You Were My Crush: Till You Said You Love Me!

by Durjoy Datta

  I drove around in the new car for about an hour, testing its limits in the open wide roads, and then came back home. I parked the car outside my house and, out of habit, I pulled open the glove compartment for the house keys.

  A package fell out. I emptied the glove compartment, collected the spare keys from the neighbours and headed home. I checked the boot space for stuff that my father may have forgotten there, but there was nothing. I dumped everything on the living room table and flopped on the couch, still fantasizing about the car. I called up my father’s personal assistant to come and collect the stuff but no one picked up the phone. I dropped in a message.

  I called up Diya to tell her about the new car.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘You sound happy?’ she said. ‘What happened? Did your father buy you Russia or something?’

  ‘You should meet me! Like right now? Can you do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I will have to ask Mom. I will call you back if she decides to let me live.’

  ‘Fine, do that and call me. ASAP.’

  Diya had always had trouble getting permission to go out of the house. Her parents were a nightmare. No guys. No late evenings. No night-outs.

  I waited for her call; intermittently I would look out of the window and admire the car in the parking space. I could not wait to show it to Diya, Deb or whomever I could have got hold of.

  I called her again, but she cut my calls. Then, just out of boredom, I started sifting through the stuff I had got out from the car’s glove compartment. I picked up the package, which was deliciously sealed, pasted and taped.

  And until this day, I wonder how my life would have been had I not opened that envelope.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There are times in life when a few seconds change everything. Either you are irreversibly fucked, or you hit a jackpot, but regardless, nothing remains the same.

  I had that moment then when I opened that envelope; everything changed. It was indescribable what I felt because I felt happy and sad and beautiful and cheated; I felt like crying, but I also felt like laughing.

  I held the envelope and tried not to cry, a million questions in my head. I did not know what to feel. I felt lied to. Cheated on.

  But I felt happy. I lay there speechless, on the couch, with the phone in my hand, and there was just one question I wanted to ask!

  Why?

  I called Diya again and explained to her what I had found.

  ‘So what exactly are you saying?’ Diya said, as I told her what I had seen.

  ‘Hmm. You didn’t get it? These are letters. Pictures. Even tickets to Sikkim. There was a micro SD card with pictures of them. Together. They looked happy. And this was not when I was eight or something. This was when I was fourteen, fifteen, and even sixteen. Even a year before Mom died. Together, the two of them … they even went on a trip together.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘What? So? It means she was still meeting him while I thought she was angry with him! What does all this even freaking mean? My mom kept talking about how bad a father he was, that he cheated on her, and these pictures?’ I said.

  Silence.

  ‘The only reason why I was angry with my dad was because my mom was angry with him! But this …’

  It felt like someone had pulled a nasty joke on me. I did not know what to make of all that. Wasn’t I supposed to be angry and pissed off at him? I was supposed to stay away from him.

  I was furious because I had missed out on having a family, a proper functioning family with both my parents together. This was just unfair. The picture of them by the river, in an upscale restaurant holding hands, the picture of them in a cable car. It really did not look like she was mad at him. They seemed happy! Mom looked happy in those pictures.

  ‘Why don’t you talk to your aunt?’ Diya suggested.

  ‘You think she would know anything about this?’ I asked her.

  ‘If anyone would—’

  ‘I should leave then,’ I said and picked up the car keys. I gathered all the pictures and other stuff and put them back in the envelope. ‘Come with me, Diya. I can even show you then what I wanted to.’

  ‘What? Wasn’t this what you wanted to show me?’

  ‘No! I will be outside your place in ten minutes,’ I said and disconnected the call. She was waiting when I got there.

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘You got to be kidding me!’ she shrieked in pure excitement. ‘I am sure your dad can buy Russia too!’

  ‘Why the fixation with Russia?’ I asked and she just laughed.

  We sat in the car and left for Deb’s mom’s place. Diya loved the car.

