Kiyan tried hard but couldn’t focus on the discussion. He kept fidgeting with his phone, looking around, and sipping his wine a little too frequently.
‘Are you okay?’ Natasha enquired, sensing his restlessness.
‘Yeah, yeah. A little tired.’
‘I know. The constant weekend travel can be tiresome. But it’s all for the books. A couple more cities and then you shall be grounded till you give us your next bestseller,’ Natasha said.
Kiyan was amused at the way Natasha kept passive aggressively reminding him of the next book.
‘I shared the one line you messaged me the other day with my sales team,’ Natasha said. ‘They loved it. So go ahead and give me a manuscript soon.’
‘Even I loved it,’ Supriya said. ‘I had an interesting marketing pitch for it as well. We would tell people it happened for real to you. I’m sure it would then have that extra wow factor. What say?’
‘That would be perfect!’ Natasha quipped.
Kiyan gave them a wry smile. Only he knew what he was going through. Just then, the waiter came to their table, and Natasha got busy ordering the main course. Kiyan noticed his phone was ringing, with an unknown number flashing on the screen. The moment it turned into a missed call, Kiyan checked the number on Truecaller. It was listed as ‘KR’. His brow creased on reading his own initials. It struck him that ‘KR’ in Bengali could be read as ‘Kay Are’, as in ‘who else?’ If it was intentional word play, Kiyan was impressed. This girl—Kashti—was irksome and impressive at the same time. He hadn’t come across this combination before.
His phone rang again. This time, Kiyan excused himself and walked towards the restroom. Standing outside, he took the call.
‘Kashti?’ he said.
‘Commendable, mister bestselling author. I like the fact that you took the trouble of finding out whose number it was.’
‘Hard work never runs out of fashion after all,’ Kiyan said.
‘Never. Like my hard work is still there on your chest,’ she giggled. Kiyan felt a desperate urge to see her face right at that moment. Like most creative people, Kiyan too would get impatient when something he sought eluded him. Nothing could calm his restlessness when it came to unveiling something.
‘What did you decide about meeting me?’ Kiyan asked.
‘Someone’s sounding desperate to meet.’
‘I’m not the one who left a bite mark.’
‘Uh-huh. All right, mister bestselling author. I’ll meet you tonight.’
Kiyan felt a stirring in his loins.
* * *
A Girl’s Diary
27th February 2016, 11:48 PM.
I stood by the bed, staring at Kiyan. He was wearing the same clothes that he had on when he had met me earlier in the day. Only his shirt was no longer tucked into his jeans and the sleeves were rolled up. He was mumbling something. I didn’t like the sight. Till now, he had led me to believe he was different from others. Was that all false? I bent down slightly to make sense of his inebriated mumbling but still couldn’t understand anything. I sat beside him and leaned forward with my ears close to his mouth.
He drawled on my name.
It was obvious he hadn’t seen me, for his eyes were closed and yet he was murmuring my name.
‘What is it Kiyan?’ I whispered.
Kiyan tried opening his eyes. It took him 2–3 attempts. The way he kept squinting, trying to make out who it was in front of him, told me his vision must be blurred. He once again said my name and then said,
‘I love you.’
I kept looking at him, not saying a word. Did he really mean what he said? He was sloshed. When someone is sloshed, they either speak shit or the truth. I was lost in my thoughts when Kiyan surprised me by reaching out for and holding my hand rather tightly. Using it as support, he sat up on the bed.
‘Everything about her is beautiful,’ he said, placing his hands on my shoulder in a you-are-my-buddy manner.
‘You know it when you see something perfect . . .’
‘How do you know she is perfect?’ I cut him short.
Kiyan made a disgusted face as if he didn’t like the interruption. He brought a finger to his lips and gestured for me to keep quiet.
‘I know she is. As I was saying, when you see someone that perfect, you start hating your own imperfections simply because you know you don’t deserve that perfect someone. And you start behaving like what you are not just to win them. I lied to her today that I don’t drink. I lied to her in the train that I don’t smoke. The only thing I didn’t lie to her about was that I indeed am single. But you tell me, how do I deserve the perfection that she is?’
