Something I Never Told You

by Shravya Bhinder

  ‘Oh, okay. Ummm . . . Are you looking for a house to rent? I am a property agent,’ she lied to me outright, and asked my name.

  ‘Raunak,’ I replied without a thought, and she abruptly hung up on me.

  Later, we got to know that Adira’s mobile bill had been delivered to her mother’s house that day. It was a regular customized bill with details of her calls to me. Her mother wanted to protect her child from falling for a man who was not right for her, just as her mother had, years ago. This phone call was an attempt to figure out who had been talking to her daughter for hours every day, that too at her expense. Adira got a call from her mother a few moments after she hung up on me to inquire about ‘Raunak’ and the never-ending phone calls.

  The least that I can say about my unpleasant phone conversation with the woman I hoped to call my mother-in-law one day is that the call was the beginning of a very strained relationship between the two of us. She hated me—still hates me. She did tolerate me for a while for the sake of her daughter, but only enough to let me be around her. For her, I was the man who was conspiring to take away her only daughter from her. She was not going to let that happen so easily.

  Adira’s mother warned her to stop seeing me, unaware that she was more than seeing me a few moments ago, in her own house. Thankfully, she was not around and didn’t know anything about my daring act of entering her daughter’s living room. After the phone call ended, neither of us could think or talk about anything other than her mother. I bid Adira goodbye half an hour later and headed back home, still shivering under my clothes.

  THE BLISSFUL SUMMER

  Even though both Adira and I were living alone in our own homes, we used to meet each other when we were out. Neither of us felt comfortable about breaking her mother’s trust by going home, the way we’d done earlier.

  My parents called me every evening to keep me company while I ate the cold tiffin food every evening. My sister was due to deliver any day, and they were both excited about becoming grandparents. They had made a few visits to the hospital already because of false alarms.

  Adira and I spent every weekend together, shopping or relaxing in a shopping mall near her house. We took long bike rides to Delhi, India Gate mainly, and enjoyed late-night ice creams before I dropped her home after every date. More than a few times, I wanted to go in and be with her all night long, holding her in my arms and talking about our future, our present and laughing over the past. Yet every time I reached her building, I recalled her mother’s tone on the phone that evening, and it killed my enthusiasm. I imagined her to be hiding somewhere, maybe behind the bushes, keeping an eye on her daughter, waiting for me to take a step towards her so that she could come out and pounce on me, with a deadly knife.

  Otherwise, things were going great in our lives. Adira had adjusted well in her new job and made a few friends who approved of me. I was happy with my job and loved her more every passing day. We were so perfect for each other. We both loved food, reading, old Hindi songs, bike rides. It was all too good to be true, but it was real—the most beautiful reality of my life.

  After three months into each other’s company, so many calls, meetings, dates, kisses and hugs, we were yet to have our first fight. Not that I was waiting for it, but I knew that a fight was lurking around the corner. I even knew the reason why we would fight—her mother. We did have a few arguments about the kind of unnecessary hatred that she had for me without even knowing me, meeting me or seeing my picture. Every evening, her mother would call Adira to see if she had company. Every weekend when we were out for a date, her mother would want to talk to ‘a girl’ to ensure that she was not out alone with me. Around the same time, Piyush had dropped out of his MBA course in America and had returned to Delhi with Tamanna. They were looking for a house to settle in, and we begged Tamanna to provide an alibi for Adira every time Adira’s mother called her. Adira would put them on a conference call just to make her feel that Tamanna and Piyush were always with us. Her mother trusted the couple more than she trusted her own daughter. Her trust in me was in negative figures. Sometimes, we even planned and went on double dates with Tamanna and Piyush as her mother wanted to explore the option of video calls.

  I was more upset with Adira than with her mother as she would not even let me click any pictures together. She would say, ‘Mummy has told me not to.’ She would not change her status or hide her ‘single’ status on Facebook as she didn’t want to irk her mother. I was infuriated, to say the least, and to add salt to my wounds was the fact that I was living alone and wanted her for myself sometimes—no shopping, no movies, just the two of us at my home, talking laughing, cooking maybe. I was sick of roaming around in the same malls every time. But I didn’t have the guts to speak to her about it. She wanted to be with me. I knew it because she had invited me to her house almost every time I dropped her home, but I was so scared to go in there and too much of a chicken to ask her to stay with me for a few days.

  21 JULY 2017

  It was my birthday, and it was a Sunday too. For a change, I had to work all day on Saturday as well, because I was the only one who had not sent in my report which was to be discussed at work with the client on Monday. I had taken a few days off work from the coming Monday onwards as I wanted to catch up on my sleep and give some time to my family in the UK virtually, as my sister was all set to give birth.

  I had been working from home on Friday as well. Adira had planned a shopping spree with her new work friends that day, and we had hardly contacted each other, apart from a phone call at the end of the day. We had last met on the weekend prior to my birthday as I had been busy with work all that week too. My mother called me at night on Saturday a few times to keep me updated on my status of becoming a brand-new uncle, and she was the first one to wish me a happy birthday.

