Man of Her Match

by Sakshama Puri Dhariwal

  Anger flashed in his eyes. ‘Oh, come on! Don’t pretend you don’t want this. You wouldn’t have worn this dress if you didn’t,’ he said, his rapacious eyes roving her neckline.

  How original.

  ‘I think you have the wrong idea, Kuku,’ Nidhi said calmly, even as her sense of self-preservation made her reach for the door handle.

  ‘What’s the rush?’ Kuku asked, bringing the car to a halt outside her house.

  The rush is that if I don’t get out of your revolting presence this minute, I might throw up.

  ‘I need to get home,’ she said firmly, leaping out of the vehicle before he could touch her again.

  ‘Wait!’ he commanded.

  Nidhi walked backwards, watching Kuku step out of the car and stalk towards her purposefully.

  Her back collided with a solid form and she let out a little scream.

  ‘Nidhi?’ Vikram said, steadying her shoulders with his hands.

  ‘Viks!’ she gasped.

  ‘Hey, hey! You okay?’ he asked, his eyes filling with concern.

  She nodded emphatically. ‘Yes. I . . . yes.’

  Apparently, disgust wasn’t the only feeling Kuku had invoked in her, Nidhi acknowledged as her arms involuntarily wrapped themselves around Vikram’s waist, causing the wave of terror to fade into relief.

  Displeasure flashed across Kuku’s face at their proximity, but it quickly turned to shock when he recognized Vikram. ‘Vikram Walia?’

  Kuku took a step forward and Vikram felt Nidhi’s grip tighten around his waist. He pulled her closer, shielding her with his chest.

  ‘I’m Kamal Kukreja. You can call me Kuku,’ he blurted, looking a little star-struck in Vikram’s presence.

  ‘Hi,’ Vikram said.

  ‘Vikram Walia,’ Kuku repeated in an awed whisper. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m Nidhi’s next-door neighbour,’ Vikram said, and Nidhi was touched when he added, ‘and her childhood friend.’

  ‘Oh,’ Kuku said, looking dazed.

  ‘It’s late,’ Vikram said bluntly.

  ‘Yes, it’s late,’ Kuku agreed sycophantically. ‘I’ll leave now. I’ll call you tomorrow, Niddy.’

  Nidhi nodded silently, watching him drive away.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Vikram asked, cradling her face between his hands.

  ‘Nothing,’ she lied.

  ‘You don’t seem like yourself. Tell me what’s wrong,’ he coaxed gently.

  What’s wrong is perverts like Kamal Kukreja.

  ‘I . . . it’s nothing,’ she stuttered.

  A dangerous glimmer crept into his eyes, and his face hardened. ‘Did he hurt you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Nidhi,’ Vikram said urgently, searching her eyes. ‘Promise me you’re okay.’

  ‘I’m okay,’ she breathed.

  Suddenly realizing her arms were still around him, she loosened her grip, preparing to step away. Unwittingly, Vikram’s arms tightened around her waist, pulling her closer. Resting his chin on her head, he whispered, ‘Stay.’

  Nidhi relaxed against his hard chest, revelling in his warmth as well as his heady scent. The steady beating of his heart against her cheek and the soothing feel of his hands on her back brought her breathing back to normal. She felt protected, she felt safe and, after a very long time, she felt at home.

  Nidhi’s eyes snapped open at the intensity of her feelings and she took a step back. ‘I better go inside.’

  Vikram was reluctant to let her go, but sensing her need for space, he nodded and watched her disappear into the house.

  Nidhi sank into the chair at her workstation with a frustrated groan.

  Earlier that morning, after seeing a photograph of Vikram and Natasha on Page 3, Dibakar had sent Nidhi on a fool’s errand. Her mission was to convince the sports and Delhi Today editors to ‘tone down’ all coverage that showcased Vikram as ‘rakish, combative or irresponsible’.

  ‘That’s basically everything he does, Dibakar,’ Nidhi argued. But the peculiar thing was that the words felt hollow and impotent to her own ears.

  ‘If anyone can convince them, Nidhi, it’s you! Run-run,’ Dibakar said, giving her two thumbs up for good luck.

  She threw back her shoulders and walked into Sukhi’s cabin with a resolute smile. Sukhi was lounging on the small plaid couch in his room, looking out the window. Smoking a joint.

