‘Lkng fwd to catching up soon.’
Hello? Please explain! Do you want to catch up for the lost time? If yes, how? What exactly are you looking forward to? Coffee? Will you call? How soon is this soon? If only guys can be more to the point, they won’t have to produce a truck load of sperms to fertilize one egg.
A nasty argument breaks out between my mind and my heart on whether or not to call Samsung Do Not Call. The heart is still sulking in a corner singing, ‘Love is a bhaste of time, karna hai bhaste of time’. This internal bickering results in calling names. My thoughtful self-calls my spontaneous self a shopaholic, frappoholic fatso. Just for a measly ₹3,000 that I didn’t even spend. I only added some items to an online cart and wondered if we could do a quick stop at Starbucks on the way back home.
So I am trapped in moh-maya-ka-jaal with neither moh (love) nor maya (money), while I get my lucky break. A phone call from a business family planning their only son’s wedding. I rush for the meeting, where I am greeted by a pot-bellied gentleman, an adraki mom in salwar-kameez-dupatta and an elegantly dressed grandmother.
‘Is there a manager we can talk to, someone senior (like a guy, not a girl)?’ Asks the uncomfortable father.
‘But your costs are double that of colony’s Raj tent-wallah. And he did such good arrangements for mata ki chowki!’ That’s the grandmother.
‘How can your parents allow you to be out so late at night organizing marriages? Give me your mother’s number. I will help her find you a nice guy. You are a soni kudi. Rang kitta chokha hai, thoda weight dickreez kaar le vas,’ advises the mom.
I know entrepreneurship is not a first-class journey, so I patiently go through the social niceties. Two hours into the discussion and the deal is confirmed. The grandmother applies a tilak on my forehead to mark the auspicious occasion. Eating the celebratory boondi ka ladoo, I ask for some advance. The father takes me to a corner and tells in hushed voice that he is a law-abiding citizen and his money is all white. No murder or rape charge also. He will pay me handsomely, but there is one little sick-ret. ‘Bas ladki abhi kachi umar ki hai. We are very modern in our thoughts. Our son loves her so we agreed. You see, all is fair in love and war. The police is our friend, so no problem.’
Huh? No rape charge, police is friend and child marriage. I smile my best smile, promise to work on the wedding plans and scoot as soon as possible.
Looks like it’s one of those days where the ‘L’ in my luck has changed to ‘F’, so I decide to leave office early. It’s 5 p.m. sharp; time for my tea date with Mansi. I get out of the lift and walk to our apartment. Sharma uncle, our neighbour, opens his door as he sees me walk by in the corridor. He hands me the newspaper bill, revised with deductions for the days when the newspaper wasn’t delivered and a courier. I smile and thank him for his help, unlock the door and go in.
Mansi is sitting at the coffee table, dressed in a sleeveless, body-hugging, red dress. A diamond pendant dangles down the front of her sexy scoop-neck. Her stylish short hair adds to the look. I whistle as she stands up to welcome me. The dress stops slightly above her knees and the thin straps of her black stilettos climb up her slim, shapely legs. Behind her, on the table, is my favourite Frappuccino and mouth-watering cinnamon-streusel coffee cake, fresh from the bakery. OMG! Mansi is better than a boyfriend is. I open my arms and give her a huge hug.
‘Whom are you planning to kill?’ I ask teasingly, my stress melting away as fast as the cake and the coffee in my mouth.
‘Just Aseem,’ she says casually, her dimples accentuating the warmth of her smile.
‘You mean you are in this explosive bomb of an outfit just to be diffused by your six-month-stale boyfriend, who is a bag of shit.’
‘His name is Aseem Bagchi.’
‘That’s what I said,’ I snigger. I can feel my mood elevating with my sugar levels.
‘You’re still angry because he didn’t let you go on the wedding team to Venice? Grow up Meg! That was two years ago.’
I didn’t tell her how Aseem had wanted to ride me in exchange for a free gondola ride. I mean I had warned her when she had started seeing Aseem that he had the reputation of a playboy, but Mansi had said he has changed. Besides, Mansi is an expert when it comes to judging guys. She knows their psyche in and out. And she has been happier in the last six months than ever before. Therefore, I really hope and pray for her sake that the asshole has changed, because Mansi really deserves to be happy. And I also hope Samir has changed because I deserve to be happy too.
