A couple of hours later, I am totally exhausted but immensely satisfied with the results. The ballroom looks straight out of the set of a period movie. We have worked with a Bollywood theme. Brightly coloured georgette panels are hung from the ceiling along the periphery of the hall. At one side of the stage, a lavish two-seater swing made of Gujarati bronze and metal engraving hangs for the bride and groom. Although it was not in the design plan, but I have added a canopy of matching golden and bronze coloured fabric on the sides, to give them some privacy. My boss seems impressed by my work, so I think it’s a good time to ask her for a favour.
‘Sarika, can I please attend the sangeet ceremony?’ I ask in my most pleasing voice.
She just shakes her head in negation, without even bothering to look up at me. ‘Why don’t you go around and explore Goa? You are free for the evening.’
‘Please, pretty please. It’s not every day that I can get to meet Ranbir Kapoor.’ I plead her retreating back. I don’t think that she even heard me. She is usually nice but can suddenly get all cranky and rude. Maybe it’s because of PMS. I don’t know. I mean, I like that she is strong and has a vision, but why is she such a stickler for rules?
Just then Didi messages me.
‘WTF! Ranbir Kapoor is coming to the wedding? Get an autograph. No flirting. He is dating Katrina right now. Besides, I spotted him before you.’
I had told Didi that Ranbir was performing at the sangeet but I had forgotten to mention that it was a private, family only affair. It is okay. I tell myself. I will find a way to meet Ranbir and get his autograph.
‘And hey! Do check out the Saturday night flea market, it’s the best place to get junk jewellery.’
‘How do I go anywhere? This grand resort is in the middle of nowhere.’
‘My dear little sis, why did I teach you to ride a bike? Hire one. You can’t go to Goa and not go-aaut.’
I laugh at her word play. She is my smart, brainy, IITian-sister Tanu. She always has answers to all my problems. Already, I am feeling confident. I will first somehow meet Ranbir and then will somehow go out on a bike. For now, I want to head to my room and soak myself in a relaxing, bubble bath.
I walk with a light step towards the lobby door, softly crooning the latest catchy chartbuster from Ranbir’s movie Ajab Prem Ki Ghazab Kahani.
‘Shining in the sand and sun like a pearl upon the ocean, come and feel me, oh feel me.’
My room is located outside the main hotel building, beyond the lawns. I barely step on the grass, when I accidentally bump into our crisp-linen-shirt photographer. Without prior warning, the wild-rose fragrance of his deodorant invades my entire being. You know how they say that each smell has an association with a memory in our mind. Magically, this wild-rose smell transports me back to my childhood. I am running around and playing ‘catch’ with Didi in the rose garden, near our house in Delhi. My parents are sitting on a bench, watching us and laughing. I am very happy. This is my favourite family outing. I smell the same rose fragrance. It is so refreshing. As I relive the snippets from my childhood days, I revive with vitality and joy.
‘Sorry, I hope you are not hurt,’ he apologizes and brings me back into the present. I realize that we are standing very close to each other, facing each other like two slices of a sandwich. I feel his hand lightly holding my waist to prevent me from falling back. I know I was singing ‘come and feel me’, but I wasn’t literally asking someone to come and feel me. I look up to excuse myself from his grip and find his mischievous eyes smiling at me. Did he bump into me purposely? Is he trying to flirt with me? What kind of a guy wears a wild-rose deodorant? Was he gay? No way! If he would have been gay, he wouldn’t have noticed the bride in a bikini.
‘I am fine, thanks,’ I say, a plastic smile plastered on my face. My peanut of a brain still confused with too many awkward questions popping up. Questions that I want to be answered without asking out aloud.
He gently lifts his hand from my waist and steps back, before extending that same hand to shake mine. ‘Let me introduce myself. I am Samir and I am an amateur photographer.’
As he speaks, I can feel the warmth of his hand gingerly holding mine. Not sleazy. He smiles confidently while I stand captivated. I know my eyes are dilating and giving away my excitement. Oh God, no!
‘Capturing beauty on camera is my passion and I am here to shoot the wedding,’ he continues.
Wait! Am I dreaming or did he just give me a look that says he is interested, as he paused and then stressed on the word ‘beauty’? I don’t know what game he is playing at. Whatever it is, it is working like alcohol on me—boosting my confidence and lowering my inhibitions.