  ‘What do you want?’ he grunted, without turning away from the view of the Connaught Place skyline.

  ‘Hi, Sukhi,’ she said, pasting a pleasant smile on her face.

  ‘I don’t have all day,’ he said curtly, glancing her way only long enough to scowl at her.

  Nidhi came straight to the point. ‘Vikram Walia is our brand ambassador, and his personal image directly influences the brand imagery. If we continue to portray him as an irresponsible figure, it will reflect poorly on our brand scores. So, I was thinking, perhaps we could focus more on his contributions to Indian cricket, instead of his ongoing suspension?’

  ‘A puff piece?’ Sukhi asked, sitting up.

  ‘Uh, not exactly. But maybe, uh, go a little easy on him?’ she suggested.

  ‘What a great idea,’ Sukhi said, his haggard face and sunken eyes brightening at the thought.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No!’ he snapped. ‘This is a fucking newspaper, not an opinion blog.’

  ‘That’s not what I—’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about what Walia does off the field. I don’t care what he wears, where he eats or who he fucks. My job is to cover his cricket and that’s what I intend to do,’ Sukhi barked.

  ‘Of course. I just meant—’

  ‘Get the hell out of here!’ he snarled. ‘And if you ever try to tell me how to run my department again, I’ll have you fired.’

  Nidhi had no doubt he meant it.

  She dragged herself to the Delhi Today floor, mentally preparing herself for a similar—even if slightly more refined—rejection from the editor, and Risha’s boss, Kabir Bose.

  ‘It’s just that all these things take attention away from the cause, Kabir,’ Nidhi reasoned.

  ‘I understand, Nidhi. But I’m just as concerned about Delhi Today’s brand scores as you are about EducateIn’s. I don’t care what Walia does on the field, but there’s no way I can ignore the late-night soirées or bar brawls.’

  ‘Of course not. I’m not saying you shouldn’t cover his shenanigans, I’m just suggesting that you de-sensationalize the coverage a bit,’ Nidhi offered.

  ‘There is a direct correlation between Walia’s profligacy and DT’s readership numbers,’ Kabir said. ‘The more reckless he is, the better I look.’

  ‘Ummm, yes. That makes sense, but we’re investing a lot of media in EducateIn and it’s counterproductive if—’

  ‘Vikram Walia is the crème de la crème of bad boys, and his bad behaviour is good for business.’ Kabir chuckled. ‘And anyway, today’s photograph is just comme ci, comme ça—it’s hardly scandalous,’ he said, sliding the newspaper towards her.

  Ignoring the involuntary pang of disappointment she felt at the image of Vikram and Natasha holding hands at his Mumbai restaurant, Nidhi feigned a nonchalant smile.

  ‘This is simply a photograph of a man in love. Don’t you agree?’ Kabir asked her.

  At their morning chai break under the NT building, both Tanvi and Risha had made a similar assessment. Risha had been more reluctant to pass judgement based on a tabloid photograph, but Tanvi was convinced. ‘You work for a newspaper, you should know there’s no smoke without fire. And that,’ Tanvi had said pointing to Vikram’s face, ‘is more emotion on Walia’s face than when India won the World Cup. Clearly, the only thing on his mind is the woman he loves.’

  As for Nidhi, despite the decade-long hiatus in their friendship, she still knew Vikram far better than she wanted to admit. She knew he had wanted to storm out of the conference room the moment he had laid eyes on her. She knew Anusha’s heroic v
ersion of the twin boys’ incident had embarrassed him. She knew he had lied about having a headache the previous day. She knew the meaning of every single inflection in his tone and every different expression on his face.

  Which is how Nidhi knew what Vikram’s happy, unguarded smile in the photograph meant. He was in love.

  With Natasha Sahay.

  So, when Nidhi walked out of Kabir’s room, her mood was extremely bleak. Not at the thought of Vikram being in love with Natasha. Not at all. Nidhi was only annoyed because of the unproductive morning she’d had.

  On impulse, she sent Vikram a text:

  I’m going to kill you.

  He replied:

  I’m already dying.

  She typed back:

  What do you mean?

  His response was instant:

  I’m sick. Come take care of me.

  Nidhi rolled her eyes and called him. ‘You better not be faking it.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he croaked, and Nidhi was startled by how miserable he sounded.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I have the flu,’ he rasped.

