THE ONE YOU CANNOT HAVE

  ‘I appreciate it, Asha. Thanks and you can be sure whatever we spoke now will never go out from me,’ I say.

  ‘It better not!’ she warns.

  That evening Rishabh drops a bombshell on me.

  ‘My parents are coming to stay over,’ he says.

  ‘Oh! How suddenly?’ I ask.

  During the time that we have been married, Rishabh has invited his parents many times, but they have never visited us. His dad always protests saying it will be difficult to leave Hubli as there is no one to manage the business on a day-to-day basis.

  ‘I have been asking dad to take a break. He has finally agreed. His younger brother will go daily and do the stock-taking and tally accounts. It will be a nice change for them,’ says Rishabh.

  I am glad that he is excited about it. More than that I am glad he is talking to me. Saying more than his curt and to-the-point, one-liners. His indifference of the last one month has been unbearable.

  ‘Let’s prepare the guest room. We need to buy a new bed and mattresses. I want my parents to be comfortable,’ he says.

  ‘You mean a kingsize bed? But that will leave us with no space at all. The second bedroom is tiny,’ I point out. I don’t see any point in buying furniture when we have guests only for ten-fifteen days in a year. The rest of the time the bed would just lie there, occupying space. And our apartment isn’t exactly spacious. Besides, when my parents had come, they had managed perfectly well on the futon which doubles up as a bed. I am tempted to add all this as well, but I wisely don’t.

  Rishabh thinks over what I have said. Then he finds the perfect solution.

  ‘Hmm, okay—in that case we can give them our bedroom. We can sleep on the futon in the spare bedroom,’ he declares.

  God. That was not what I had in mind.

  ‘How can you give our bedroom to them, Rishabh? What about our privacy? All my clothes are in that room. All our stuff is there,’ I protest. I find the whole concept of surrendering our bedroom to anyone else, even if it is his parents, very invasive.

  ‘It’s just for a few days. We can adjust. Come on, Shruti. This is the first time my parents are visiting. I want their stay to be comfortable,’ he says.

  I don’t see how giving our bedroom to them will make their stay ‘comfortable’. It will, in fact, cause more awkwardness as I will have to keep intruding on them to take out any stuff that I may need. I detest this idea of ‘giving our bedroom’ to them. But I keep quiet as I don’t want to start another fight.

  I can see the change in Rishabh because of his parents’ visit and he runs around like he has got a bee in his bonnet. He stocks the house with fruits. ‘My dad always has a fruit after each meal,’ he says. He tells the house-help to clean all the fans and the window grills. He goes into the kitchen and checks the shelves and tells me that it is very untidy and it needs to be fixed.

  ‘You know what, I shall take an off from work, and stay home and tidy everything for you,’ I say sarcastically.

  But he doesn’t get the sarcasm at all.

  ‘Will you? That will be good,’ he says and I am so irked, I want to slap him.

  ‘I was just kidding. You know my workload is too much these days,’ I say.

  He doesn’t ask me why my workload is so heavy. He doesn’t even want to know how my day was and what I did. In fact, most of what he communicates is something that has to do with his parents’ visit.

  All that Rishabh does these days is to potter around the house once he comes back from work. He has even gone shopping (without me) and got new bedsheets and bedcovers. I have never seen him take this much interest in the house in the time that we have been married.

  Finally I can’t stand it anymore. When I come back from work and when I see that he has shopped for a cutting board and some kitchen knives (of all things!) I decide I have to speak up.

  ‘Rishabh, do you realise you are acting like someone possessed. Why in the world did you go and buy a cutting board and knives? We already have all that,’ I say.

  ‘They were old. So I threw them out. How does it matter? Is that such a crime? Can’t I buy stuff for my own home?’ he retorts.

  ‘Look Rishabh, the issue is not about the cutting board and knives and we both know that. This lack of communication, ever since that day, is killing me.’

  I cannot bring myself to say Aman’s name. I don’t know why.

