I have known all along that I meant nothing to him, yet it hurts when he dismisses me so casually. I blink away the moisture brimming in my eyes, and then lean forward, to tease him ‘I wonder whatever led Sonia to believe that you and I are sizzling together like fish and chips. Huh?’
Sometimes, fake laughter is all you need to wipe tears.
‘Obviously, she asked me if you were the reason for breakup and I said maybe.’ He laughs too, clearly unable to see my hurt.
He really cares for no one but himself. Not for me. Not for Sonia.
‘Why can’t you admit that you were just using Sonia,’ I angrily blurt out my thoughts.
‘Look, my feelings are very pure in a relationship. I am not lying to anyone. The girl knows that we are both in it for fun. We spend more time and get to know more. I like to learn and grow with every relationship. I don’t have to be bound to them all.’ He says all this calmly, without raising his voice.
I find it incredible how he thinks of a relationship as an extra-curricular activity—a play, learn and grow opportunity. How could I even think this man was worth my love? I raise my chin, cross my arms and pin him with a cold glare. Unknowingly, I am still playing power games with him.
‘Well, your co-education with Sonia has caused me a huge monetary loss.’ My tone is sarcastic.
‘I think you ought to be a little more grateful considering I saved your life,’ he replies, undisturbed by my accusation.
‘I thought I saved everyone’s life?’ I retort with an exasperated frown, my hands raised in a WTF gesture.
‘I used you as an excuse to break the engagement. So technically I saved the lives. Although you get the credit for it,’ he gloats.
What credit? Credit my foot! It’s all bad credit. I mumble to myself when the image of a precious heart-shaped ring looms in front of my eyes. Shucks! The RING. Suddenly I feel hair prickling at the back of my neck. I can hear bankruptcy knocking on my door. Forget bankruptcy. I will soon be in jail.
‘Do you have the ring?’ I ask, panicking, my heart pounding loudly like the school recess bell.
‘No, I don’t. But really, you are planning to sell a symbol of love to recover your money? How cheap!’
I stand up and stamp hard on the floor. ‘I paid for the ring. It’s bloody charged on my card,’ I yell.
‘No way! Really?’ He bursts out laughing.
The ferry is swaying again. I sit down on the bench facing away from him. No point wasting your anger on someone who doesn’t have angry emoticons to respond with.
‘How much?’ He asks in a matter-of-fact way.
‘Twenty-five lakhs,’ I mumble.
‘Holy shit! You must be rich to lend this kind of money to your clients.’
I guess he can’t stop mocking.
‘If you were not afraid to commit, it would have been all fine.’
‘Fine and dead,’ he elaborates.
He has a point. Whatever. I am feeling scared, stupid, angry, hurt and confused all at once. Scared because I am in deep shit; stupid because I got into it myself; angry because it’s his shit; hurt because he is not kissing me; confused because I don’t know what face to make. I end up showing him my I-think-you-are-an-arrogant-jerk face and he smiles conceitedly.
‘You, of all girls surely get it? You said you prefer to forget a random hookup like an unknown cafe in a narrow lane where you enjoy a nice coffee on a vacation but you couldn’t care to remember its name or street. Why double standards now?’
I am definitely not his kind who has sex like its coffee. But he thinks I am because I had lied to save my pride. Why should I try and change his views now? How does it matter anyway? I turn away and sulk silently. He gets up, goes down the steps and disappears. I can hear the sound of the ferry’s engine, as it cuts across the water now. I hope we get off soon. Tired and hungry I want to go home, curl up in my bed and sleep off this nightmare.
A little while later, I also head down. I don’t see her climbing up the stairs until I hear her scorn.
‘Oh my! I finally have the honour of meeting the girl who has had both my husband and my ex-boyfriend,’ Radhika sneers.
The same Radhika at whose wedding I had added cut-lime pieces in mason jars, rose petals in green ice candy and played hooky with Samir. She is a close friend and co-worker of Sonia’s—I had seen Radhika with her husband Deepak on the island. I am surprised she knows who I am. Or, maybe, ever since I fell out of the tree house, everyone now knows who I am. I won’t be surprised if someone recorded my fall and it’s a viral video on WhatsApp right now.