  ‘Where’s your babysitter?’ she asked, referring to Monty.

  ‘He’s gone to see the Taj Mahal with his “Cunnayda” wali masi ji,’ Vikram said hoarsely.

  ‘Have you seen a doctor?’ Nidhi asked.

  ‘No, but I took a Crocin,’ he said, struggling to speak through a small coughing fit.

  Nidhi sighed. ‘Hang in there, let me see what I can do.’

  She called Mangal Singh, instructing him to stay with Vikram till she came home. A few minutes later, Mangal called her back to say that he had found Vikram on the bathroom floor, heaving his guts into the toilet.

  Nidhi sprang to her feet in alarm. She gathered her stuff and rushed out the door, pausing only briefly to inform Dibakar that she was leaving for the day. Then she called Dr Handa, the family physician, who promised to be there as soon as possible.

  By the time Nidhi entered Vikram’s room, he was huddled in a blanket on his bed, knees pulled up to his chest. She nodded at Mangal, indicating that he could go back home. She touched Vikram’s forehead and yanked her hand back in shock—he was burning up.

  ‘So you’re not faking it?’ she tried to tease.

  ‘Feels pretty real to me,’ he murmured.

  ‘I’m going to call Dr Handa again,’ she said, walking towards the door to make the call.

  ‘Wait,’ he breathed.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ She frowned.

  ‘Stay with me,’ he said, half coherently.

  ‘You need a doctor,’ she said firmly.

  His eyes fluttered open. ‘I need you.’

  Something tugged at Nidhi’s heart.

  She was used to the charming, flirtatious, self-confident Vikram Walia. She wasn’t used to the soft, sweet, vulnerable Viks.

  A surge of protectiveness shot through her. It was sudden, involuntary and extremely powerful.

  She perched on the bed next to him and took his hand. ‘I’m right here,’ she assured him.

  He laced his fingers through hers and gave her hand a weak squeeze, already drifting off.

  ‘So much for cricketers having great immunity,’ she muttered under her breath.

  ‘Come on, Viks,’ Nidhi grumbled, trying to help him sit up in bed.

  It was a little after midnight and Nidhi had woken him up for the next dose of antibiotics prescribed by Dr Handa. The family doctor had been very reassuring. ‘Nothing to worry about, puttar—viral is in the air. Do–teen din dawai khayega, he will be just fine.’

  ‘Help me out here, Viks,’ Nidhi grunted, trying to shift his weight as she placed a pillow behind his head. The man was made of pure muscle.

  Vikram pushed himself up on his elbows and slid back on the bed, resting against the headboard. The simple action left him exhausted and he watched through half-open eyes as Nidhi handed him two pills and a glass of water. He opened his mouth weakly and she placed the pills in his mouth, tipping the glass up to help him swallow the tablets.

  She felt his forehead with the back of her hand. ‘You feel cooler.’

  ‘I feel tired,’ he croaked.

  She gently smoothed the hair off his forehead. ‘Wanna go back to sleep?’

  He nodded slowly, slinking down the mattress. ‘I feel like I just played a test match.’

  Nidhi chuckled and wrapped the blanket around him, watching his eyes flutter to a close.

  ‘I could get used to this,’ he murmured sleepily.

  She cocked her head in confusion. ‘Being sick?’

  His response was a low, hoarse whisper. ‘Being with you.’

  She smiled, loving this open, honest side of him. She started stepping away from the bed to resume her spot on the large armchair, when Vikram’s hand clamped around her wrist. ‘Don’t leave me, Nidhi.’

  Nidhi’s heart lurched at the raw vulnerability in his voice, and immediately she knew that he wasn’t just referring to her leaving his bedside.

  ‘Don’t leave me again,’ he whispered.

  Again? Nidhi frowned. She hadn’t left him, he had left her. She opened her mouth to correct him, but his grasp on her wrist tightened. She sat on the edge of his bed and softly pressed her fingertips to his chiselled jaw. ‘Never,’ she promised.

  He expelled a long, relieved breath and closed his eyes.

  Nidhi sat next to him for a long time and only when she was certain that he was asleep, she whispered, ‘I could also get used to this.’

