Authors: Sindhu S.
The Plunge (20 page)
“Are you drunk?” He asked in disbelief when she finally let him go.
She merely laughed.
“So that’s the wild side of Anjali Menon?” he asked.
She smiled at his teasing.
He loved her scent. She tasted brackish and felt like guava skin on his tongue when they resumed their lovemaking. Her sharp nails pierced his back as she pulled him towards her, shifting her hips and wrapping her legs around him.
“Don’t let go so soon. Please stay,” she pleaded.
“But you need to be careful,” he reminded her.
“It’s OK, nothing will go wrong,” she said.
Should he worry about protection? Maybe she had taken care of it.
“Don’t worry. Please stay,” she pleaded.
He broke into a sweat as she moved her fingers through his hair. Anjali closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder as he leaned back, exhausted.
“That was great,” he said, and then laughed in surprise. “By the way, where did you learn all this?” he asked with a wink, laughing.
She laughed along. “Books and the movies; where else can it be? You enjoyed it?”
“Of course, yes. That’s how we should spend our time together, not fighting over imaginary fears and insecurities,” he said.
“May I ask you something?” she asked, biting her lower lip.
“Of course, Anjali,” he said, worrying if she would bring Chandni back to their conversation.
“This Sunaina, was she your girlfriend?”
“No no,” he laughed. “She’s just a friend, Anjali.”
She did not appear convinced.
“But why did she call up while you were travelling? Did she know you were away?”
“She wanted to invite me to a party at her house, with family,” he stressed the last part to indicate it was a normal social invitation. “Now let’s stop discussing others. We have already spent a lot of time on this.”
“But you said you would bring her to Shimla.”
“I was teasing you, Anjali. You took it seriously? But I should not have lost my temper. I am sorry…sorry.” He kissed her to assure her that he meant every word of it.
“What am I to you, Siddh?”
“You are my girl, my dear Anjali.”
“Am I the only woman in your life, I mean other than your wife?”
“You have a doubt?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Then why ask?” He didn’t try to hide his irritation.
“Are we lovers?”
“What’s wrong, Anjali? You never probed like this before. We never thought such details were important. We were both clear about our relationship. Let me put it in your words. Quote, unquote: Ours is an intimate friendship, a cherished yet discreet companionship. Right?”
She let out a sigh in reply.
.
T
he phone kept ringing. He rushed out of the bathroom, glancing at the clock on the bedroom wall.
‘AJ’ flashed on the mobile screen. Why was Anjali calling him so late at night?
“Hello…”
No reply.
Something was not right. Chandni was fast asleep. He walked out to the balcony.
“Hello, Anjali, are you there?”
He heard her whimper. Then, “Tell me about your relationship with Miranda.”
“Which Miranda?” he asked, feeling shook up.
“How many Mirandas do you have sex with?”
“What? What are you talking about? Which Miranda?”
“Your former colleague, the one in Australia, that secretary turned reporter. Remember?”
“Oh her? She relocated years ago,” he said, hoping that would make his cheating less painful.
“Did you have sex with her when she was visiting India in March?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me. She just told me you did.”
“How did you find her? Facebook? Are you stalking me? Were you snooping on me?” Siddharth was angry. His body trembled.
“Shut up. Don’t bother how. Just tell me if it’s true,” she yelled. It scared him. It was so unlike Anjali.
“Sh… she’s lying,” he stuttered.
“I know she’s not. She told me stuff only a woman you have slept with would know. At least admit the truth now, you fool.” He heard her sobs.
“Listen, I will come to you this weekend and explain everything.”
“Tell me now. Did you do it with her?”
“Not much. She just came on to me.”
“You mean she held a gun to your head and made you sleep with her?”
“Calm down. It was just once. That’s all.”
“That’s all? What do you mean by that’s all, Siddh? Tell me, what exactly did you do?”
“The usual stuff…”
“So you did it, you really did it with her?” She was crying loudly now.
He felt terrible.
“Why did you do that? Why? I have never refused you sex. Besides, you have your wife, for variety. You do it with all available women? How many in all? Tell me, I want to hear.” She sounded hysterical.
“Please calm down, Anjali. Please go to sleep.”
She hung up.
His heart was beating faster. He moved his tongue over his dry lips, even as he placed the mobile on the table, hand trembling nonstop. He was not sure what Anjali would do.
The incident with Miranda had happened a month after Anjali had shifted to Shimla. They had been in a full-fledged relationship. And that made him a two-timer to Anjali.
But Anjali was OK with his cheating on his wife. So why should she make his tryst with Miranda such an issue?
But if that was the case, why did he feel guilty?
.
A
njali would not budge.
Siddharth tugged at her arm. No success. He tried to pull her up with both hands. She resisted, and slumped on the ground stubbornly.
How had she become so heavy all of a sudden? He tried again, in vain.
“Please come and sit in the car. Let’s go. We can discuss this in the car, or the hotel. Don’t create a scene.”
They were at the steps leading to Jhakoo Hill.
His appeal made it worse. She stared at him, narrowing her eyes as if to scan his mind. How could he make the neurotic woman understand that it was a bad idea to quarrel in public?
Siddharth decided to force her up one more time, even if it meant being rough. That is when she screamed.
He dropped her hand instantly and bolted towards his car, his head bent to avoid stares. It was a good thing that he had brought his own car this time. He drove off, hoping she would call after him, out of fear or shame, if not sense. He was sure that even though she was upset, Anjali would not want to stay crouched there like a tramp.