‘I am Meha. Making dreams come true is my passion,’ I pause for effect and taking pride in my work I say, ‘I am in charge of the wedding decor here.’
He glances around to check the decorations in the lawn. I can tell by his raised eyebrows and approving nod that he is impressed by my work.
Then turning his attention back to me, he says, ‘I am sorry if I scandalized you back there with my bikini confession.’
‘You definitely got my attention!’ I smile back, flushing a little as I visualize him clicking pictures of the bride in a bikini.
‘Let me tell you a little secret,’ he says, bending forward to literally whisper in my ear. ‘Radhika, the bride, is my ex-girlfriend.’
Fuck. The hot and rich bride is his ex-girlfriend. I mean this guy is good but nothing compared to the bride. He is like Filmfare awards while she is like the Oscars. ‘She is hot.’ That is all I can bring myself to say.
‘Yeah, she is amazing,’ he admits with a sigh and then letting go of my hand, he steps back. Looking at the ocean, he adds, ‘We dated for a while last year. She always thought that my pictures brought out the real woman in her. So she invited me to shoot her wedding.’
Boy! I try to read his face. What I see looks like a forlorn gaze. Maybe he is heartbroken. I was never that deeply involved with Deepak, but if Samir had been intimate with the bride, then who knows what he must be feeling right now. Although, going by his flirtatious smile, it’s hard to believe that he is grieving.
‘I am sorry that she is marrying someone else,’ I try to sympathize.
‘No, you needn’t be. Radhika and I, we were just…you know, like friends with benefits. It’s no big deal.’ He’s rather nonchalant.
Seeing the confusion in my eyes, he explains that he and Radhika started out as friends. ‘At some point, we both felt attracted to each other so we decided to have sex. But after that it got complicated because she had a thing going on with Deepak and I also had a thing or two running in parallel. So we decided to get back to being friends. Except it’s never that simple, is it?’
‘Friends with benefits’ (FWB) isn’t even an idea yet—the movie will not release for another two years. This is 2009. I do not belong to Tanu Didi’s generation, who still think that the mere idea of pre-marital sex with your own fiancé is a taboo, but I have to admit that even I am a bit startled by this. Virginity is not a wedding gift anymore and I am up for beta testing in relationships, but parallel processing like this is a little forward for me.
He explains further. ‘We’ve had that story for ages—Radha and Shyam—our very own FWBs icons of Hindu mythology.’
I stand there stunned, my mouth agape, wondering if Dad has ever thought like this about his Radha-Shyam.
‘Did I shock you even more?’ He asks relishing the WTF expression on my face.
I would be lying if I said no. I simply shut my open mouth.
‘Shocking an intelligent girl is the best way to impress her.’
I think he is making a pass at me, yet there is something honest about him for which I can’t tell him to shut up or get lost.
‘Where do you get these ideas from?’ I find my voice.
‘Copyright Sam, 2009. Absolutely original. Hey, were you and the groom also… I think I saw you two share an intimate “we-go-far-back-in-time” look.’
His remark throws me off guard. I didn’t know anyone had seen me share a smile with Deepak. Not that it mattered.
‘Deepak was my boyfriend. I mean ex-boyfriend. I mean we were not really a couple. It was just a very short-lived friendship.’ I am trying to sound as casual as a girl can be, while talking about her affairs. ‘Without any benefits!’ I add, just to be absolutely clear. I deduce that one time doesn’t really count, does it?
‘What a coincidence! Isn’t it amazing that we meet at our exes wedding like this? As if we were meant to meet each other—but we met the wrong people first! Would you care for some coffee or beer so we can further explore our connection?’
Okay. He is clearly flirting with me and I am enjoying it.
‘Umm…I actually have to go.’
What? I am not playing hard to get. Remember, I have to take a bubble bath and get ready to meet Ranbir and after that rent a bike and go out.
‘Really? Is someone waiting for you? Just to let you know, I am the most handsome bachelor at this wedding. You couldn’t get better company.’