  Nidhi was woken up the next morning by the sound of Vikram’s irritable grunting. He was flinging off the blanket, complaining about the heat. Nidhi felt his cool forehead, guessing his fever had broken, but took his temperature just to be sure. She waited for him to finish eating a Bourbon biscuit before handing him his pills. She then asked Mangal Singh to keep vigil while she went home to shower and inform Dibakar that she would be working from home.

  An hour later, Nidhi returned with her laptop and stationed herself on the sofa in Vikram’s living room, sending out emails and taking calls.

  By late afternoon, when a freshly showered Vikram dragged himself down the stairs, he was surprised to find Nidhi sitting cross-legged on his couch, eating Maggi. ‘You didn’t go to work?’

  ‘Just making sure you don’t die. Only because you’re the brand ambassador,’ she said, sticking her tongue out at him.

  His lips quirked into a smile. ‘You could’ve just left Mangal with me.’

  Resisting the temptation to ruffle his gorgeously styled hair, Nidhi sighed dramatically. ‘Trust me, I tried.’

  Vikram chuckled and slid on to the sofa next to her.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.

  ‘Pissed off. I’ve had two bowls of palak ka soup since morning and you’re eating Maggi?’ he accused, snatching her fork and digging into the bowl of noodles.

  He lifted his feet up to the coffee table, and Nidhi followed suit. They looked at each other.

  A second later, in perfect synchrony, they lowered their feet.

  Nidhi raised an eyebrow. ‘Dadi?’

  Vikram assumed a high-pitched feminine voice. ‘Vikramaditya Singh Walia, if you want those feet to remain attached to your legs, remove them from the table this minute!’

  Nidhi laughed. ‘That sounds just like her.’

  They sat in silence for a few minutes till Vikram noticed Nidhi’s pensive expression.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ he said, shoving another forkful of noodles into his mouth.

  ‘You know,’ she began softly, ‘a few days before Dadi passed away, I was teaching her how to use the Internet.’

  Vikram looked up with a startled smile. ‘Really?’

  ‘She intended to follow you on Twitter so she could know what you were saying, as opposed to what the media was saying about you.’

  Pain flashed across his features. ‘I wasn’t a good grandson.’

  ‘That’s not true, Viks,’ she said softl
y.

  ‘Dadi took me in when no one else wanted me,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion. ‘And I didn’t even make it to her funeral.’

  Nidhi heard the self-loathing in his voice and spoke gently. ‘You were busy winning the World Cup, Viks. I’m sure Dadi would have understood.’ When the guilt still didn’t leave his eyes, she added, ‘If you had lost, on the other hand . . .’

  Vikram laughed.

  Nidhi squeezed his hand. ‘She was very proud of you. We all were.’

  Are.

  ‘Dadi always said that you took your charm and resilience from your Punjabi father, and your pride and hot temper from your Rajput mother.’

  Vikram turned to her in surprise. ‘She spoke to you about Ma?’

  Nidhi nodded. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Dadi never mentioned her in front of me,’ Vikram said. ‘Nothing nice, anyway.’

  ‘People change with time, Viks,’ Nidhi said softly.

  They sure do, he thought, draping an arm around her shoulders. They sat in companionable silence until Nidhi suddenly giggled. Vikram turned to her inquiringly.

  ‘Did you know Dadi loved reading Mills and Boons?’ Nidhi asked. When he shook his head, she continued, ‘She used to wrap the books in old newspaper and when I asked her why, she said it was because of the “sex scenes” on the cover. The year I turned thirteen, I couldn’t resist any more, so I stole one of her books and peeled back the newspaper. The cover had an illustration of a bare-chested man and a well-endowed woman. And do you know what they were doing?’

  Enamoured by her infectious enthusiasm, Vikram gave her a curious smile. ‘What?’

  ‘The man was kissing the woman’s neck. So, for the longest time, I thought necking is how babies are born,’ she admitted with an embarrassed laugh.

  He gave her a dubious look. ‘Wait, do you know how babies are born?’

  ‘Ha ha,’ she said blandly. After a pause, she added, ‘Dadi was the strong female influence in my life.’

  ‘No wonder you turned out like this,’ he teased, placing the empty bowl on the table.

  Nidhi rested her head on his shoulder and Vikram rubbed his jaw against her temple, breathing in the fruity fragrance of her shampoo.

  ‘I saw you, you know,’ Nidhi said. ‘Four years ago.’