‘Aseem is taking me out for dinner tonight to the Leela hotel. I think he is going to propose,’ Mansi squeals excitedly.
‘Wow!’ I say, although that’s not quite how I feel.
‘You sound like I am stepping into a pile of poop.’
‘You mean like a BAG of CHHI!’ I shrug my shoulders and raise my eyebrows in a smirk and we both end up laughing.
I really want to be thrilled for Mansi. If there is one person who deserves true love, it’s her. She has had a string of stories of bad luck with scumbags. She almost got married six years ago to one. Even the wedding cards were printed. At the last moment, she realized that he had a history of alcohol addiction and drug abuse. After that, she had met one dickhead after another. I am all for marriage. I mean, I am a wedding planner after all. I know there are jokes about marriages but I think marriages are beautiful. I think marriage is the only way to make love last. And a life without love is functional but meaningless—just like soap without fragrance, a rose without colour and a cloud without rain. A life like mine!
‘Ok, now tell me what’s bothering you besides your startup’s frail health?’ Mansi asks, looking straight into my eyes.
She knows me too well. She can sense the storm brewing in my soul.
‘Samir Singhal. I had a sort-of encounter with him.’
‘The same treating-sex-as-coffee Samir? The Senorita Samir? The wild-rose fragrance Samir?’
I nod to all.
‘Where? How? Did you kiss him?’
‘No, I didn’t kiss him,’ I say in my defence and then update her. ‘But, what makes you think I will kiss him even if I met him in person?’
‘C’mon Hon! Whom are you kidding?’ She shakes her head knowingly at me. ‘You haven’t been able to get over Samir in all these years. Every guy you have dated in the last five years has fallen short in comparison to him.’
I sullenly take another sip of my Frappuccino, but say nothing. The truth is that every guy I have dated has been interested only in sex under the pretext of love. And its Mansi who has helped me see through their intentions. Although Samir was no different, Mansi knows I have not been able to forget him. Mansi is supposed to make me feel better and not be honest.
‘Listen, I am sorry but I’ve got to run,’ she says, ruffling my hair affectionately as she picks up her handbag. Before she is out of the door, she turns back. ‘I seriously think you need to get closure with Samir. Just go and meet him. Sometimes the best way to move forward is to go back.’
The door shuts with a bang, as there is strong cross-ventilation on high floors in our building. I take the last sip of Frappuccino and close my eyes. I know Mansi is right. I still have feelings for Samir. I don’t know what else he had, but he had a knack of making me feel special. He could touch me with his words and do magic with his eyes like no one could. I can see him smiling at me from the balcony. I smile back. He comes closer and moves aside a strand of hair falling on my cheek. He holds the hair behind my ear and looks at me questioningly. His eyes are sad. I can see he has missed me. ‘I have missed you too,’ I say as he comes closer and then lean forward to kiss him. I come back from my reverie with a start as my phone beeps for my attention. Shucks, I kissed him in my thoughts. Mansi is absolutely right. I need to move ahead, but no way am I going to meet Samir Singhal. What I really need is a dose of Vitamin S—just like my mom suggested.
I log on to Facebook and send lets-meet-up messages to guys who had approached me in
the last few months but I had been too busy to explore. I am excited to see a comment on my FB squirrel post from Vir, my new virtual boyfriend.
‘I wonder who you met around the corner? ;);)’
That’s amusing. I like his comment. Realizing that I am online, the next minute, he sends me a message asking what I am wearing. Three naughty smiles trail behind the text. I am about to tell him that I am wearing a brown skirt with a loose, yellow top to hide my bulges, when I realize he is not real. I don’t need to be real either. I need to get back in the dating game. What can be a better opportunity to practice?
I type back, ‘Nothing. I am in the bathroom getting ready for a shower.’
‘Can I join you?’
Wow, this software is good.
‘What are you doing right now?’ I ask to see how far the programmed mind can go.
‘I am driving back home. I can be with you in half an hour.’
C’mon, he is digital. Why can’t he be here now?
‘But I need you here with me right now,’ I say flirting with him in my imagination.