  After another false alarm a week ago, they were back at the hospital again—this time to be told that the baby was due any moment. It was my birthday the next day, and I was rooting for the baby to wait one more day, unconcerned about the pain my sister had to go through for so many hours, just so that the baby and I could share our birthdays. The good news is that we do share our birthdays.

  I conveyed the news of my sister being in hospital to Adira that evening when we spoke over dinner, separately in our own homes. She was enjoying a cheese burst pizza from Domino’s while I stuffed myself with a rather unappealing-looking portion of biryani, which for some reason tasted funny. At 12.12 a.m., she called me again to wish me a happy birthday.

  When I woke up the next day, I felt a sudden urge to use the loo, even before my body was completely awake. It was unusual for my body to get into cleaning mode before I had bribed it with a few cups of tea. Not thinking much of it and ignoring the constant dull ache in my stomach, I went on with my day. I called Adira, had a few cups of tea, called Adira again to confirm the meeting place and time, had one more cup of tea, and went to the loo more than a dozen times before accepting that I was down with something, most likely stomach flu—Damn! The biryani!

  It was too late do anything about it. By 11 a.m., I was sweating like a pig and was dehydrated—like a dog under the sun. You have no other choice, my mind and body did not need a lot of convincing to cancel the plans. Adira will be disappointed, and it has been days since you guys have met, was the last insane thought that dared to creep into my head before I felt my stomach growl for the umpteenth time and sent the text to her.

  Sorry, baby. Unwell. Can’t meet.

  As expected, my phone started ringing within moments. It must be her. I knew that, but I was stuck in the bathroom while the phone rang continuously for minutes, call after call, in the living room. After a few tiring yet relieving minutes, I came out and checked my phone. There were twenty-three missed calls, sixteen WhatsApp texts and three messages on my phone—all from Adira.

  I began reading the messages:

  You are kidding, right!

  I have planned so much.

  It is your BIRTHDAY!


  We have not met since I don’t know when . . .

  Before I could scroll and read more, the phone started buzzing again. Her number flashed on the screen, and I wondered if I should tell her about the unpleasant situation I was in. I did not want to lie, but discussing my motions with the girl I had recently started dating did not sound like an excellent idea and could hamper the relationship in the longer run. To tell or not to say a word about it was the dilemma.

  No secrets, no lies—this was the first promise we made when we started dating.

  I cursed the biryani and the tiffin-wallah aunty, but what was done was done. My birthday and all our plans for the day went down the drain, or down the toilet to be more specific. I did not want to make it worse by lying to Adira and feeling guilty about breaking the promise. But how could I tell her? It is so embarrassing that girls prefer not to talk about this stuff, I guess. The calls kept coming, and message bombs dropped one after the other, indicating her changes of mood and making it difficult for me to concentrate on what to say, especially with my rumbling intestines which had almost given up on retaining even water for more than a couple of minutes. Later, judging by her messages, I realized her emotions quickly changed from disappointment to anger to frustration, and finally escalated to worry all within five minutes of receiving my message. I was losing strength as well as my thinking abilities with every passing minute.

  Finally, when Adira took a break from her mobile terror activities, I took another loo break, after which I typed a small, to-the-point but dirty message. My first dirty message to her was messier than I had hoped it to be.

  Upset stomach (read watery). Can’t meet. Sorry (sad face).

  I was not expecting any more calls or messages from her; not that day, not ever. Now when I think of it, I could have been more subtle in describing my personal circumstances to her—the description was not needed. But at that moment, I thought it was imperative to add the narrative as it added truthfulness to the message and made the truth more believable. Nevertheless, the phone calls stopped, and I was now bothered only about my bathroom visits.

  Unfortunately, I could not find the needed medicine in the box where my mother usually keeps all the over-the-counter medicines. Because of the time difference between Delhi and London, I did not think that it was wise to bother my mother with my small troubles, that too when my sister was due to give birth any moment. My health woes were trivial compared to her situation. Also, I did not want my mother to unnecessarily worry about me when she could not do anything about it. As it was a Sunday, neither Rohit nor Piyush answered any of my desperate phone calls. ‘Bastards!’ I muttered as I picked myself up from the sofa and headed towards the same place in the house once again. The way my strength was leaving my body, I was sure that the next time I would be scooping my body off the floor.

  My maid was on leave that day as well. I had given her a day off as I expected to spend the entire day with Adira. Surprisingly, at 1 p.m., my doorbell rang. Maybe a courier or Amazon delivery, I contemplated whether I could ask the delivery guy to bring me a few tablets from the nearby medical shop, out of compassion. A small ray of hope bounced its way from my heart to my stomach, or maybe it was just my stomach twisting and turning. I peeped through the keyhole and was shocked by what I saw. Adira stood on the other side of the door with a bag in her hand. I rubbed my tired eyes and opened the door in a jiffy to find her smiling back at me like a mischievous kid.