Though he was drunk I knew he was indeed repentant about his lies. The anguish in his voice told me he could possibly even be in love with me, though I do not believe someone can fall in love without thoroughly knowing the other person.
‘By giving her so much respect, you already deserve her, Kiyan,’ I said.
He turned to give me a you-kidding-me look. I maintained a serious face to show him I meant what I had said. When I didn’t waver, Kiyan swallowed a lump.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m dead sure. You sleep now.’ I helped him lie down once again. Throughout, our eyes remained linked. At that moment, he didn’t realize who I was but I did realize who he really was. Kiyan closed his eyes while I spent the night sitting on the bed right beside him. In the wee hours of dawn, when I returned home, I had made a decision.
Our romance became the talk of the college simply because we were the only IT–Mechanical couple. Kiyan graduated one year before I did.
I now think the single most difficult thing to find after God is the right person for oneself. I was glad I didn’t have to seek Kiyan and that the universe brought us together, in rather filmy style. Every day with him felt like a blessing. And the more I thought it was a blessing, the more I got scared because I knew life never remains the same. Everything is a cycle. Sooner or later, the wheels turn.
Our smooth relationship hit the first speed breaker after Kiyan graduated from college. Neither of us saw it coming. Now that I think back, I believe speed breakers are important for relationships. They give you reason to check if what you have is really a relationship or an illusion of a relationship. They help you see the relationship in an objective manner, washing off the blind spots.
Kiyan got a job in an automobile MNC in Gurgaon after college. He shifted there and lived with a couple of other guys in a rented flat. Suddenly, the good times seemed far away. All we could do was either talk to each other on the phone or see each other over video calls. Nothing could substitute the time we had spent together. Every fortnight, Kiyan used to catch a train from New Delhi to Chandigarh and then take a bus to Wakhnaghat only to meet me. I knew it was taxing on him, but I was also glad he chose to do it for our sake. This great romantic gesture floored me, but what I didn’t know was that Kiyan was doing it out of insecurity. Every time I told him I was going out with friends, the first question would be ‘How many guys will be there?’ Every time I, only casually, talked about a male friend, Kiyan would come to college the following weekend. He also never missed a chance to take me to a family function of his. He did so not only because he wanted to introduce me to his family, but also to make me more and more invested in the relationship. I couldn’t digest the deliberateness of it. I desperately wanted to see it as his way of consolidating our commitment, but the truth was it was his way of emotionally imprisoning me so that I never left him. He thought if I knew his family, it would be yet another factor to consider if I ever decided to leave him. It was a psychological investment that he was compelling me to make. I didn’t complain because I loved him. I only hoped he understood the intensity of my love towards him, and that there was no need for such emotional or psychological tactics or back-up plans. I’m sure he too didn’t like it himself, but perhaps his insecurity was so strong that he couldn’t control himself.
Things went on
like this for six months, and I was fine with it, but when he asked me for my email and my social networking passwords, I flared up.
‘What do you need my passwords for?’ I asked him over the phone.
‘I only want to see who all you talk to.’
‘Or you want to see who all I flirt with?’
‘Do you?’
‘I won’t answer that.’
‘That means you do.’ Kiyan’s pent-up fears came out in a shout. ‘How could you? We’ve been in a relationship for the past three years now!’
‘That’s my point too. It has been three years. How could you suspect me, Kiyan? I have never even thought of another guy, forget about flirting with someone.’
‘Really? Then why do you have a problem sharing your passwords. I don’t have a problem sharing mine. Loveforever654 is my password for all my accounts. You can check,’ he said.
‘I don’t need your password, Kiyan. I don’t want to check. I trust you. And thought you trusted me too.’
‘Maybe that’s because you know I’m not big on social networking.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Okay, I trust you as well. I really do, but I want to check too. Why should it be an issue if I want to check your email? I’m your boyfriend after all.’