‘Wonder what the guys see in you?’ she says scrutinizing me.
I feel naked and vulnerable under her condescending gaze. I want to say something smart and intelligent but my mind is blank. I just look down at my feet, examining the chipped green nail polish.
‘Ah… looks like you need repair,’ she says following my gaze and then walks away haughtily.
Okay. Even if I am the bad girl who broke the engagement, but that actually saved your life. Maybe you can pay me a few lakhs as a reward. That way I can pay for my repairs and my debt too. A damn smart idea but Radhika is already gone. I go down to wash my face and pee.
A few hours later, the ferry finally docks at an elevated junkyard by the coast. We get into a state bus, which is waiting to transfer us all to the Phuket City Centre. The streets are barren, except for uprooted trees and upturned cars. All the locals have run up to the hills for fear of aftershocks. As we drive past the coastline, an innocent child shouts in joy when he sees a dolphin swept inland. He doesn’t know that the world of singing whales and lazing sea lions has turned into a graveyard for marine and human life. His mother turns his head away as we pass by a beach littered with dead fish and sea turtles alongside human bodies. I get the same feeling I get in a planetarium—of being a minuscule particle in this large universe. This is too gruesome a reality for anyone to handle. And the realization that it could have been me, makes it even more real. Families huddle, cry and hug each other. I watch Pyare hold NetGen and console her as she convulses in shock.
I have no one’s shoulder to rest my head on. I want to call Ma but my phone is dead. Everyone’s phone is out of charge. I finally find a pay phone in the city centre and call home. I am overjoyed to hear Mom’s loving voice. I choke with tears. She kisses me on the phone and tells me how worried they were about me when they saw the horrifying pictures of Phi Phi Island on TV.
Wait…how does she know I was at Phi Phi? I was supposed to be in Ooty. Just then Didi takes the phone from Ma and blasts me. She tells me how irresponsible I am and that I need to grow up. Ma saw the magic-tree-house-at-Phi-Phi picture I posted yesterday on FB in my inebriated state. That they have been trying to reach me since morning but couldn’t get through. That papa had an attack when he heard about the Tsunami and is admitted at the hospital right now, struggling for his life.
Ma takes the phone back from Didi and says, ‘Beta, Vir ko leke hospital aa ja bas. Only your marriage can save Papa now.’ I hear her muffled sobs as the line disconnects. I slump down in the phone booth and cry my heart out. No one bothers to stop by and ask. Death is the flavour of the day and tearful eyes the latest rage.
Bad Boyfriend, Good Friend
I don’t want Papa to see me teary-eyed and sad. So I apply bright red lipstick, slip on the green shoe covers and walk into the ICU wearing a cheerful smile that fades at the sight of the clean, sterile and lifeless room.
The ICU feels a lot like a prison. Unavoidable. Scary. Cold. Just like a prisoner, a patient can’t leave the place without the doctor’s permission. Family can only visit during regulated hours. You stop being someone’s husband, dad or brother. You become a mere number in a game of Housie. A game where the caller-in-charge-of-your-future is always lurking around with numbered coins in a bag, waiting to announce the next number to free from the shackles.
FYI, I have never been to prison before—also this is my first time in an ICU.
Although, prison might as well turn out be my next stop. But we will worry about credit card payment and prison later, I remind myself. One battle at a time.
I avoid looking at other beds and walk straight to the bed number 174. Ignoring the soft clinking sound of the Tambola coins echoing in my mind, I reapply a bright smile and pull aside the pale-green cloth hung in front of bed 174. Papa is resting, with his head slightly raised, on the bed. Draped in the loose hospital gown, wires in and out of his arms, he looks like a part of the machinery surrounding him. A contrasting image rushes to my mind. It’s a faint memory from decades ago of a man in control—an authoritative figure, responsible for the well-being of the entire family. He smiles faintly as he opens his eyes and sees me. I remove the plastic wrap from the papaya bowl by his bedside and feed him. We don’t talk much. He doesn’t have much energy. I leave as soon he closes his eyes for a nap. As I walk out, I blink away the tears from my eyes.
