‘I’m missing you so much, Deepa,’ Sagarika said even before Deepa could say hello.
‘I know, Rika. I would have loved to visit you in Gurgaon but I’m so tied up with my work here that’s it’s impossible to get away,’ she said. ‘But don’t you worry, dear, I will call you every day. And I promise, promise, promise … I’ll visit you very soon.’
Sagarika smiled. ‘It’s okay. I’ll be fine.’
‘Tell me all about the house. How is it? Must be beautiful. Rishab must have ensured everything’s perfect. The furniture, décor … everything.’
Sagarika described the apartment in detail to Deepa. But after they had hung up it occurred to her that Deepa already knew a lot – her questions about the curtains, bedspreads, carpets, furniture in each room had been very specific.
It’s as though she’s been to the house. How and why on earth would Deepa come here?
Sagarika shooed away the thought; it was too ridiculous. She went back to fussing with the numerous bouquets of flowers that had been sent to her as homecoming greetings. She spent the entire morning arranging them neatly into vases.
‘Vina, don’t forget to nip the stalk at the bottom. Just a bit. And change the water every day. The flowers will remain fresh for long,’ she said, feeling amazed at how, little by little, her memories and knowledge about such trivial things were resurfacing.
She felt happy. She was convinced that sometimes a clean slate was indeed needed to bring back the old.
13
The Mehta residence in Gurgaon was nothing less than an art gallery. Innumerable paintings hung on the walls. Sagarika loved gazing at them, marvelling at the strokes of colour and use of shadows. Rishab had told her once in the hospital that she painted quite often. She often gazed at the paintings, admiring the minute details. The artist in her wasn’t dead.
‘Are any of these by me?’ she asked him one morning.
‘Oh! No,’ he said, laughing. ‘They are all by famous artists and some upcoming artists with great promise.’
‘Isn’t there anything here that I’ve painted?’
Rishab changed the topic, like he always did, effortlessly: a flicker of a frown appeared momentarily and then it was gone.
I’m his wife. I used to paint and there isn’t a single painting of mine in this house! Why? What has he done to those paintings?
Sagarika had forgotten a very unpleasant incident that had happened years ago in Mumbai. She had hung one of her paintings on the bedroom wall facing their bed. The spot was earlier adorned by a gigantic Jagannath Paul which she had carefully wrapped and kept in the storeroom. Sagarika wanted to surprise her husband and had been painstakingly working on her painting for weeks. Even her mentor and other senior artists had praised her strokes.
‘Where’s the painting?’ Rishab had yelled that night on entering the bedroom. ‘What the hell is this monstrosity?’
‘I … just thought … it’s my work. I just…’ she had said, fumbling for words.
‘You thought WHAT! This isn’t art, Rika. This is just some … whatever. Please take it down immediately. I can’t wake up every morning and see this.’
On seeing his wife’s crestfallen face, Rishab had said, ‘There’s no point in getting emotional about it. Art for you is just a hobby. A good way to pass time. And I don’t have any problem with that. But seriously, I hope you don’t think you want people to see this.’ And then he began laughing.
Sagarika had never felt so small in life. She took down the painting and restored the Jagannath Paul on the wall.
Later that night, when Rishab had pulled her towards him, she thought maybe he had realized how hurt she was by his words and would apologize.
‘You have no idea what a whopper of a bonus I’m getting,’ he had said instead. ‘Remember that Rs 50-crore deal I told you about? It has happened. You can’t even guess how much money I have made. This weekend, let’s go to TBZ and buy you the biggest rock in the world.’
And then he had begun stroking her breast, slipping his fingers through the buttons.
‘Come on, I deserve some good sex for all the hard work I do,’ he had said.
Sagarika had lain still, staring at the clock, waiting for it to get over. It didn’t take long for him to climax, after which he immediately rolled away out of the bed to go and clean himself.
That night, sleep didn’t come easily to Sagarika.