‘Being your girlfriend doesn’t mean I’m not entitled to any private space. We aren’t each other’s purchased goods, for God’s sake!’
‘Why don’t you tell me up front? You have someone better than me. That you are done with me.’
There was a pause after which I shouted back, ‘I can’t believe you just said that, Kiyan.’ I was in tears as I disconnected the phone line. Kiyan tried calling back a few times, but I didn’t pick up. What’s ego to a man is hurt to a woman. Ego didn’t allow Kiyan to pursue me again while hurt didn’t let me reach out to him, even though deep in our hearts our love was tormenting us. I deleted his number on my mobile phone and each blocked the other on their social networking profiles. But what we could never do was learn to live without each other. For the first time, we understood the sharp edges of love and how they can injure if one doesn’t take care of the relationship. Now I know that a relationship isn’t formed by two perfect beings. It’s formed by ordinary people with normal fears and traits but with a will to understand the other and a respect for the other’s point of view. If that will and respect don’t exist, then nothing can make up for the hollowness that will invariably develop over time.
Six months later, I too got a job in an IT MNC in Gurgaon. There was a gap of three months before I graduated and could join. On my second day at work, I got an email on my office ID from Kiyan.
Congrats on the job. Can we please meet?
At first, I thought I wouldn’t reply. But that night, I realized I had spent too many good moments with him to not agree to this one request of his. Most importantly, somewhere, I too wanted to meet him. We had broken off the relationship without any closure. I thought perhaps the meeting would give our story the kind of closure it needed for us to actually move on in our lives.
We met at a coffee shop in Ambience Mall in Gurgaon. Kiyan had gained weight and his eyes seemed puffy. It was evident he was drinking a lot. Anyone could tell from his appearance that something was seriously wrong. I was on the verge of tears at seeing him like this but somehow managed to hold them back.
‘What has happened to you, Kiyan?’
‘My father was in the ICU a month ago. He had an ulcer in his stomach that burst. The doctors gave him forty-eight hours to live. Everyone was in the hospital. So was I. At night, I was asked to go home and rest by the elders in the family. I refused, but then I was forcibly made to go home. When in the dead of the night I went to my balcony and stared at the moon, the beauty of it made me realize the ugly truth of life. What if Dad didn’t open his eyes the next morning? I can’t tell you how I felt. Like a loser. A defeated person. An insignificant speck of dust. I wanted to hug someone and cry. I realized then that one is lucky to have someone to share your smiles with but blessed only if you have a shoulder to cry on. I missed you, like I have never missed you before. The void that was created after we broke up stared me right in my face, scaring me, disturbing me, shaking me to my core. That moment made me realize your real worth in my life. I don’t want to lose you. Can you please forgive me for however I may have hurt you? And can we please start again?’ He tried to grasp my hands as he finished. I let him.
There was a moment of silence. I blinked once and tears rolled out of my eyes. I stood up. Kiyan too stood up in reflex. I embraced him as tightly as I could. Going by what Kiyan had told me, it was my turn to feel blessed because I was crying and had a shoulder to rely on.
5
Bengaluru
5 March 2016
Saturday, 9.45 p.m.
It had been a bluff. Kiyan had waited for Kashti to approach him, to meet him during dinner, after dinner and even when he was about to check out of the hotel the next morning, but it didn’t happen. He tried her number several times, but it remained switched off. He sent her several messages before checking out, but they were yet to be delivered. On his flight back home, a girl had casually asked him about a particular seat number and he had thought it was Kashti. He could lie to the whole world, but he couldn’t lie to himself. Kashti had indeed left an indelible mark; literally on his chest and otherwise too. Earlier, if he had only vaguely been considering turning the girl who had danced on the bar top in Pune into a character in his next novel, then he was now sure she would feature in his next story. And for the story’s sake, he hoped Kashti would meet him again. At least once.