Outside in the waiting hall, I see Ma talking to Samir. An unshaven yet dashing Samir who has accompanied me straight from the airport. Ma is wearing a crisp, cotton saree and a fresh bindi, just like she always does for her tea date with Papa. I am surprised at how well she is holding herself. In fact, it was her quick thinking that has saved Papa’s life. I don’t want Ma or Samir to see me vulnerable. So I sit down on an empty chair and pretend to be busy with my phone.
‘Where do you work, beta?’ I hear Ma speaking to Samir. She is sitting on a chair across from me. She hasn’t noticed me yet. The subtle smile of approval on her face means that she likes Samir.
‘Aunty ji, I run my own business. I am an entrepreneur.’ Samir says confidently, sitting next to her.
Ouch. Ma doesn’t think very highly of entrepreneurs. For her, entrepreneur, self-employed, laid-off and jobless are all synonyms for no-steady-income.
‘But your FB profile says you are in consulting?’ Ma asks puzzled.
Oh no, she is confusing him for Vir. Of course, she had found out that I have a boyfriend from Vir’s FB activity. She had called me up to find all his details. And she had been very happy to know he was an MBA and a consultant. Before I can butt in and clarify, Samir replies smoothly, without bothering to ask whose FB profile mom is referring to, ‘Aunty ji, I left my job. Now I do wedding photography.’
An entrepreneur who is a photographer? Ma is rather shocked at the demotion. She has perhaps already told the ladeez in her kitty that her daughter is dating a highflying MBA consultant. But I know Mom—always optimistic.
‘Chalo theek hai,’ she says. ‘Following passion is the new fashion these days. Don’t mind my asking beta, but how much do you make?’
Okay, now she is getting personal and a tad bit embarrassing. I have to inform Ma that he is not my boyfriend Vir. I look up and my eyes lock with Samir’s. He gives me an I-got-this blink, and signals me to relax.
He looks back at my Mom, and replies, ‘Aunty ji, it’s a young start-up with three offices and twenty-five employees. Right now we are making only about a crore a month, but we hope to double by end of this year.’
No kidding! A crore a month? My Mom is seriously thinking she should take photography lessons now. I am thinking I should ask him to pay off my debt, especially since the ring was for him. It’s his problem, even if he didn’t want it.
‘Beta, I am an uber-cool mom,’ Mom informs Samir, beaming proudly with a seven-figure smile. ‘I married Meha’s dad by just looking at his biodata and a passport size photo. But marketing brochure dekh ke who marries nowadays? I know kids today want free sample. Ab sample to tumne kar hi liya hai,’ she says, casting a meaningful glance in my direction.
‘Facebook friends bhi tum ho, to shaadi mein der kyon, Vir?’ She asks him directly.
I don’t know where to look, so I look further inside my phone. My mother has just given Samir, who she thinks is Vir, a go-ahead to have an intimate relationship with me. I understand she is really modern, but she has also asked him to marry me, while we are in a hospital waiting room! Now she knows I am listening in to their conversation. How desperate and humiliating is that? As I look for an invisibility cloak to hide myself, the reason for mom’s weird behaviour suddenly dawns on me. It’s all because of that prophecy—‘ek ladke ke saath sambhog will solve bitiya’s problems’. It’s obvious that she believes I got stuck in the Tsunami because water is supposed to bring me ill luck. But I am alive because Vir was with me when it happened. So now she wants me to marry him so I can stay safe forever. Tough luck! I also want to marry him, but he’s a cold fish.
‘Aunty ji, smile na, please. You are looking like Madhubala. Let me click a picture,’ Samir changes the topic. Ma, delighted at the compliment, poses coyly. And then she leaves with a spring in her step, for her tea date with bed number 174.
Samir may not be a good boyfriend, but he is definitely a good friend. I am thinking of how to thank him for all his help. Just then, Di arrives, who went home to look after the kids. She engulfs me in a bear hug—scolding, crying, and showering me with sisterly love all at once. Before I can disengage fully from her embrace, Samir smiles and leaves.
Next morning, I take a detour through Starbucks to shake off the Blue Cloud, who has been sitting glued to me ever since I heard about Papa. There’s also the Deep Purple Nerve, who keeps popping up, making me rather jumpy. I wanted to go to the hospital, but Ma said to come during the evening visiting hours. So I reach my office and start to count the money, trying to find peace in the humdrum of life.