  He is silent for a while.

  ‘I am trying to get over it, Shruti. I truly am. But it is not so easy to forget. How could you hide such a huge thing from me?’

  I have nothing to say then. So I just say a ‘sorry’ and I ask him if he has made dinner, which he has, since he got back earlier than me.

  How could I hide it from him? I don’t know. I wasn’t in any mental state to think clearly then. Besides, my parents were so darn keen on this match with Rishabh. Had I mentioned Aman to him at that point, who knows perhaps the marriage might have never happened. His parents are very conservative. In fact, we have visited them just once, when we stayed with them at their huge home in Hubli. I had to wear only saris the entire duration as his relatives would keep dropping in, to ‘see the bride’. I had hated it but had ‘adjusted’ as it was only for a few days.

  And now a new thought strikes me. His parents are going to get a shock when they see me in skirts and trousers as I wear only western formals to work. I wear saris only for formal occasions like weddings. Well, too bad. I am not going to change the way I dress, just because they are visiting. They can get used to a ‘modern’ daughter in-law. Also, Rishabh hasn’t mentioned anything about it to me and I am glad about that.

  His parents arrive and Rishabh, I discover, has taken a day off from work to pick them up from the airport and bring them home. He is a little miffed that I haven’t taken the day off as well to welcome them. But we have an important event in office today and my presence there is needed as I am co-ordinating all the arrangements, including accompanying the chief guest (who insisted that someone from the company has to meet her, to escort her to the venue) and so there is no way that I can oblige.

  When I get back from work I find the three of them sitting in the drawing room and watching television.

  I greet them and I ask them how their journey was.

  My mother-in-law says that it was fine. Then she says that I have lost a lot of weight. She doesn’t comment on the clothes I am wearing (a short Van Huesen formal skirt and a fitted shirt) and I am happy about that. My father-in-law asks about my work and I tell him how my day went. They are sweet and pleasant and probably I had just been worrying about nothing.

  I have had a hard day at work. I have been standing most of the time, and I even had to accompany the chief guest back. I am desperate for a shower and am hungry too. So I excuse myself and when I emerge, I see that the table has already been laid and a hot meal of chappatis and dal is waiting for me.

  ‘Ma, you cooked. That is so sweet of you,’ I exclaim.

  ‘Yeah, if the woman of the house has no time, it doesn’t mean others have to starve,’ comes her immediate reply and she sighs dramatically and wipes her forehead with her sari pallu to emphasize how hard it was.

  I grit my teeth and force myself to keep quiet. I badly want to say that the man of the house was at home that day and could have easily cooked the meal. The house rules are that we share the task of cooking and on working days, whoever gets home earlier, cooks. But I know that will only alienate Rishabh more.

  We all eat together and I see that Rishabh is happy. I feel good to see him genuinely happy after very long.

  Who knows, maybe after his parents leave, things will be fine between Rishabh and me. I make up my mind to be extra-nice and sweet to his parents, no matter what the provocation. Maybe that will please him and he will forgive me.

  But I have no idea what lies in store for me and how even the best o
f intentions can go wrong.

  Chapter 18

  Aman

  My third ‘date’ with Anjali turns out to be one on a weekend, where we go house-hunting. I have side-stepped going with Dipika by responding to Vikram’s mail diplomatically. I replied to him saying that it is kind of Dipika to offer but I will manage. Then I promptly texted the company broker who has lined up about eight apartments for me to view.

  Shukla has again lent me the bike. Right now, the company guesthouse is within walking distance of my office. But once I move, I would definitely need a car. At my level I am eligible for a car-loan and I have already set the papers in process and made the booking for a brand new Hyundai i-20. It isn’t available in the colour that I want (I have chosen a fiery red) and I have to wait for around three weeks for delivery of the vehicle which suits me fine. I am in no hurry.