As usual, there was no communication from Kashti for the entire week. His ego—since he was the author—didn’t allow him to digest the fact that he was perturbed by a mere fan. Of course, she had said she wasn’t one, but Kiyan was smart enough to understand it was one of those psychological ploys to stand out amid the crowd. He tried calling up Kashti from a couple of other numbers so that he didn’t come across as obvious or desperate, but the number was switched off all the through the week. By the time it was next weekend, time for the event in Bengaluru, Kiyan was hoping against hope for Kashti to get in touch with him, like she had been doing for the last few times . . . during, just before or right after the book events.
Never before had it happened that a girl had given him such a painful hickey and he knew nothing about her. He was denying it internally, but it had turned into a duel of sorts where she was clearly winning, and his male ego wasn’t ready to take it. The first time, he hadn’t given a damn, the second time he had been curious, but from the third instance, she had become an unwilling obsession. Maybe it was because he couldn’t understand her yet. Or maybe it was so because he wanted to know her. She may say otherwise, Kiyan told himself, but she was indeed a fan. Who else could she be?
Two hours after checking in at The Park in Bengaluru, Kiyan decided to sweat it out at the gym. He worked on his abs, thighs and butt, and did an hour of cardio before deciding he had done enough. While leaving the gym, the in-house trainer came to him and asked if he would like to use their newly renovated steam room.
‘Today it is for free, sir,’ the trainer said.
Kiyan had ample time to kill till the book event in the evening, and a little steam sounded like a good idea.
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll get the room ready,’ the trainer said and scooted off. Kiyan waited, looking around and tapping his foot to a peppy number playing on the speakers. There were only three more people in the gym; two ladies and one guy. All three were foreigners. The trainer came back and led Kiyan to the steam room.
‘You can keep your clothes and shoes here, sir,’ the trainer said, pointing at a locker.
‘Sure, thanks,’ Kiyan said and stripped off his T-shirt, tracksuit trouser and shoes. The trainer gave him a white towel that he wrapped around his waist and then took off his briefs as well.
‘Sir, sit inside and the steam will start soon.�
��
‘Sure.’
‘Do you want me to play any particular song?’
‘Anything by Enrique?’
‘Sure, sir.’
As Kiyan entered the steam room, he realized he was alone. The waterproof speakers all around the room started buzzing with Enrique’s number Somebody’s Me. Kiyan sat down on one of the wooden benches, bending slightly forward, keeping his elbows on his knees and resting his face on his palms. His foot tapped in time to the music as steam flooded the room. A good three minutes later, when Kiyan’s body broke out into a sweat, the music suddenly switched to Fade into You. Kiyan had heard the song before. It was by Mazzy Star. Suddenly, he heard the door unlock and then lock again. He felt someone sitting beside him but didn’t care to look up. Not until he felt something thrown at him. Kiyan stood up with a start and realized it was a towel. He tried to look but there was too much steam in the room to see through it clearly. Kiyan turned to move towards the door when he felt a hand on his waist. Right where he had tucked in the loose end of his towel.
‘What’s the hurry, mister bestselling author?’ Kashti said. And tugged at the loose end of the towel. It fell to the ground. Kiyan could still not see her clearly. It was a vague image, just like the memory of the pub in Pune. He felt her hand cup his balls, which had contracted by then. He swallowed a lump in his throat. How could their first proper meeting be this sexy? What kind of girl would be this bold, except, of course, if she had walked right out of his erotic trilogy? The thought gave Kiyan a different kind of high. He felt her hand squeezing his balls with the base of her palm. He stretched out his hands to feel her. And ended up touching her firm breasts. He withdrew his hands quickly, not wanting to offend her.
‘You are Kashti, right?’ he said and felt like a fool to state the obvious.
‘Why, do you want me to be someone else?’ Her fingers were touching the base of his hard shaft. With the other hand she grabbed one of his wrists and brought his hand close to her face. She started licking the lines on his palm. It tickled him in an arousing way.
Black Suits You Page 5