14
One morning, while having a breakfast of muesli, warm milk and fruits, Sagarika sat watching the news on TV. The channel was airing a story about an art workshop for children, organized by a well-known MNC.
‘You started the initiative three years ago and today it’s touching the lives of thousands of children across the country,’ the presenter was saying.
‘Painting isn’t merely an art form,’ the company spokesperson was saying. ‘It can be therapeutic too and help children deal with angst, disappointment, failure, hurt and so many other negative emotions. The common perception is that children on the streets and slums are the only ones who are in need of help. But you’ll be surprised with the tales of school-going kids from well-to-do families. Children who apparently look like they have nothing to worry about also deal with so much negativity. Every child is precious and through these workshops we aim to reach as many possible.’
Sagarika forgot her breakfast and watched the programme in silence. Somewhere deep in the dark alleys of her mind, a memory was rustling.
This sounds familiar. Some of the images I’ve seen before. This woman, the spokesperson … she looks familiar…
Sagarika’s intuition was spot on. Three-and-a-half years ago, she had painstakingly worked on the programme for months. From conceptualizing, pitching the idea to the MNC and convincing them, the art workshop was actually her baby. Not only would it generate plenty of good press for the company, it would also be financially rewarding for her.
But her happiness was short-lived when she mentioned the details to Rishab.
‘Are you insane, Sagarika? Your workshop dates coincide with the dates of the global meet of our board of directors. Subodh, Jon and Andy are coming down with their wives. I told you a hundred times to keep yourself free for that week!’
‘But Rishab, deciding on the dates isn’t in my hand. The company decides. Surely you know…’
‘You can’t do it, that’s final,’ Rishab said. ‘Ask them to change the dates. You have to accompany the ladies while they are here. I’ve promised them you’ll be with them.’
‘But … how can I? I want to do this. I’ve given them my word.’ Sagarika was on the verge of tears.
‘How often do I ask something of you, Rika?’ Rishab said. ‘Do you even realize what’s at stake? Subodh will give me the account, and it’s a client I’ve been eyeing for a long time. One misstep and it will go to Harry and the other hungry wolves. You have no idea of the cut-throat competition that I have to battle. Do I need to tell you how much money I will make?’
Sagarika was now in tears. Sometimes she wished Rishab would pay attention to her dreams instead of the bonuses he earned.
‘Please don’t sulk,’ he said. ‘You and I are team, Rika. I succeed. You succeed. We both win. Just tell your bosses that you aren’t available on those days. Ask for different dates.’
When Roohi heard about Sagarika’s decision to back out, it reaffirmed something which she had felt for a long time: Sagarika gave in too easily; she didn’t fight back. She wanted to tell her what a fool she was for agreeing to Rishab’s unreasonable demands.
But she kept quiet. The company hired another artist for the workshop while Sagarika accompanied the wives of the big bosses to champagne lunches and shopping soirees. The women also made a quick trip to see the Taj Mahal in Agra. Rishab gave her two lakh rupees to splurge.
A juicy lolly for the sulking kid.
Meanwhile, Rishab won the favour of the board and got the account he was salivating over.
Sagarika had no memor
y of the incident. She now spent her time tending to flowers and painting flower pots. But the past was just forgotten, not erased. It lay buried deep inside her, waiting to rise to the fore.
15
It was the first week of February and neither the cold nor the fog showed any sign of receding. Sagarika stood in the balcony holding a cup of steaming milk which was made just the way she liked it: a spoonful of coffee powder and a sprinkle of sugar. Hot, bitter and a hint of sweet. As she let the heat of the mug warm her palms, she thought about what Vina had told her a while back.
‘Madamji, in your milk and coffee you want only teen daane of cheeni. But at any given time of the day, you don’t hesitate to come into the kitchen and help yourself to a spoonful of cheeni. Madamji, you like cheeni so much, haan!’
Sagarika had smiled at her.