  Anjali arrives dot on time (and that is another thing that I like about her: she is always punctual) and when I see her I catch my breath. She looks even more attractive today than she did the last time. She has tied up her hair in a pony-tail. She is wearing large over-sized sun-glasses, a bandana like hairband, a smartly fitted canary yellow tee and light blue denims and white heels. She is also carrying a denim bag and she looks like she has just stepped out of the ‘style’ pages of the magazine she writes for.

  ‘Wow! You look good, mademoiselle,’ I tell her as I greet her.

  ‘Thank you and you ain’t looking bad yerself,’ she says in an exaggerated American accent.

  ‘I love those heels. Killer ones,’ I say and smile.

  ‘What about the sun-glasses? And the tee? And the bandana? And the bag? And, oh yes, you missed out the watch too—it’s a Giordano,’ she says and laughs.

  I join in her laughter and obvious delight at my compliments. She makes me feel so light, this girl. I am always laughing or smiling when I am with her.

  The company broker Mr Ramalingam, arrives about fifteen minutes later than the time that we agreed upon. Anjali and I wait inside the guesthouse and this time Shukla is around, all spruced up as I had mentioned earlier to him that Anjali would be coming.

  I introduce Anjali to him and I can see his obviously approving stare. He is checking her out, in what he presumes is a discreet way but I can easily see it and I can see he finds her hot. Anjali is oblivious to it and says a polite hello.

  ‘I have read your column in Tiara,’ declares Shukla.

  That gets Anjali’s interest immediately.

  ‘Oh! Don’t you mind admitting that you read women’s magazines?’ she teases.

  ‘Well, I don’t read them, my sister does and she loves your column. She showed it to me and made me read it. Great to meet you face-to-face,’ he says and I can see that he is enamoured by her.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Anjali. I guess she is used to people telling her that they read her, I don’t know. I can see that Shukla is dying to impress her, but he is desperately looking for something to talk about that will hold her interest.

  ‘So what are your future plans?’ he blurts out.

  Anjali looks puzzled. ‘Eh? Future plans? As in marriage and stuff like that?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh, no, no. What I meant is what are you writing about next?’ he asks.

  It is funny how I feel protective about Anjali all of a sudden because of Shukla who is questioning her.

  ‘Oh, she is working on several things,’ I tell him and Anjali looks at me and smiles. She doesn’t miss how I have jumped in for her.

  Fortunately we are spared of further conversation as Ramalingam makes an entry wiping his brow.

  ‘Sorry, saar, got a little bit late as I had to drop off my son. He missed the school bus,’ he says.

  ‘No problem. So shall we leave?’ I ask.

  ‘How do you want to go, saar? Shall we go in my car?’ he asks.

  ‘No we will follow you on the bike,’ I say and Anjali nods.

  ‘But we will be going to seven-eight areas. Bike will be very hot, no?’ he asks.

  I look at Anjali.

  ‘Oh! I so wanted a bike ride,’ she says.

  ‘You can keep the bike and go later also. No problem at all,’ pitches in Shukla. Anjali looks at me for an answer. I tell her that once the house is finalised we can go out on the bike and she is happy.

  The first four houses that Ramalingam shows us are not suitable. Either the approach to the house isn’t good or the house is too dark with no natural light or the layout isn’t great. To be honest, I am quite okay with all the houses he has shown so far, but Anjali’s discerning eye picks out relevant points. She examines each and every room in the house, taking in the wardrobes, the windows, the natural light and several other such things, which would not even have occurred to me. I guess this is where one needs a woman’s touch. They have a natural eye for such stuff. I am now doubly glad that she is with me. Apart from the pleasure of her company, the inputs she gives me in the choice of a home are indeed great. One of the houses he has shown is right next to a sewage treatment plant and Anjali straightaway rejects it.

