Risha watched her friend carefully. ‘So, simple. Don’t meet him.’
Nidhi shrugged. ‘Trust me, I’m not exactly dying to, but—’
‘But you can’t say “no” to your dad,’ Risha finished automatically.
Nidhi stared into her beer mug and nodded softly.
Tanvi exchanged a look with Risha before speaking bluntly. ‘You need to stop being so scared of him.’
‘I’m not scared of him. I just . . . don’t want to disappoint him.’
‘Why are you so worried about disappointing him?’ Risha asked gently.
Because my mother leaving us was the biggest disappointment of his life. And he is always comparing me to her, waiting for me to slip up and do something he won’t approve of. But all that is nothing compared to the throat-constricting fear I live with on a daily basis—the fear of losing him.
‘I don’t want to hurt him,’ Nidhi said, trying to sound casual.
‘He’s lucky to have you, Nidhi,’ Tanvi said brusquely. ‘You’re practically perfect.’
Nidhi gave her a sheepish grin. ‘Not that perfect. I had to climb over the gate again the other night!’
Risha laughed. ‘I’m glad my adventurous side is rubbing off on you.’
‘Speaking of which, when is your next photography excursion?’ Nidhi asked.
‘Actually, I have some great news,’ Risha smiled. ‘You know Anuj from the online editorial team?’
‘What about him?’
‘His brother is getting married next month and he wants me to shoot the wedding!’
Nidhi’s face lit up with excitement. ‘Are you serious? That’s so great!’
‘Well done, Rish,’ Tanvi said, flashing a rare smile. ‘You’re finally a wedding photographer.’
Risha nodded happily. ‘Thanks. I’m super excited!’
‘This calls for celebratory shots,’ Tanvi announced, waving their waiter over.
Risha groaned. ‘Not again.’
‘Hey, if I can jump over the gate once, I can do it again!’ Nidhi assured her.
From his bedroom window, Vikram watched with a strange combination of amusement and curiosity as Nidhi climbed over the gate of her house.
In a skirt.
What possessed a twenty-six-year-old woman to sneak into her own home at 11 p.m.? Vikram wondered, as Nidhi bent down to take off her heels and tip-toed through the driveway, waiting for her trusted compadre to come to her rescue.
Surely Nidhi wasn’t still bound by a silly curfew Vikram frowned.
The door opened and a familiar face looked around surreptitiously before letting Nidhi in.
Mangal Singh.
Warmth and fondness swept over Vikram at the sight of the old cook.
With Nidhi’s father working long hours and travelling for days at a time, the Trio had practically raised Nidhi. Come to think of it, they had sort of raised Vikram too.
When Vikram had moved to Delhi after his parents’ death—broken, bitter and alone—Nidhi and the Trio had welcomed him into their home with open arms. Rao Uncle drove Nidhi wherever she wanted to go, but also sneaked the car out for ‘servicing’ if Vikram needed a ride back from one of his inter-school matches. Mangal Singh’s culinary endeavours accounted for Nidhi’s preferences, but also included Vikram’s favourites. And good old Bhimsen had always kept an eye on the adults’ whereabouts, giving Nidhi and Vikram a timely heads-up to ditch whatever mischief they were up to and run back to their books.
With the earthy Trio as her friends and playmates, it was no surprise that Nidhi had been a tomboy at that age. While other girls played with dolls, Nidhi played with cricket bats and hockey sticks. While other girls applied make-up to their faces, Nidhi wiped sweat from hers. While other girls flirted with boys in the corridor, Nidhi shoved them fiercely on the basketball court.
So Vikram could only wonder what had inspired the change in her. How had a feisty tomboy suddenly transformed into such a knockout?
The transformation was hardly ‘sudden’, Vikram thought objectively. It had been twelve years since he had last seen her. Even though it felt like just yesterday.
An admiring smile tugged at his lips as he recalled the traces of defiance in Nidhi’s stormy green eyes when she had haughtily admitted, in a room full of people, that Vikram wasn’t the best choice for the campaign. That he wasn’t her choice for the campaign. She had seemed so confident and composed that Vikram couldn’t resist goading her by asking why she wasn’t ‘keen’ on him. And the resultant crack in her composure, though brief, had been immensely gratifying.