You like cheeni so much.
Cheeni.
What is it about this word? Why does my heart miss a beat every time I hear the word ‘cheeni’? Why, why do I feel so…
She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the word.
Cheeni. Where have I heard it?
She remembered the man’s face. In the car, on her way to the station. It was a memory flash but she had seen him clearly. He had addressed her as Cheeni. Her brows crinkled as she tried to think harder and felt a small jab of pain in her right temple.
Better stop before it gets worse.
The headaches, the harbinger to an agonising convulsion, made her very nervous.
It will come back to me. I’m sure.
The fourteenth-floor balcony offered a bird’s eye view of the entire complex. Beautiful patches of green, paved paths snaking around the buildings, leading into the lawns, under the trees, around the tennis court.
I want to go for a walk. It’s also very cold but it’s such a great time to be outdoors.
After more than a year of living in the hospital she was aching to be out in the open. She told Rishab when he returned from work that she had decided to go for walks.
‘I feel suffocated inside. I want to walk around.’
Rishab responded with eager enthusiasm. ‘Yes, you must. The cold winter air will do you good.’
But he didn’t tell her all that he was thinking: Sagarika loved walking in the sun, in the rain, at night. In Mumbai, she used to often go for evening walks. She would plug in some music and walk the streets of Malabar Hill.
Slowly, her personal preferences are coming to the fore. Steaming milk with coffee. Walking outdoors. Soon other happy memories will follow. And on the heels of the happy … will come the bad and the ugly … and then…
The mere thought of it got him deeply worried. He decided to check with Vina if everything was under control. She wasn’t any ordinary caretaker; she was smart, educated, and with a job description that went way beyond monitoring Sagarika’s food and medicines. She was to also keep an eye on Sagarika and duly report to him.
‘You will never let her out of your sight,’ Rishab told her. ‘What she does all day, who does she speak to on the phone, who visits her – I want to know everything.’
Rishab was determined to not let things go awry this time. He had worked too hard to make everything right between the two of them.
16
Rishab was born at a very difficult time in his mother’s life. Money was almost never enough and there was no one they could ask for help. His parents, Sunita and Ajit Mehta, were orphans who had known each other since they were left wrapped in dirty sheets on the orphanage’s steps. They had taken on the surname of their warden.
Abandoned, poor and without a future in sight, the two received an education through the donations of the rich. Although they both grew up to be school teachers, money continued to remain scarce. To further aggravate matters, Ajit, a teetotaller who never indulged in any excesses, was afflicted with a severe kidney ailment that needed dialysis and a steady supply of medicines and money.
Rishab’s birth, naturally, wasn’t greeted with the customary joy that accompanies the arrival of a newborn. He was just another mouth to feed. Another person his mother had to take care of. Sunita had a day job at a school where she taught Chemistry. She came home to feed her husband and clean the house, before rushing off to take tuitions to make extra money. Where was the time to bring up a child, let alone nurture and pamper him?
Rishab, therefore, had to grow up much before his years, his childhood spent sharing his mother’s load of domestic chores – washing his own clothes, cleaning the house, purchasing vegetables and even cleaning his bedridden father’s soiled sheets. While other kids played football, Rishab had household work to attend to. His mother, exhausted, was always cranky and irritable. His father, frustrated with his fate and inability to help, had no kind words to say either. Very early in life, Rishab said to himself: ‘I’ll get out of this shithole and make a fabulous life for myself. And it will be perfect.’
Luckily for him, destiny was kind. It rewarded his determination with opportunities which helped him realize his dream. Blessed with a sharp and intelligent mind coupled with focused grit to excel, Rishab graduated from one of the best colleges in Mumbai and soon won a Rhodes scholarship. After that, there was no looking back. He was a man on a mission to succeed, make money and leave his penury-stricken life far behind. The first thing he did when he had money was to move his mother out of their modest accommodation in a chawl to a two-bedroom flat in Andheri.