  Ramalingam has probably presumed that she is my wife as he now addresses only her, leaving me out completely. I am amused and at the same time happy to see Anjali take charge. We finally get lucky with the fifth house. The location is perfect as it is just about four kilometres from office. It is in a huge enclosed community that has several multi-storeyed buildings with spacious well-designed landscaped gardens, nice pathways to walk on, lawn, park, club, gym and swimming pool. I instantly like it, especially the gym which is very well-equipped. Anjali too approves and we tell Ramalingam to go ahead and finalise it. It is a two-bedroom apartment on the eleventh floor that faces the pool. It is also furnished very tastefully with wicker furniture, a low coffee table and lovely lampshades and curtains. Both bedrooms have beds and the house also has a microwave, a fridge, a cooking range and everything else needed for a home. I just have to move in with my clothes.

  ‘This is nice!’ says Anjali.

  ‘It is,’ I admit.

  ‘I am glad madam liked it,’ says Ramalingam.

  ‘I am also glad,’ I say and Anjali and I smile at each other.

  Our company has leased several of these fully furnished houses and many employees like me who are single prefer these, as opposed to ones where you have to buy all the furniture. Ramalingam has showed us a couple of those too, but this option (where the house comes with all the fittings and furniture) makes more sense in my case.

  Ramalingam asks us when we would like to shift and I tell him I want to move as soon as possible. He says I can even move in immediately.

  ‘Well, not today. But I don’t mind shifting tomorrow,’ I say and he confirms that it is okay as the house has already been leased by the company for three years and was lying vacant for the past two months, as the previous tenant had moved to the UK.

  Ramalingam’s phone rings and he excuses himself and goes to the balcony to take the call.

  ‘Good thing your company takes care of all this. We don’t get anything like this,’ says Anjali clearly impressed with Ramalingam’s efficiency in finalising such a lovely house, so quickly.

  ‘Well, you don’t have to move countries on work like we do. If they didn’t take care of all this, I think we would have a high rate of attrition. You know Business World did a survey last year of the best companies to work for and ours was in the top five,’ I say with some pride.

  ‘Ask them if they need a writer for their in-house magazine. Do you have one?’ asks Anjali. I take her request at face value and tell her that I will check.

  ‘But then again, no thanks. I will probably have to write boring corporate articles if I took that up. I am not interested in all that. So drab,’ she says and pulls a face.

  ‘What do you want to write on the most?’ I ask her, amused at her antics and her candidness.


  ‘Love! Is there anything else worth living for?’ she asks as she strikes a pose, throwing both her hands up in the air.

  I want to tell her that love can also hurt and wound. It can make you ache. It can make you long for a person long after they are gone. It can leave you with a feeling so incomplete that you wonder if you will ever be whole again. It can shatter you, break you and make you a different person from what you were.

  But I say nothing.

  ‘Why are you suddenly looking so pensive?’ she asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ I tell her.

  ‘Leave it, don’t think about the past. Let go, it wasn’t meant to be,’ she says and I am taken aback at how much Anjali understands me without my saying anything at all.

  Once we finish finalising the house, we go back to the guesthouse. It is already four-thirty pm by the time we reach and the staff at the guesthouse serves us some cool fresh-lime soda. Shukla thankfully is nowhere to be seen. I didn’t want him grilling Anjali again.

  ‘You can get used to this lifestyle. These people pamper you so much!’ exclaims Anjali as she sips her drink.

  ‘Yes, if I had my way I would never vacate the guesthouse. Who wants to give up all this where you are served a delicious hot meal with a smile, no matter what time you get back from work,’ I say as I sink into the sofa.

  ‘So what about my payment?’ asks Anjali. Her eyes are shining with mischief.

  ‘What payment?’ I smile.

  ‘To help you shortlist the house. These services don’t come free of cost, you know,’ she says.

  ‘Name your price,’ I smile.

  ‘A bike ride for now and rest I will tell you later,’ she giggles.

  ‘As long as it is nothing illegal, I am okay,’ I smile. I wonder what she has in mind. I am not sure if she means it or is joking. With Anjali, it is sometimes hard to tell.

  ‘You know what they say. Everything you love is illegal, immoral or fattening,’ she says.