victorious and strangely peaceful.

‘I owe you one for letting me borrow this beauty,’ I tell Shukla as I park it and glance at my watch.

‘Yeah, just buy me a drink and ask your girlfriend if she knows some nice single girls,’ he says as he vanishes into his room.

I smile at Shukla’s comments. I don’t know whether his friend would be happy if he knew that he lent his bike to someone he barely knows. But then Shukla is like that. He is the kind who will let you have the shirt off his back and think nothing of it.

I shower leisurely and get ready for my date with Anjali, all the while willing Dipika to just get out of my head. My phone buzzes and I almost jump out of my skin when I see that it is a message from Dipika.

Hey—sorry about today. It must have been the wine. I don’t know what came over me. All cool, I hope?
it reads.

Cool? She must be kidding. I am terrified. I don’t want to meet her again. I don’t want to get into any kind of relationship with her. I am running as fast as I can.

Let’s just forget it. My lips are sealed,
I message back.

Take care, Aman, and have a nice evening,
she texts back.

I do not reply to her. I know she wants to chat. It is funny how I am running away from her. I guess any red-blooded male would have jumped at a chance like this. I think of Mark and how he would have said I was a total fool to pass this up. Whatever Dipika’s reasons are for making a pass at me, I do not want to encourage her in any way. I have made my stand clear on this and decide that I will stick to it.

I find myself looking forward to meeting Anjali. She would be a welcome distraction from events, since I landed in India.

Chapte
r
13

Anjali

I can hardly believe this. Latika always talks about the law of attraction—that if you want something badly enough, the entire universe will conspire to give it to you. I tell her that it comes true only in Hindi movies or in Paulo Coelho books. I am a sceptic. But today, I have dropped my apprehensions. Maybe this thing works after all. All I wanted was a date with Aman so darn badly that I was even willing to go out on a Monday evening with him, despite Mondays mostly being bad days for me, as the deadline for my column is Tuesday. I usually work last minute and hand it over just before the deadline.

And now out of the blue, Aman has shifted our date to tonight instead of Monday. I have already picked out what I will wear (an off-white sleeveless Vero Moda dress that ends just below the knee, and have co-ordinated the jewellery, footwear, everything). I think about my ‘thing’ with Aman. I have given enough hints to him that I would like to be a little more than friends, but either he is incredibly daft and cannot read the signs I am sending out or he is not interested in me
that
way. If he isn’t, why then is he responding to my messages, and why did he sound so eager to advance our date? I don’t know.

Now I am eager to see him and take this a little bit forward. Who knows, maybe Aman is one of those guys who needs a nudge?

Sriram calls me up and asks if I want to meet, as he isn’t doing anything.

‘Sorry, I have a date,’ I say and I cannot keep the joy or excitement out of my voice.

Of course, Sriram catches it immediately.

‘Who are you going out with? Tell!’ he demands.

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Because I am your friend and I have a right to look out for you. And I need to give the seal of approval to this guy you are going out with.’

‘Do
you
choose
your
friends on the basis of
my
approval or disapproval?! Then why should I tell you anything at all, Sriram Surve?’ I question him with mock anger.

‘Because if you don’t like the guy you are going out with, it is me you will call in fifteen minutes and I will be forced to bail you out. And honestly, now I have become so used to it, I kind of look forward to pretending to be your ex and barging in and terrifying the bewildered souls you date by picking up a fight with them. You should pay me for all this.’

‘Rubbish! You should pay
me.
After all, I am giving you free practice for real-life acting. Not like the studied stuff you do in your theatre plays. And hey, I can’t help it if the guys turn out to be boring or jerks. In any case, I can assure you this one is different,’ I say.

Sriram is part of an amateur theatre group and I think he secretly dreams of acting in TV serials, although he will never admit it.

‘Oh I see. And how have you concluded that?’ he asks.

‘On the basis of his intelligent replies to my mails, his demeanour and general attitude. Besides this isn’t like an unknown guy like the others were. I have met him once before.’

‘Ah-ha! Oh yes. You mentioned him. Your UK-returned
boyfriend
!’

‘Not my
boyfriend
, Sriram. We hardly know each other, except for a few emails. He is a good friend of Vikram and Dipika. I met him at their place. I mentioned him to you—Aman, remember?’

I am a little exasperated with him now and want him to get off the phone. I have to yet put on my face pack for this date, and leave it on at least thirty minutes. Talking to Sriram is holding me up.

‘Okay okay. If you need me, just call me. Ain’t no mountain high enough,’ says Sriram, singing the popular classic song quite tunelessly and distorting it so completely that I burst into laughter.

‘Okay, I will. I have to go,’ I say and I am still smiling when I hang up.

When I reach the guesthouse, I spot Aman waiting for me outside. I find that rather sweet of him. He is wearing a crisp white cotton shirt with broad light blue stripes, classic faded blue jeans and Caterpillar shoes. He looks great.

‘Hey,’ he greets me with a semi-hug and I am enveloped in an all-male woody scent that I instantly like. Then he says, ‘Let me get this,’ and before I can protest, he has paid off the auto guy.