‘Oh babes! This Cyber Hub road is all broken and blocked with traffic jam.’
Wow, the app can customize his location to mine.
‘How about we talk naughty over the phone?’ he suggests.
Fucking awesome, I think. Even if he was here with me, we would be talking over the phone. But him, stuck in traffic and talking naughty makes it more exciting. The best part is that the social-interactivity feature costs thousand bucks a month, but NetGen had enough referral points to get me a free three month full-service pack including FB posts, SMS, WhatsApp, calls, one hand-written note every month and even a small gift.
‘Why don’t you wear a smile? You’ll look pretty with it,’ I hear him say.
I smile.
‘So you are in the shower?’
‘Mm-hmm,’ I say and walk over to my bathroom to make it a real experience.
‘Does your soap have a fragrance?’
‘Yes, it’s the wild-rose fragrance from FabIndia.’
‘I love that smell. Ok, Give me the soap and hold my hand and I will rub it all over you.’
Wow. He actually has a bathroom-sex module. I wonder what he will say next.
‘I like the touch of your skin. Its soft and silky, like Cadbury.’
I close my eyes let my imagination run wild.
This is too good. Why can’t this chip be implanted into real guys?
‘Just hold on. I can see a traffic police coming towards me. I will have to keep the phone down for a minute.’
Shit man! This is good. The romance, the sensitivity, the tension.
Half an hour later, showered, satisfied and smiling, I pick up my phone again. There is a message from Vir saying that he is sorry that the phone got disconnected. He will make up for it next time. I don’t bother to reply. What gets me jumping on my bed is the picture of Mansi with a diamond on her finger. I can’t believe that the asshole actually proposed. I message her back that she has to let me plan her wedding. I am elated. I play the latest catchy number, Banno, tera swagger laage sexy, on my phone and start dancing.
In the kitchen, I chop some tomatoes, cucumber, onions and toss them with feta cheese, vinegar, lemon, salt and pepper. My Greek salad ready. I sit back on my favourite orange beanbag with a Sophie Kinsella and get lost in meaningless romance.
I don’t hear Samir’s call because of the loud music. I only check my phone an hour later. My heart starts waltzing at the sight of the missed caller’s name. Without seeking neurological consultation, I press the call back button. It rings and rings and rings, but no one answers. I resist the temptation to throw away my phone. Instead, I open Facebook. I am stupefied to see that while I was lost in a book, a whole war of words has transpired between Samir and Vir on my squirrel post.
Samir: I also got a bittersweet treat today.
Vir: Is the treat more important or the person holding the treat?
Samir: Depends on the treat :)
Vir: It’s definitely the person for me!
Samir: People leave, treats stay.
Vir: Then you need a course in the ‘Art of Loving’.
Samir: Still looking for the right person to teach me.
Vir: Good luck.
Something in Samir’s comments tells me that the fire is burning on the other side too. My mind knows I am wrong, but my heart wants to meet him now. To be his treat. To educate him in the ‘Art of Loving’. To make him fall in love with me!
Eagerly, I try his number once again. It’s switched off now. I leave it dejected. I have already called twice. I already look so needy.
I reply to his comment on FB, ‘What if the person is sweet but the treat is bitter?’ I wait impatiently for the sweet Samir to answer back and offer me a better treat than last time.
Stroke of Luck – Part 2
I must have fallen asleep while reading, as I didn’t hear Mansi walk in. I wake up to her movement, then she cuddled up to me by the beanbag and then her stilettos crash into my empty salad bowl.
‘Hey, congraaaats,’ I say, yawning widely. ‘Where is the ring? Show me.’
She gets herself together to sit straight, but falls back on the floor with a thud. I laugh loudly. It looks like she’s had a little too much wine. Usually, she knows when to stop, because she hates hangovers. But I guess it’s not every day that you get proposed. Thinking of which, I ask why she is not with assho…er…Aseem tonight. I can hear some incoherent sounds coming from her, almost like a rhythmic yoga chant. Seconds later, it’s a full-fledged, convulsive wailing. Shocked, I turn her body sideways so I can look at her. She looks like she is at a Halloween party; her eyes are ghastly with the makeup all smudged by her tears.