  ‘How are you now?’ she asked me, stepping in. I do not recall who closed the door behind her. Maybe she closed it, or the wind, or it could have been me. I was stunned to see her there and embarrassed to be seen in my miserable condition, almost lifeless. I said nothing but wondered how many ladies in the neighbourhood had seen her standing there as she rang the bell and then walked into the house. The entire block was aware that my family was away, and I did not want any scandal for her. I wanted her to be my wife one day—yes, I did. Even though we had not been together very long, that could not come in the way of my dreaming or wanting something far ahead in the future. I also wondered how long I had before one of the sweet neighbours phoned my mother, who was probably worked up as her daughter was in labour, to tell her that her son had welcomed a beautiful girl in the house and that they were both alone, doing all sorts of unthinkable things. Most likely, it would not be long before the news was wired from Delhi to London at lightning speed.

  My train of thoughts was derailed as Adira put her hand on my forehead to check if I had a fever. ‘Your temperature seems fine,’ she said, removing her warm hand. ‘Have you eaten anything?’ she asked me, looking at my face with concern in her eyes. I must have looked a mess; the look on her face told me so.

  ‘I had the biryani which is the root cause of my problem,’ I tried to force a smile as I answered, but neither of us found my response amusing. ‘And some tea,’ I added.

  ‘Here, take this with only one sip of water, and then wait for fifteen minutes before you drink or eat anything,’ she ordered, handing me a glass with very little water in it and a tablet which I shall not name but was really glad that she had brought with her. I followed her instructions and fifteen minutes later had some liquid to reinstate the lost water.

  ‘I will be in the kitchen,’ she told me as she headed out, and I drifted into a tired slumber, fully aware of my surroundings. When I woke up, I was feeling much better.

  I had a little rice porridge that Adira had made for the two of us, took a much-needed shower and crashed on the bed again. This time around, I had a much better sleep. I woke up at 9 p.m., feeling much better than I had felt when Adira had walked into the house with the medicines. I looked for Adira and found her in my father’s study. She was reading one of his books—an autobiography of a historian.

  ‘Do you always read such boring books?’ I broke her concentration with my question, and she looked up from the book instantly.

  ‘I read whatever I get my hands on—a book, the newspaper, a children’s book, even a map,’ she replied, and chuckled as she adjusted her reading glasses. ‘How are you feeling now? Shall I make you something to eat?’ her concern for my health was overwhelming.

  ‘Have you eaten anything?’ I asked her, and as expected, she had not eaten anything substantial. ‘Maggi, then,’ I said, and we headed towards the kitchen to make one packet of Maggi noodles for her and khichri for me.

  That day I realized that the simplest of tasks, like cooking, can be so much fun if you have the right company. The food turned out to be nice and so did our conversation at the dinner table. That was when she gave me a gift—a watch. ‘This is to remind you of all the lovely times we have had together and for all the amazing times that we shall spend in each other’s company,’ she told me, strapping the brown leather strap around my wrist which had lost considerable volume thanks to the rumble in my stomach for the past many hours. I thanked her for such a thoughtful present. It is still the most memorable gift I have ever received. A mechanical watch which will live forever, just like our love.

  Let me confess that I was initially embarrassed in her company, but she warmly made me forget that horrible day. Her jokes and laughter made my birthday special. I asked her if she knew how many ladies had seen her walking in. ‘None, but even if they had, why do you care?’ she asked, wondering why I was so concerned about what people thought. I could not explain it to her. But it was indeed true that no one had seen her come into my house, or my phone would have been plagued with messages from all my relatives asking me about the girl who came over when Mummy was not home. It was quite late at night, and I decided to drop her back to her house early the next morning before the maid came for her daily duties. I think because I was not feeling or looking very well, Adira did not insist on going back home that night either.

  After food, as Adira talked about her brave journey alone to my home and how I looked as if I were dying that morning, my phone rang. It was my mother. I answered the call and heard the best words I ha
d ever heard in my life—I had become an uncle! My niece was healthy and looked like me. At least that is what my mother thought at that moment.

  The phone call lasted a few minutes, after which Adira and I celebrated the good news with a few spoonfuls of chocolate ice cream from the freezer. It was 12 a.m., and though I was free the next day, Adira had to work, so we decided to call it a day. I offered her my nightclothes which she politely refused. ‘You can sleep in my parents’ room,’ I told her, but surprisingly, she joined me in my bedroom instead.

  ‘I am going to sleep here because you are not well and might need me at night, but do not get any other ideas,’ she warned me as she walked in. ‘Moreover, my mother can call you any time, remember?’ she added cheekily, and resumed reading the book with her glasses on.

  ‘Goodnight,’ I whispered, sliding under the sheets and smiling. We shared the same bed that night, and I hoped to share my life with her.

  Thinking about how my plans for the day had yet again been spoilt by fate, for better or for worse—I drifted off into the world of dreams.

  22 JULY 2017

  Although we had discussed it earlier, neither of us woke up before my housemaid came.

  ‘Oh no!’ I exclaimed, getting out of bed as I was awakened by the doorbell. Shanti was the least hard-working maid I had ever known. She was usually late for work, apart from a few occasions, and today was one of them. She superficially cleaned the floor and never dusted anything. She ignored all the instructions my mother ever gave her, and she broke more plates than she cleaned. However, she was the only maid who was willing to work in a house with a young, unmarried man—me. She had been coming to our house since we were both kids, and she saw me as an elder brother. Also, she charged a little less than the others.