‘I don’t ever want to step back into this dirt hole. Ever,’ he told his mother. He disposed of everything from that house. Sunita moved into her new house carrying just a suitcase full of her clothes and a cardboard box containing a few photo frames of her husband and some idols of gods and goddesses.
Sunita had wanted to carry a beautiful dinner set Ajit had bought her years ago, despite much financial constraints. The simple ceramic dinner set was reminiscent of the best phase in her life: the time when Sunita and Ajit were in love and saw beautiful dreams for the future.
Years went by. The ceramic plates lost their sheen, like everything else. Especially the love between them. Coping with disease, spiralling medical expenses, Sunita’s hectic life of running from school to home to tuitions to keep money trickling in, love was something that stood no chance. Rishab had never seen their love. He had never seen the ceramic plates in their pristine condition, the many joyous meals they had eaten off it. He only saw them stained, chipped, cracked and ugly.
So when Sunita wanted to pack the three plates and one serving bowl – they were all that remained of the set – Rishab refused and instead put them in the pile of trash. Those plates reminded him of his miserable childhood – days when he had to wash dishes after school, cook meals and feed his father. Those were the days he wanted to forget.
Sunita sobbed quietly when he threw the plates in the trash pile. As far as she was concerned, he was not throwing away trash. He was throwing away her life, her memories, which to Rishab were worthless. She wanted to protest, but didn’t. She realized that while she had been busy earning money to keep the family afloat, her son had grown up on his own and built his own defence mechanism to fight and survive.
She was afraid that he would have preferred to discard her too. After all, she was the only remnant of his squalid past. She never asked him why she couldn’t stay with him. She knew she couldn’t.
In the new flat in Andheri, she felt terribly lonely. Her neighbours were busy executives and had no intentions of mingling with her. Though Rishab lived in the same city – he had company accommodation in Malabar Hill – he visited her for not more than fifteen to twenty minutes once a month. The cheque for her monthly expenditure, the driver’s salary and everything else arrived in her bank account every month without fail.
‘I wish I could see you more often. And for longer. Why don’t you come and spend the weekends here?’ she once told him.
If he had replied, or even argued, she would have felt nicer. But Rishab pretended he hadn’t heard what sh
e said. It was his silence that hurt her the most.
I don’t want to remember where I come from. I want to forget those years. And in any case I’m taking care of all her needs.
Later when he married Sagarika, he often thought: ‘My picture-perfect life is now complete. Everything I wanted and dreamt of is now with me.’
17
‘Rishab, I’ve been calling you for the past ten minutes. Where are you lost? What are you thinking about?’ Sagarika said.
Rishab avoided her question. ‘Just thinking about the deal I’m working on,’ he said. ‘It’s very complex.’
But Sagarika didn’t want to be brushed aside easily. ‘You know, Rishab … sometimes, when you are lost in your thoughts, you look angry. As if you’re thinking of something … something not so nice. Why don’t you share it with me? Is something the matter?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about!’ Rishab said, miffed at this intrusion. ‘You women live in such a bubble. You have little idea of the challenges and the pressure men undergo at work.’
Sagarika took a deep breath and tried not be fazed by his temper. She decided to ask him what was on her mind for the past few days.
‘Tell me, did I work before I met with the accident? I mean, did I also have a career like you?’
The question stunned Rishab. ‘What! No,’ he said. ‘Why would you need to have a career? I earn so much and we have everything we need. There’s no need for you to work.’ A note of irritation had now crept into his voice.
Sagarika was in no mood to let go of the topic. ‘I didn’t work because I didn’t want to, or you didn’t want me to?’
‘Rika, where is all this coming from?’
‘That doesn’t matter. Why do you get uncomfortable with my questions? You want to talk only about those things that you decide. Why? I’m your wife and I’m equally entitled to ask you whatever questions have been bothering me.’
A Forgotten Affair Page 6