She was passionate about her job, that much had been evident in the meeting. But other than that, he didn’t know anything about her. Except that she seemed to prefer climbing over gates, instead of walking in through them like regular girls.
Inadvertently, Vikram smiled. Nidhi Marwah had never been a ‘regular’ girl.
‘What are you doing?’ Monty’s query made Vikram whirl around.
‘Nothing.’
‘Are you spying on neighbours?’
‘What do you want?’ Vikram snapped.
‘Why you told me not to reply-sheply to News Today girl’s email?’
‘Nidhi.’
Monty shot him a surprised look. ‘You remember her name? You never remember names.’
Vikram ignored that. ‘Let her know I’ll be there tomorrow, but don’t give her an address for correspondence yet.’
‘Why?’
Because that would take the fun away from spying on her.
‘Because I haven’t decided whether or not I want to move to a hotel,’ Vikram lied.
Monty’s face brightened. ‘Let’s move, please! I can’t sleep in this house. Whole night strange noises keep coming. Aisa lagta hai whole house will fall on my head and I will die in my sleep.’
‘You won’t,’ Vikram said confidently.
Monty hobbled out of the room, muttering something about ‘assi crore ka bhooth bangla’.
Vikram returned his attention to the window and observed the Marwahs’ sprawling mansion. The red-brick facade seemed spanking new—the ledges of its front windows painted a pristine white. The lush green garden was fenced by perfectly clipped hedges, the flower beds were sprinkled with petunias of different colours, and the pavers in the driveway appeared to be freshly installed. The only thing that stuck out like a sore thumb in the charming scene was the rusty old basketball hoop hanging at the end of the long driveway.
Suddenly, the lights in Nidhi’s room came on. Her window was open and though the lavender curtains were drawn, they fluttered gently in the breeze, offering Vikram sporadic peeks into her world.
She took off her long earrings and placed them on the dresser. She plugged her phone into the charger. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail. She untucked her blouse from her skirt and glanced at her open window.
Vikram ducked beneath the window sill, swearing under his breath when his head hit the ledge. He heard the faint sound of her window closing and the bolt sliding into place with a sharp crack.
He slid to the floor, trying to rationalize the sudden thaw in his feelings towards Nidhi. Maybe the events that had transpired twelve years ago had impacted Vikram so profoundly because of his young age. But he was no longer an idealistic teenager, wearing his heart on his sleeve.
Even though the stories of Vikram’s sexual conquests had been vastly exaggerated by the media, by the age of twenty-six, he had been with quite a few women. Mostly practical, experienced women who knew not to expect anything from him other than dinner and good sex. Sometimes just the latter. Vikram didn’t do relationships and he made that abundantly clear from the beginning. His profession gave him access to numerous beautiful women and Vikram had, admittedly, been spoiled by their attention and ministrations.
So maybe this thaw wasn’t a thaw at all, but a natural physical reaction to a beautiful woman. An incredibly beautiful woman who, incidentally, didn’t seem affected by him in the least.
/> Vikram glanced at her window. Though her lights were still on, he couldn’t see beyond the curtained window pane.
He thought of the last time he had been inside her room. God, had it really been twelve years? His hands tightened on the ledge as memories of that terrible night washed over him.
Is it true, Nidhi? he had asked, shaking her roughly by the shoulders.
Guilt had filled her green eyes. Yes.
Vikram’s jaw hardened as he recalled the event, vivid in his mind as the day it had occurred. That one crystal-clear memory was enough to wipe away the fleeting warmth Vikram had felt towards Nidhi.
He reached out and closed the window, and, with it, once again shut her out of his heart.
February 2000
Nidhi was very nervous.
This was the first slumber party she had been invited to, and she was desperate to make a good impression. It was twice as important because, by some miracle, her father had given her permission for a sleepover—something she’d assumed he would be dead against. But Palak’s father worked at Balraj’s law firm, perhaps that was why he had agreed.
Nidhi had spent the afternoon with Vikram, ‘rehearsing’ for the sleepover. She made a list of conversation topics, ranging from Sweet Valley books to lip balm versus lip gloss, to the latest Bollywood sensation—some actor called Ritwik Roshan. Basically everything Nidhi assumed twelve-year-old girls were interested in.