  ‘Benoy, are you sure I should come? It’s your family matter,’ she said.

  ‘I want you around,’ I said.

  As I drove, my questions, my anxiety and my anger tapered down. I thought if Mom could forgive him, so could I. After all, I was not half as nice a person as Mom was. By the time I reached my aunt’s place, I was sure that no matter what explanation I would get, I would forgive my father.

  It was time.

  ‘Beta?’ she said, as she opened the door and I handed over the envelope. I touched her feet.

  ‘Go through it,’ I said and introduced Diya.

  They both smiled at each other and she asked us to sit. She slowly went through all of it, alternating between looking at me and what was in her hands. She didn’t look shocked. She just looked sorry that I had got to know.

  ‘Who gave you this?’ she asked, her hand on mine.

  ‘That doesn’t matter. What’s all this?’ I said. ‘And I know you know.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Benoy.’

  ‘You don’t know what to say? I grew up without him being around because my mom asked me to stay away from him. Then what was all this? Trips? Dinners? Just tell me anything. Anything would do! Seriously. Tell me anything and I would believe you,’ I said desperately, angry that I was the last to know.

  ‘See, Benoy. I wouldn’t lie to you.’

  ‘Then tell me.’

  ‘See, beta. It is not how you think it was. Your mother had a tough time dealing with your dad. He was nice when they got married, but then he got involved with his work, his business, and he just forgot he had a wife and kid at home. It was really hard for your mother. She used to cry for days on end. I saw her go through that. And with you, he just became worse. He wanted to turn you into him. He was strict and would even go about beating you, even when you were just a little kid. And that’s why she left him. Not because he cheated, not because he didn’t give her time, but because he was a very bad father to you and she couldn’t take it.’

  ‘I don’t remember any of it.’

  ‘You don’t remember because your mother brought you up like that,’ she said.

  ‘But why this?’

  ‘You know your father always kept tabs on you and your mother. He still does. After your mother discovered that she had cancer, she didn’t tell anybody, not even you. But your father, he knew. And he begged, he almost literally signed off all of his businesses to his partners just to be with your mother. Eventually, she forgave him, but she still wanted to punish him for being a bad father. What you have in your hands is their last times together. As husband and wife.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘It’s not like how you think, Benoy. She always thought about you first. She just didn’t want you to turn out like him, that’s why she kept you away,’ she said.

  She clutched my hands, expecting me to break down into tears, and hugged me. I ruffled that package in my hands. I was not crying. I was smiling. I was glad that Mom had Dad around during her last days; she looked happy in those pictures, content. I had more to remember her by, and I was glad that she had a nicer time during her fading days. I knew she would not want anything bad for me.

  I left her place in another twenty minutes, with the envelope in my hand and a strange sense of happiness even though I had just found out that my mother had lied to me about
her relationship with my dad and kept me away from it, and I just got assured that I had a terrible childhood.

  ‘That was sweet,’ Diya said.

  ‘What was sweet?’

  ‘You cried.’

  ‘Me? No! I didn’t. I’m like Schwarzenegger in my head, buff and strong. I never cry—crying is for girls.’

  ‘You had tears in your eyes.’

  ‘Well, that and crying are two very different things. And the tears part won’t ever be mentioned. It never happened,’ I said, not looking at Diya.

  ‘I thought it was very sweet to see you cry! At least it showed you have a heart,’ she said.

  ‘Emotional crap. I’m Schwarzenegger and the Hulk. I only get angry, not sad and weepy.’

  ‘Whatever. I am glad you brought me along. I would have missed out on that. And your aunt is so sweet. Despite you being sad, she just couldn’t stop offering me something to eat!’

  I wasn’t sad and weepy; I was just glad and amused. I mean there must have been times that Mom would have lied to me and secretly gone out on a date with her ex-husband, my father! That is cute, isn’t it?

  ‘Though, Benoy, I really don’t get something,’ Diya said. ‘How can you be this stupid?’