I am proud of the way I had figured the estimates and planning for Sonia’s proposal. But now there is this big tumour of twenty-five lakhs that is making us ill. How am I ever going to collect so many zeroes? I know my parents don’t have much savings. I definitely have none. I can ask Didi and Jijaji for a loan, although they have also just bought a new house. Even if I get some weddings to design, I can at best save about a lakh a month. Even then it seems like I will be paying off my debt for the next two and a half years. Math sucks! Suddenly, the Enchanted Land atop The Faraway Tree has switched to the-land-of-living-on-minimum-wages.
I put my feet up, look out the window and consider my options. If only I could reach out to Sonia. I am ready to fall on her freshly manicured feet, kiss her Jimmy Choo shoes and ask for forgiveness. Plus the money for the ring. She must have realized, like I did, that my falling down and breaking her engagement has indeed saved all our lives. If her mood is good, I can even ask for a life-saving reward. Not much, say about ₹50,000—just enough for a Maldives trip. Business is anyway closing. I might as well go on a vacation. The minute I think of Sonia, I find her staring back at me. It’s like I have a direct line with God, ever since my short stay in heaven. Standing with nine thin, underwear models, all wearing the new ‘Body’ line of Veronica Secret lingerie collection, Sonia looks chilly hot.
‘How do you like the ad copy?’ The creative assistant asks me, as he lowers the ad copy so the models are now huddled around his crotch area.
‘Ooh la la ooh la la…tu hai meri fantasy’ sings the office boy, his eyes darting from bra to bra as he holds out the tray with tea cups for us.
I take my ginger tea and stare at ‘The Perfect Body’ written boldly over the horizontal row of panties.
For some reason, I don’t like the ad. It seems to suggest that these women, including Sonia, have a perfect body while I don’t. It may be true but who wants to hear the fat truth, that too from a lingerie ad? Besides, the world would be so monotonous if all the leaves of a tree were arranged in a symmetry and if all the clouds had the same shape. I honestly tell the cute ass that I find the ad to be too perfect. He should change either the models or the message to make it more real. But he laughs it off. Both the creative ass and the office boy leave my desk, huddling the perfect bodies.
I am wondering what Samir will think of Sonia’s perfect body plastered in public, when I see a mail from him materialize in my inbox. I have wanted to call him since yesterday to ask his thoughts on my mom’s suggest
ion, but I haven’t been able to gather the courage to do so.
‘Hey Senorita, it was nice meeting your mom yesterday.’
He has me at Senorita.
‘Wanted to let you know that I am leaving tonight for London for some urgent work.’
Okay. Is this email like a work-related am-away-from-my-desk communication, or a public Facebook style status update, or honey-I-will-be-late-for-dinner kind of personal message?
‘I can understand that you must be really stressed. Let me know if I can help in anyway.’
Oh yes. If stress could burn calories, I would have a ‘Perfect Body’ like Sonia right now. But somehow just thinking aloud with your mail is making me feel good. How about you move in with me till Papa gets better? Anyway I am alone these days. Also, can you please persuade your ex-girlfriend to pay for the ring?
‘I called Sonia, you know, to apologize. She listened but when I asked her about the ring and your payment, she hung up.’
I should be feeling disappointed right now because Sonia has refused to pay, but instead I feel a warm, fuzzy sensation envelope me. He called Sonia for me. He was thinking about me. He cares.
‘I can lend some money, if you need. Not much, say about five lakhs. The credit card companies can really fleece you with interest on any outstanding payment.’
Interest! I never understood that chapter well. But my loyal friend, excel, tells me that even a three per cent interest on twenty-five lakh rupees will be seventy thousand. So, even in my best-case scenario of saving a lakh a month, I will be paying back just the interest. The original amount will remain unpaid. It’s like trying to fill a swimming pool with a bucket of water every day and realizing that all the water is getting evaporated, leaving the pool as empty as before. I was hugely mistaken. I am in the land of lifelong imprisonment.
‘Hey listen. I have some good news for you.’
I can certainly use some ‘good news’. My stock is depleted. I am a little skeptical of ‘good news’ because it often comes in a combo with a ‘bad news’.
Let's Have Coffee Page 11