In the last five years, I have seen Mansi drunk and pass out many times—even down and low when her dad was diagnosed with cancer few years back, but this is the worst condition I have ever seen her. I just stare at her helplessly. She continues to sob silently. I try and get her to drink a glass of cold water. She manages to get herself upright, her back leaning against the beanbag.
‘I must be looking scary,’ she mumbles as she takes a sip of water, her voice hoarse from crying.
‘Ya,’ I admit glumly. ‘Like Kareena Kapoor in that movie Heroine.’
‘Ick! I much prefer how Deepika looks when she cries in Cocktail.’
‘Maybe you should try not to wear eyeliner next time,’ I offer my advice with all sincerity.
She goes silent. It looks like she is going to burst into another round of tears and nose blowing, so I try and be flippant. ‘But you sure sound sexy with a deep, melancholy voice—totally Catherine Zeta Jones types.’
The compliment brings a hint of a smile on her kajal and tear-streaked face. I smile back. I don’t ask her what happened, although I am dying of curiosity. Perhaps some lovers’ tiff. I know she will tell me anyway, so I wait for her to compose herself.
‘It was all very well planned,’ she starts to narrate a few moments later. ‘I reached the hotel lobby at ten minutes to eight. Aseem was there to meet me. Light pink shirt and black trousers—he was looking quite imposing. He held out his elbow and I wrapped my hand around his arm. Our table was set at a corner, with the most beautiful roses in the centre and two pretty, scented candles. He ordered the finest wine and we talked about our ambitions, future plans and families over an elaborate, sumptuous meal. The band was playing romantic numbers softly in the distance. It was almost time for dessert and he hadn’t bought up the topic, so I thought he might be getting cold feet. I didn’t mind. The evening was perfect in all ways. I was happy. Then came the dessert plate with the words “Will you marry me” inscribed on it in chocolate. I was zapped. And then, he took out this most exquisite diamond solitaire ring and went down on his knees. Meha, I was absolutely swept off my feet. The joy I felt is indescribable. Immediate I said “yes” and he put the ring on my finger and the waiters clicked some pictures of us together.’
‘Mansi, what happened? Did your engagement ring fall off in the commode?’ She shakes her head.
‘You didn’t…er…fart in his face, right?’ I mean that’s the worst I can imagine. At this, she completely stops crying and looks at me, disgusted. ‘Eeww, no way.’
She takes another sip of water and continues her story. ‘Feeling all bubbly, like the champagne we had quaffed, we were about to go to his place, when he excused himself to go the men’s room. A minute later, I heard his phone ringing from under the table—having fallen from his shirt pocket when he had bent down to propose. I picked it up to see that it was Sarika calling. It was rather late for her to call, but you know how she is. When she gets an idea, she has to announce it to the world instantly. I ignored it and let it go unanswered. I didn’t want any business discussion to spoil our special evening. The phone stopped after a while, but seconds later a message flashed on its screen. It was from her saying, ‘The million-dollar-Spain wedding is…’ Eager to know more, I swiped his phone to read the full message. She had written, ‘The million-dollar-Spain wedding is yours, provided you can make me happy tonight. I am waiting for you in my bedroom, wearing only your favourite Jasmine perfume.’
‘No way! That bitch! Isn’t she married or something?’ Startled, I speak my thoughts out loud. I am too sober for this shit. I knew Sarika was a mean, conniving and a manipulative boss, but I didn’t know that her employee’s performance appraisal sheet included the number of successfully delivered orgasms. No wonder, I could never satisfy her.
Mansi is back to crying, but it’s a drizzle. An occasional tear drop falling from her eyes, without the rumbling of a thunder.
‘What if it’s one-sided? Maybe she is forcing herself on Aseem?’ I try to console her. There is very little conviction in my voice.
‘I hoped for that too, so I left the phone back under the table and pretended not to have read the message. When Aseem got back I helped him search for the phone and we found it. He then checked the notifications and saw Sarika’s message. I saw his eyes gleam with joy as he read her message. Seconds later, he clutched his stomach and grimaced with pain. Then he had the gall to tell me to go home because with the way he was feeling, it wouldn’t be the night he had planned.’
Let's Have Coffee Page 8