  ‘What stupid?’

  ‘Do you really think that your car breaking down, your father offering you the car you have always liked in his parking lot and the envelope in the glove compartment of the car … do you really think all this is a coincidence? I do not think your dad is that stupid, Benoy! He planned it.’

  Fuck. He planned it. Obviously.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It had been more than a week since I had found the envelope and the secret romance of my mom and dad during the fading years of her life. I had called my father’s assistant and got everything delivered back to his office, after I made copies of everything.

  ‘Did you call your dad?’ Diya asked.

  ‘No, I didn’t. I just don’t know what to say to him.’

  ‘But you said you would?’

  ‘I couldn’t make up my mind.’

  ‘Well, if it’s too much of a bother, do it after the exams get over. Have you finished that chapter you had started with?’ she asked.

  ‘Umm … err … almost,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’ she asked.

  ‘Nope. It’s so hard to concentrate!’

  ‘Whatever. You don’t need to study. This time, you can just buy every professor. And prove Sonil true, you good-for-nothing brat!’

  It was just a trick to get me to study and it worked every time. There was the other reason why I wanted to score well—the more pertinent one. I wanted to impress Diya and eventually ask her about her sister.

  Shaina had stopped sketching, but her poems were getting longer, some even longer than a few hundred lines. Her words were as beautiful as she was, only more tragic.

  Her last poem was about a little girl found in the rubble of a war zone, who walks about the city’s ruins, looking for her parents and finding nothing but platitudes. I have never been big on emotions, since, as established, I was a curious mix of Schwarzenegger and the Hulk, but the poem had me bawling and crying like a little kid.

  I was the little girl.

  It was our last exam that day. The exams went well. Like incredibly well. There was an outside chance that I might even score higher than her. But then, even if I did, the entire credit would go to Diya for she made me work as hard as I had. Diya desperately wanted a university rank that year as otherwise her LSE dream would end then and there.

  The best part about Diya was that she was like a girlfriend, but a non-fussy and a non-sexual one, which meant no possessiveness, no jealousy and no obligations. But she was always there when I needed her. These exam preparations just made me love her even more. She was so cute and caring, almost like a mini-mom, and that’s why I always thought that Diya and Eshaan were perfect. They anyway treated me like their lost kid, so they should have started dating too!

  ‘Hey, how did it go?’ I asked Eshaan.

  ‘Not so good,’ he said.

  His relationship troubles were haunting him. I partly blamed myself for it because I had put the first seed of doubt in his head about Sonil. But I never felt guilty about it. He had to get rid of that bitch. Like. Really.

  ‘Any plans today?’ I asked him.

  ‘I got to meet her,’ he said.

  ‘Again? Didn’t you just break up yesterday?’

  ‘I did, but she just says something and we get back. She just doesn’t let me break up. You were right, she is very dominating,’ he said and I really felt sorry for him.

  ‘Why don’t you just stop taking her calls?’

  ‘She calls on the landline, talks to my mom; things are not going well, Benoy.’

  ‘Then tell her that you have started dating someone else? I am sure she will dump you then,’ I suggested.

  ‘She will ask for her number. What will I do then?’ he asked.

  ‘You are really scared of her, aren’t you?’ I asked. ‘Tell her that you have started dating Diya! And I will ask Diya to say the same, what say?’

  ‘Do you think Diya will do it?’ he asked as his phone started ringing.

  I told him that I would handle it and then bid him best of luck. I waited for Diya to finish her exam. She never left the exam hall until the last minute.

  She left the examination hall smiling. Though her smile vanished in a matter of seconds when I told her that she might have to talk to Sonil and pose as Eshaan’s girlfriend.

  ‘It’s just one call!’ I said.

  ‘You are so irritating!’ she said. ‘I don’t want to talk to her. She’s probably the last person I would ever talk to.’