‘Hey, Aman. Come on! There was no need to do that!’ I say.

‘Too bad, it is done now and good to see you,’ he smiles.

God, he has become even more attractive since I last saw him.

‘
Great to see you, Aman. Nice shirt!’

‘Oh, thanks. Bought it in the UK,’ he says absently as though he has just noticed it. ‘Do you want to come in? Or do we leave right now?’ he asks.

I glance at my watch. It is only seven pm.

‘We will be too early if we leave now.’

‘Right then. Let’s hang around here for some time,’ he says as he escorts me in.

The guesthouse is wonderfully done up. With Italian marble flooring, luxurious sofas that you can sink into, a large chandelier dominating the room, muted pastel modern art on the walls, carpets your feet disappear into, it is as good as the lobby of a five-star hotel.

‘What an awesome place!’ I can’t help exclaiming. ‘Your organisation sure knows how to take care of you! And here I am, stuck as a writer living in a little room, that passes off as a one BHK apartment!’ I say.

‘Oh, this is just for two months, till I get my place. I am looking, by the way. Looking to rent a place close to office.’

‘Okay, get a copy of the
Ad-mag
. It is this weekly paper that has ads and ninety per cent of them are property listings. It’s very useful. I also know a few real estate agents. If you want, I can put you in touch with them,’ I offer.

‘That’s very kind of you. But our company has their brokers and their standard properties. They will help me find a suitable one,’ says Aman.

I notice the slightly British manner of speaking that he seems to have picked up and it endears him to me all the more.

‘See what I mean? Your company pampers you so much!’ I smile in what I hope is a coquettish way. But I don’t think Aman even notices.

‘Yeah, as long as you perform. Else you get the axe. They are very clear about that,’ he says, shaking his head and pursing his lips.

Aman asks me if I will have a fresh lime soda or juice or anything aerated. I am watching my weight. I still need to get rid of four kilos. I weigh 64 kg at a height of 5’6”. I will look awesome if I weigh 60 kg. I watch my calories like a hawk but I don’t want to tell Aman about it. So I settle for fresh lime with just salt, no sugar or ice. Aman asks the staff for an iced tea.

‘So what was it like living in the UK?’ I ask.

‘Very good in some ways and bad in others,’ he says.

The writer in me is curious to know more. Being inquisitive and knowing what makes people tick is an intrinsic part of my job and is deeply ingrained in me. I prod him for more.

‘Well the bad in the usual sense—you miss your country, you miss being near your parents, my mom in my case, and you feel like an outsider sometimes. But the good thing is the kind of facilities they have. There is a gigantic difference between a developed country and a developing one. There is no comparison,’ he says as he sips his iced tea and I nod in agreement, as though I know exactly what he is saying.

We make small talk. He tells me about how he had to slightly modify his accent and slow down how he spoke in order to be understood better. He asks me about what I am working on at the moment. The conversation flows smoothly and I secretly congratulate myself on it. By about eight, I tell him that we ought to leave. And as we leave his company guesthouse, he smiles impishly and takes me towards a bike, a splendid one, parked in the garage. Even though I am not a biking enthusiast, I am impressed by this one.

‘Guess what, we don’t have to take an auto,’ he says as he turns the key in the ignition.

‘Wow! How did you manage this? This is lovely!’ I say.

Aman handles the bike expertly. I thoroughly enjoy the ride with him. I hold on to his shoulders politely without crossing the ‘you’re-a-friend’ border. What I want to do is stick to him like cling-film. But I don’t want to scare him off.

The date turns out to be the best I have ever had. The atmosphere inside is electric. I absolutely love the music that this place plays. The dim dance-floor lights, the DJ playing just the right tracks, great ambience, good crowd and most of all, Aman by my side. He is the perfect gentleman, very attentive, and gets me my daiquiri. I stop after three and in between we dance. Aman is not a great dancer, but he copies my moves and we make a good pair on the dance floor.

Aman doesn’t touch a drop of alcohol though. I am amazed at how responsible he is.

‘Come on. Have at least one drink. It must be hard for you, to come to a place like this and not drink,’ I speak in his ear as the music is too loud. He bends down to hear me.

‘Oh no. I have to drop you back safely. I cannot risk it. Another time we will take a cab and then we both can totally let go and have fun,’ he says.

We leave just before midnight and Aman drops me back. Since the next day is a working day, both of us don’t want to stay too long. The streets of Bangalore are empty now and I feel great sitting behind Aman and my hair flying in the wind.

When we reach my place, he says a polite goodbye and shakes my hand.

‘Aww, come on! What’s with the formal hand-shake. I had a super time. Thank you!’ I say as I stand on tiptoe and plant a kiss on his cheek.

He smiles and says, ‘Bye and take care’, and then zooms off into the night.

Later as I lie in bed and replay the events of the evening, I realise that Aman, by saying, ‘We will take a cab next time’, has already made up his mind that there is indeed going to be a second date.

‘Yes!’ I think as I do a mental air-fist punch and the smile on my face refuses to go away even as I fall asleep.