Okay. So he is clearly conceited, flirtatious and damn cute. I know I ought to go back to my own room, but it’s not like Ranbir Kapoor is waiting in the bathtub for me. For me, this wedding is not a celebration but work. I don’t know anyone here personally, except Deepak of course, but again this is not the best time to engage in casual talk with the groom. There are folks from work, but folks from work are…well…from work. In a nutshell, I am in Goa and craving for some fun company. Moreover, he is witty. Besides, it is bizarre that we are both ‘exes’ of the bride and the groom respectively. Surely, that must mean something. Like a mathematics equation, x + x is always equal to something.
Before I can accept his offer for coffee, he looks at his watch and suddenly remembers that he has to be somewhere else. ‘Hey, Senorita! I would really like to spend more time with you, but Radhika is calling me. Duty calls. Catch you later.’ He winks and goes away.
When opportunity knocks, answer the door. If you delay too much, it will go to the girl next door. This message has never hit me like this before. Feeling disappointed, I trudge back to my room. I guess I will have to settle for a chance sighting of Ranbir Kapoor.
Love Is Overrated
An hour later, clean and freshly scrubbed, I decide to wear my most expensive salwar kameez, which befits the occasion but is not very heavy. It is a look inspired from Sonam Kapoor in Delhi 6—short kurti, tight pyjama, an embroidered net dupatta coupled with a pair of dangling jhumkis. I was saving it for the wedding function that is on the next day, but I feel Ranbir deserves it. OK, a teeny-weeny part of me also wants to impress the studio boy, in case I meet him again.
I confidently walk up to the ballroom, as if I am a member of one of the families, except that there is a guard with a guest list at the entrance. I try to think of the names of women from the wedding family. I don’t know any. I haven’t been associated with this project for long. Should I use Anusha? She was in love with the younger brother of the groom. However, I don’t even know if they are still together. Last year Anusha and her family suddenly vanished overnight like a beautiful dream, without giving an address or a number. In addition, I haven’t even seen the younger brother at the wedding. Will the guard allow me if I tell him that I am the groom’s ex-girlfriend? While I am debating on what approach I should use, a couple walks in wearing Tarun Tahiliani design. The guy just whispers his name to the guard and without even waiting to be verified, they stride in.
Their ease boosts my confidence. I decide to try my luck with probabilities. Now, I am not a huge fan of maths, but according to Didi there is a 99% chance that someone in a gathering has the same birthday as mine. So I think that there should be a decent chance of someone on guest list being named Meha. I say my name confidently at the entrance. Then we both go through the names on the guest list. I see an Isha Somani, a Sneha Kukreja, a Mrs Shakuntla Devi, a Mrs Punam Gupta and a hundred other names, but no fucking Meha. I can see Samir’s name on the list too. I am so desperate and so very envious of all these names. Why couldn’t my parents pick one of these names for me? How much can it hurt anyone here, if I get to see Ranbir Kapoor?
I am figuring what to tell the guard, who is giving me a look as if I am some kamwali bai, when Samir comes out from the ballroom. He seems pally with the guy. He conveys by the flick of his hand that I should be allowed inside. Feeling vindicated like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, I gather my respect, which has fallen around me like autumn leaves and proudly walk inside.
‘Thanks.’
‘Cool. I’ll be with you in a minute. By the way, teal blue suits you.’
I can feel myself blushing, but he is gone before I can return the compliment.
I look around. The place looks like a designer showroom. I’m sure that even the undergarments of the guests are either Calvin Klein or Victoria’s Secret. I feel out of place in my local, padded and underwired bra. Just when I am thinking I should probably head back, I notice Samir winking at me. He gestures me to stay still, then raises his camera and clicks. He smiles and signals a thumbs-up to say that the shot was good. I smile back. He then gets busy as the dance performances start. I love movie songs—so I am having fun watching the bride’s and the groom’s family and friends dance. Ranbir makes an appearance but his performance gets over faster than the free SMS packs. He’s out of the ballroom before I can even think of a way to get an autograph. After Ranbir leaves, I look around for Samir.
I can see that Samir is having a gala time. He is surrounded by hot, pretty girls, all dressed in latest designer outfits. They all want to pose for him and then hang over his shoulder to see their shots in his camera. I suddenly don’t feel so good and decide to leave.