But she waited a while before calling him to demand: “Drop me at the institute.”
Siddharth had known from the very start of the conversation how it would end: in a mess, as usual.
It began with the usual, “Can I ask you something?” followed by, “You’ll tell me the truth?”
A month since Miranda had exposed him; Anjali was still a nervous wreck. Siddharth had tried every trick in his book to pacify her and regain her confidence.
It was his second visit since that midnight phone call earlier that month.
She refused to believe he could be loyal anymore. Once a cheat, always a cheat.
She said she only wanted to know what she was to him when he cheated with Miranda. She demanded to know if she was anything at all to him then, and now.
“Not again, please, Anjali. Please don’t start that again.”
Before he could say more, she began the tirade, “Did you feel more pleasure when you sucked her boobs? Was it more exciting to suck those saggy boobs?”
Instead of feeling irritated or angry at her probing, he felt sad.
They were returning from a party during Miranda’s last visit to Delhi. She wanted him to drop her at her friend’s place. He did not suspect anything when she suggested they stop at a secluded place to chat. He froze when she started unbuttoning her blouse as he parked the car close to the sidewalk. He was shocked yet thrilled when she hurriedly unzipped him and volunteered a blow job.
“Anjali, I don’t know what came over me. She seduced me. I regret it. I will regret it for the rest of my life. Please forgive me.”
He repeated the lines and looked at her pleadingly, tears welling up in his eyes. Now, looking at Anjali weeping miserably on the same seat where Miranda had sucked him to rapture, he felt powerless. A terrible ache made his heart heavy.
Anjali gazed at him ruefully.
“You felt more pleasure with her? You entered her? How long were you inside her?”
“It happened too quickly,” he said, staring at his toes.
“Means she was more exciting, right?”
He stared at a distant point, not knowing how to appease her.
Anjali looked at him searchingly, her face red, which made the pale, dry lips stand out.
“No,” he almost yelled.
He looked at her swollen eyes and said, breathing hard, “You have asked me the same questions a hundred times before. And I have answered you the same way each time. My answers will remain the same even if you ask me a thousand times more, because that’s the truth. So please don’t ask. You are killing us. Don’t you realise? Don’t do it again.”
Her sadness turned into fury. She began shouting abuses, regrets, and allegations, the usual pattern.
He watched the road ahead, not able to think of anything else to say. He felt sweaty despite the November chill.
.
A
njali was glad the institute gave a winter break to scholars. Otherwise, she would not have been able to enrol in the December batch for the Vipassana spiritual retreat.
She had to give aai’s advice a chance. Ever since Siddharth had admitted to cheating, her mind was spinning out of control. After weeks of trying and failing, she was convinced she needed help.
Anjali reached Igatpuri much before dark. The small town in Maharashtra was about three hours travel from Mumbai. The town was known for its meditation centre.
The station was crowded with participants headed for the ten-day camp at the Dhammagiri Vipassana Research Institute. Anjali walked out, avoiding the drivers who shouted “Dhammagiri”, to invite people to shared rickshaws. She hired a separate rickshaw, not wanting to be crammed in with strangers. The ashram was a short drive away, at the end of a narrow road that wound around beautiful bungalows.
Men and women had separate areas in the administrative office. Crowds gathered at the reception, with intimation cards, to collect their documents. Participants queued up at the counter and held out confirmation forms for verification to a frail volunteer. It was a long wait. The young woman fixed a sticker on Anjali’s form, and handed her an identity card.
Anjali joined the next queue. She filled in the form, placing it against the wall for support, while waiting for her turn. The details were simple: name, age, any illness….
When it came to the column on marital status, she paused, before writing ‘married’. Under the column on mental state, she wrote ‘stable’. An unstable mind would not be able to write that, she smiled at the thought.
On submitting the completed forms, each participant was handed an identity card inside a folder with the name and room number denoting the type of accommodation allotted. She looked at her card: H-34.
Anjali collected her blanket and bed sheets from the counter, deposited the money for laundry service, and stepped out of the queue.
Women and men pushed their belongings hoisted onto trolleys towards their dwellings in opposite directions. She headed towards the women’s wing along the concrete walkway that wound upwards.
“Women’s Area — Men Please Do Not Go Beyond this Limit.”
“Be Happy.”
Anjali smiled at the hilarity of the notice at the entrance to the women’s area. Throughout the course, men and women were to remain segregated, she knew.
A majestic pagoda stood at a distance, promising hope. She felt sparks of a mysterious strength within her. The top of the pagoda had hundreds of tiny bells with leaf-shaped tongs hanging from them, which chimed with the breeze.
Anjali did not know much about Vipassana, except that it was the meditation technique practiced by the Gautama Buddha. Aai said mastering it would help her handle her emotions wisely.
“May I help you?” asked a female volunteer.
The lean older woman looked at her card and pointed towards the winding path on the right side.
“Go straight down right to the end for the H block,” she said with a smile. The volunteer then went on to guide another woman.
Anjali looked at the rectangular housing blocks and wondered what the rooms would be like. When she finally reached the block, she was tired; it was more of a mental fatigue. Each block consisted of a row of enclosures like prison cells that opened into a common corridor. There were shared washrooms at one end.
Anjali closed the cell door behind her and looked around. It was a tiny room, merely enough to accommodate one person. The main furniture in that narrow enclosure was a concrete cot, more like a broad bench, with a thin mattress and a pillow. There was a concrete table, a mosquito net, a clothesline, and a table fan fixed to the ceiling.