Vikram had told her not to bother. ‘Just be yourself.’
Nidhi snorted at that. ‘Thanks for the lame advice, Viks. No one has ever liked me for “being myself”, not even Papa.’
An inscrutable look crossed Vikram’s face before he shrugged. ‘I like you the way you are.’
But Viks didn’t count because he was her best friend. He had no choice but to like her the way she was. Unless he wanted his butt kicked.
At Palak’s house, Nidhi was greeted by four girls, all of whom seemed uncharacteristically excited to see her. Even though the school year was about to end, they hadn’t shown the slightest inclination in talking to Nidhi before then. It didn’t take long before she realized that the reason for inviting her over wasn’t because this group of popular girls was interested in getting to know Nidhi. It was because they were interested in getting to know Vikram.
‘Where did he go to school before this?’ one of the girls asked.
‘Mumbai,’ Nidhi responded, fishing in the nearly empty packet of Uncle Chipps for crumbs.
‘How did he get that scar?’ Palak wanted to know.
‘He was in a car accident a few years ago,’ Nidhi said, licking the residual masala off her fingers.
‘Is it true that he’s an orphan?’ whispered another girl.
‘No, it’s not!’ Nidhi snapped. ‘He has a family that loves him.’
It was the truth, because Vikram had Dadi. And he had Nidhi.
‘Does he have a girlfriend?’ The fourth girl giggled.
‘No,’ Nidhi said.
‘Why not?’
Because girls are lame, Nidhi thought, looking at the concrete evidence right in front of her. ‘Because he’s busy with sports and stuff.’ She shrugged.
‘Does he like girls who play sports?’ Palak asked.
‘Ummm,’ Nidhi stalled, thinking about that. ‘I guess so.’
The girls giggled among themselves and Nidhi resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. Why were they so interested in Vikram, anyway? He was always covered in dirt and grass stains, and he perpetually smelt like a cricket field.
He was also really competitive, sometimes unpleasantly so. Over the years, Nidhi had learned that it was better to play on Vikram’s team than against him, because it sucked to be at the receiving end of his aggression and temper. Plus, since he mostly ended up winning, it was in Nidhi’s interest be his teammate.
But what these girls saw in that messy, smelly fighter-cock was beyond Nidhi.
‘He’s so cute!’ they squealed, poring over his yearbook photos.
Nidhi peered at the picture of him holding up the ‘Cricketer of the Year’ trophy and wrinkled her nose. ‘He’s alright.’ When the girls stared at her like she was demented, Nidhi hastily adopted a dreamy expression. ‘I mean, yes. So cute!’
They giggled, returning their attention to the yearbook.
Maybe he’s a little cute, Nidhi thought, remembering the day they had given Odie a bath together. Odie kept licking Vikram’s face and Vikram had fallen to the floor, laughing in resignation as the mongrel drenched him in saliva. Nidhi thought of the day her father had made her reject the captaincy of the girls’ cricket team. Vikram had slid little notes under her door to get her attention and, at one point, even a Vicks ki goli as he sang, ‘Viks ki goli lo, khich-khich door karo . . .’
Nidhi felt a strange flutter in her stomach. Assuming it was a hunger pang, she reached for another packet of chips.
March 2014
Vikram answered the phone in his sleep. ‘Huh-lo.’
‘Good morning, sleepyhead!’ said a cheerful voice on the other end.
‘Nuts!’ he croaked, sitting up in bed. ‘How’s it going?’
‘We just finished the first schedule. I’m at the Jodhpur airport, heading back to Mumbai,’ Natasha Sahay responded.
‘Great. No trouble with Kapoor, I hope?’
‘Nope. We only had one scene together, so it was fine.’
‘Let me know if you need me to come, okay? As you’re aware, I have all the time in the world,’ Vikram said drolly.
Natasha laughed. ‘Awww, sweetie, hang in there. You’ll be back on your feet in no time!’
‘So you haven’t heard?’
‘Heard what?’
‘BCCI is conducting a disciplinary hearing because of the Kapoor incident.’