I go and change into my Goa outfit—denim shorts and a Madhubani-painted holy-cow tee, which are far different from the expensive wedding clothes. As I walk to the beach, someone grabs my hand from behind. It’s Samir.
‘Senorita, I need you to come with me,’ he says, looking straight into my eyes—his freshly shaven face inches above mine. I notice that he has showered and has also changed into casual shorts and tee.
‘Aah! Sorry, but I am very busy,’ I say dismissively, still a little irked that he didn’t pay enough attention to me at the sangeet.
‘Why don’t you ask one of the chicks who were hovering around you, as if you are a Prada handbag on display?’ I tease.
‘Because none of them can ride a motorcycle,’ he chuckles and hands me a helmet to wear. ‘And as one of them dug the heel of her stilettos into my foot, in her excitement to get too close to me, now I need someone to give me a ride.’
I am thrilled when I realize that we are going somewhere on a rented bike. The receptionist had just told me that the hotel could only arrange for cabs, not rented bikes. A stroll on the beach had seemed like the last resort.
Wait, but how did Samir know that I love riding? I draw my eyebrows together and look sceptically at him.
‘I FB-spied on you,’ he admits with a cute, naughty, little-boy smile—picking up on exactly what I am thinking. ‘I don’t habitually stalk pretty girls on Facebook. I was just curious about you. The fact that you are a member of the Delhi Bike Riders was purely a chance discovery.’
I look at him. He is standing with his head down, as if he is in front of a teacher, owning up a prank. I can’t stay angry with him if he’s going to look so cute. Besides, he just called me a pretty girl. I didn’t admit that I have also checked his profile on Facebook. I give a forgiving smile, and he promptly takes my hand in his and starts to run.
‘The bike ride is just a pretext. Actually, you are being abducted for the night,’ he says as we reach the parking, playfulness dancing in his eyes.
‘Hmm…That should be fun,’ I laugh, feeling light-hearted and happy.
One look at the bike and I can feel adrenaline coursing through my blood.
‘Hurry! We are already late,’ he says as he sits behind me
.
I turn back and give him a don’t-mess-with-the-driver look. A girl needs to get ready before she can ride. I remove the scarf from my neck and tie my hair in a low ponytail. I put on my helmet, and then quickly apply a fresh coat of lip gloss. With a last glance at myself in the side mirror, I am ready to hit the road. Except, I don’t know where we are headed, which makes it even more adventurous and fun.
I love the feeling of freedom, whenever I start a bike and press the accelerator. For me, riding is like being in a wind tunnel, with gushes of wind blowing on your face. Samir is navigating from a printed map. I can’t believe my luck when half an hour later, we arrive at a bustling flea market in north Goa.
‘How did you know that I wanted to come here?’
‘You did?’
‘Thank you so much for bringing me here’. I give him a friendly hug in excitement and get a fresh waft of his wild-rose scent.
‘Actually you got us here, but I don’t mind the thank you hug,’ he chuckles.
We park the bike and walk to the marketplace. There is a group of people with cameras hanging down their necks. A young, bearded firang, who is sporting a Hare Rama Hare Krishna tee, is at the centre of the group giving instructions. Samir tells me that the man is Francisco, an award-winning travel photographer. He goes and joins the group. I figured that we are here for a walking photo tour of the marketplace. Francisco leads the tour through the flea market talking about the camera’s capabilities and explaining techniques of capturing real people on the road. While the others are busy capturing the earthy chaos in their camera, I pick up a few inexpensive knick-knacks. The whole charm of the flea market is in the serendipitous discovery of random stuff and buying junk.
I notice Samir turning around now and then to see if I am fine. Sometimes, he is just clicking his camera in my direction. I am smiling, frowning and making faces. It’s fun. Once the tour is over, we sit down at a bench and gorge on falafel sandwiches and cool lemonade. I browse through some of the pictures on his camera. I see one of mine. I am standing at the stall of the German jewellery seller. He has caught me unaware—trying on a pair of butterfly earrings. The shot is really nice. No kidding. My dark-brown eyes are sparkling with the desire to possess those earrings. The loose ends of my orange scarf are hanging on either side of my neck and are complementing my warm skin tone. He definitely knows how to make anyone look beautiful, without using an editing software.
Let's Have Coffee Page 2