  We were still arguing about whether I should have done that, and how big a pain in the ass I was, when her phone rang and we knew it was Sonil. I snatched the phone, picked it up and handed it over to her as she kept trying to give it back to me.

  Sonil came out all guns blazing, calling Diya a whore and home breaker and what not; Diya gave it back in equal measure, pulling out the choicest of Hindi expletives, insults that even I would think twice about. A girl swearing in Hindi is a dream; it’s like a perfect picture of Women’s Liberation.

  ‘Not a word about this. Ever,’ she said as she disconnected the call.

  ‘You were good,’ I whispered in her ear. I could see her smile, even though she tried hard to hide it. ‘I have to say you were dirtier than the kids in the slums near my house. I need to treat you for this.’

  ‘Benoy, I really have to go out with my sister today. I had promised her that I would. Tomorrow, maybe?’

  ‘So what? Or do you have a problem if I come along? Anyway, I haven’t met your sister. Oh, let me treat you guys.’

  ‘My sister is sort of boring. I love her and all, but she’s into sketching and writing really boring stuff. And moreover, I don’t want guys like you hovering near her.’

  ‘I am sure she’s not boring,’ I countered. I wanted to prove it by narrating the best parts of a few of her poems I had memorized.

  ‘Fine,’ she conceded. ‘And don’t blame me if she starts to talk about Byron and Keats.’

  ‘I won’t. And I love poetry!’ I said. I only love her poetry; the only other poet I truly appreciate is Jane Taylor, the woman who wrote the twenty-line poem, but we know only four of the lines: ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’.

  We drove to her sister’s college. Miranda House. Shaina was in her first year there. Diya and I did not exchange a single word. I was busy constructing sentences that I would say. Obviously, I could not have said, I have been stalking your profile and your blogs obsessively, and I think you are like a beautiful flower, like a heartbeat—sensitive and beautiful. I was nervous.

  Will her eyes be as big as they were? Will her words rhyme? Will her hair be as perfect as it looked in the pictures? We reached her college and Diya got down from the car.

  ‘I will just go pick her up,’ Diya sai
d and left.

  I nodded and waited. As I sat in the car, I doused myself with perfume and checked my hair, and then I saw her, walking like she didn’t know how unarguably pretty she was.

  Crap.

  This isn’t the movies, I remember telling myself, but why had the people walking next to the car frozen in place and why did time slow down. I could only see her walking towards me as if I had blinders on. She was in a bright yellow T-shirt with a SpongeBob graphic on it, and bright green skirt-pants below, looking brighter than the sun.

  I could see her smile from far. It was shy yet pretty, confident yet tragic. She resembled the girls in her sketches, beautiful and complex; the world seemed like it would end every time she blinked, hiding her big, brown eyes.

  She reminded me of her poems, magical and complex, each feature of hers hiding a different story; her prettiness was epic and rich, just like the words she wrote and the sketches she drew.

  She was not that tall, maybe five feet four, but those eyes, man, those eyes.

  My heart thumped as she got inside the car, my breaths were heavy and deliberate, and I trembled. There was certain happiness in her prettiness, like she would smile and everything in the world would be okay.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Shaina.’ And she held out her hand for me to shake. I shook it.

  ‘Benoy.’

  ‘I know who you are,’ she said and smiled wider. ‘Nice car, by the way.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I blushed.

  ‘He’s just a spoilt brat,’ Diya interrupted and punched me in the arm. ‘Let’s go?’

  ‘Sure. Where are we going?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I am okay with anything! Where do you want to go, Shaina?’ Diya asked.

  ‘Umm … I know you will kill me for this, but can we go to Pragati Maidan? The French film festival just started and they are playing Queen Margot today. I really want to see the movie!’ she said, jumping in the backseat.

  ‘French movie?’ Diya said, disgusted. ‘We won’t even get a word of it! And your movies are so boring, Shaina. Can’t we do something interesting for a change? Say like watching a Hindi movie that I would understand?’