‘Oh God! I am so sorry, Vikram. I feel terrible about it! I wish I hadn’t—’
‘It’s not your fault, Nuts,’ Vikram interrupted.
‘It is my fault!’ she said, sounding distraught. ‘I never should’ve—’
‘Natasha, stop it,’ he said firmly. ‘You’re one of my closest friends. And Kapoor is an asshole who deserved what he got. In fact, I feel bad that I only got in one punch!’
She chuckled at that. ‘The make-up guys have been complaining about his black eye.’
‘Too bad it’s just his eye and not his front teeth,’ he gritted. ‘I’ll aim better next time.’
‘Don’t you dare!’ she warned with a laugh. ‘By the way, he asked me about us.’
‘What about us?’
‘Same old. “What’s going on between the two of you?”’
‘Tell him to mind his own fucking business,’ Vikram said blandly.
‘I did. But what’s the source of these rumours? I have a strong feeling our managers are behind them,’ Natasha whispered.
‘I’m sure they are. Monty has told me a thousand times that being romantically linked to you will improve my image. Although I can’t, for the life of me, see how it will benefit you.’
‘Well, I suppose anyone would be a step up from Shaan Kapoor,’ she teased.
‘Can’t argue with that.’ He smiled, and then added playfully, ‘Plus I’ve been told I’m easy on the eyes.’
‘Can’t argue with that,’ she rejoindered with a gentle laugh. ‘By the way, how are you liking your favourite city in the world?’
‘Oh, you mean the city where “rickshaw” means “cycle rickshaw”?’
‘So what do they call a regular rick?’
‘“Auto.” But it doesn’t matter, because you don’t see any of those after sunset.’
‘That’s absurd.’
‘I can’t get out of here soon enough,’ Vikram groaned. ‘People are supremely lazy, everything closes at midnight, there’s no vada pao, and most importantly, there’s no ocean. I can’t wait to go back home.’
‘When are you back?’
‘In about ten days, to see Donna.’
‘Okay, let me time my appointment wit
h yours.’
‘I’ll ask Monty to do it.’
‘Thanks, sweetie. We’re boarding now, call you later, okay?’
‘Okay, Nuts. Take care of yourself,’ he said fondly, hanging up the phone.
Vikram slipped out of bed and walked downstairs to find Monty sitting at the dining table, chewing on a piece of French toast. He shot Vikram a murderous look. ‘This tastes like gatta.’
Vikram swallowed a laugh. ‘How do you know what cardboard tastes like?’
Monty’s glare intensified.
‘Don’t be so spoilt, Monty.’ Vikram chuckled. ‘Remember when we had no money and French toast was a delicacy?’
Monty gave him a dirty look. ‘Why aren’t you ready? I’m going to drop you off at shoot and go run some errands.’
‘What errands?’
‘Meeting journalists to do damage control. For Shaan Kapoor wala episode.’
Vikram shrugged. ‘He had it coming.’
‘You know that and I know that. But how will public find out? Unless Natashaji—’
‘Leave her out of it, Monty,’ Vikram said.
‘Lekin Vikram, if we present her version to media, I can grentee it will alter public opinion. More important, your disciplinary hearing will be—’
‘I said, leave Natasha out of it!’ Vikram bit out.
Monty sighed and reached for his bottle of pills, swallowing two with his coffee.
‘Easy on the medication, tiger,’ Vikram warned, heading upstairs to shower.
Nidhi paced up and down the length of the studio furiously. It was 1 p.m. and there was no sign of Vikram Walia or his Bappi Lahiri clone. She had called Monty half a dozen times, but his phone had gone unanswered.
She flopped into the chair and shot the photographer an apologetic look. ‘I’m so sorry, Anoop.’
Anoop shrugged. ‘Don’t apologize to me, babe. You’re the one paying for my time.’
Nidhi gave a resigned sigh. ‘How I wish we were working with Aamir Khan. Apparently, he’s the most professional celebrity in the entire industry. Unlike this Vikram Walia—arrogant, self-entitled, first-rate jerk.’
‘Sorry, I’m late,’ a deep voice spoke from behind her.
Man of Her Match Page 5
