‘Look, Rishabh, firstly, you had no right to snoop. You had no right to read those mails. Secondly, even if you did, how can you suspect me like that?’
He is silent for a while. I am silent too. I pour myself a glass of water to calm down.
Then he delivers another blow. ‘I want to read all your text messages right now,’ he says.
I can scarcely believe what I am hearing.
‘My text messages?’ I ask as though I haven’t comprehended.
‘Right now, before you get a chance to delete them,’ he says as he stretches out his hand for my phone.
‘No,’ I say. This is the limit. How can he even ask to see my phone? How can he not believe me?
‘Then you are having an affair. Tell me the truth—didn’t you march out just now and call him?’
‘What rubbish are you talking, Rishabh. This is utter nonsense.’ I am angry now and I hurl the phone at him. ‘Here go through my messages, check for yourself,’ I say.
The phone lands with a soft thud on the futon and I am furious at Rishabh’s attitude. He calmly walks towards the futon and picks up the phone. And before my very eyes, he goes through each and every text message of mine.
I feel naked. I feel stripped. I feel robbed. I feel violated. I feel like a criminal being paraded to be identified. I cannot believe that the guy I married is treating me like this. He doesn’t believe me and he is checking my phone. I clench my fists as he continues to scroll through each and every message on the Instant Messenger app.
Rishabh is oblivious to all that I am going through.
‘Who is Dev? And why is he sending you jokes?’ he asks.
Dev is the nerdy guy in accounts who I don’t give a damn about. I get irked with these jokes he sends me every now and then. But I do not want to explain to Rishabh. I am aghast at his behaviour. I am hurt. I am shocked.
I don’t reply and I continue sitting there as Rishabh continues to scroll and read all my messages.
‘Look, Rishabh,’ I finally say, ‘I think there has to be some trust in a marriage. If you snoop like this and you are so suspicious, it is going to be very hard for me.’
‘Ha! Rich that is—coming from you. You were the one who had an affair behind my back.’
I can’t believe that the reasonable, sweet Rishabh is even saying all of this. It seems so absurd to me.
‘That was before I met you, dammit. I have never ever contacted him after I split up. Why don’t you believe me?’
‘Maybe because those mails tell a different story, Shruti. Tell me something—if roles were reversed and if you had discovered mails like the ones you have written from my id, would you trust me?’
‘If you told me that it was in the past and it was over, I would. I wouldn’t ask to see your messages. Snooping is horrible, Rishabh. It is a violation of trust.’
‘That is easy for you to say. You aren’t the one affected. Tell me what happened between Aman and you. I want to know.’
‘It is a long story, Rishabh. And it is over. I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Why not? That shows you have some feelings left. If it is past and over, you should have no issues talking about it.’
Rishabh has inadvertently hit the nail on the head. He is right. I still haven’t closed the Aman chapter. But I am emotionally too battered by the turn of events to reopen it.
Please not now, I want to plead.
But the way Rishabh looks at me, daring me to open up, accusing me with his eyes of something I never did, does me in.
‘Very well. I will tell you if you want to know,’ I say.
‘Yes. I want to know what happened. The whole story.’
‘I was madly in love with him and he with me. We had never forseen a future without each other. I had taken it for granted that it is him I would marry. I even went with him to Gwalior to meet his mother. I lied to my parents about a project I had to do. His mother liked me. His mother was all for us. Then I spoke to my parents. My parents were dead against this match as he is a north Indian. They wanted someone from our community. But Aman convinced us that if his mother met my parents, they would be okay. I too believed that. So he flew his mother down to Bangalore. We sprung a surprise on my parents, hoping that if his mother spoke, they would be more open and see for themselves how nice his mother was, and how keen we are on marriage. But we couldn’t have been more wrong. Aman’s mother mentioned how wonderful she felt when I had walked into her home. My parents hit the roof when they knew that I had lied and gone with Aman to his house and that his mother had been a party to it. My father insulted her. She is a widow and has raised Aman all by herself. He made allegations about her moral character. I have never been so ashamed of my father. He questioned her about her property, her caste, her family. Then he went on to elaborate about our wealth and reach and prestige. I cringed hearing all this. He then threatened that if she dared set foot again into our compound, he would have her thrown out. I was shell-shocked to see my father speak this way. I apologised profusely to his mother and they left. My parents berated me and gave me a solid dressing-down. They said Aman was not suitable at all. When I asked why, my dad said that it was obvious that he wanted to marry me for money. God! I still cannot believe he said that. They wanted me to have nothing to do with Aman anymore. Of course, I refused. I told them I would walk out and they couldn’t stop me. But a week later, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. I couldn’t walk out. They needed me. By now, Aman’s mother too was against the match. She said that if that was the culture I came from, she had second thoughts about me. She couldn’t believe that my parents were so narrow-minded. Also, I was spending less and less time with Aman. He wanted me to walk out and get married. How could I? I couldn’t desert my mother. I began having fights with him. It was too much for me to handle. I didn’t know if my mother was going to live or die. Only the first round of chemo was over. I broke off contact with Aman. In between one of the numerous hospital visits, my parents reiterated the importance of family background, of same caste and community in marriage. They said love would grow over a period of time. They said everyone has crushes like the ones I had on Aman, but they don’t last in the long run. They emphasised the difference we would have in language, custom, economic background and how much all of it mattered. Day in and day out, my mother would get teary-eyed and emotional. Finally, I had no strength to stick up for Aman anymore. He wasn’t making it any easier for me either. By then, communication between us had dwindled. I told him I had to break up with him. My parents were delighted. I was happy to see my mother finally relieved. And later, when my mom’s sister brought your alliance, my parents felt it was the perfect fit. When I met you, I liked you. And the rest you know.’
I have explained everything to Rishabh now. He knows the whole story. There is nothing to hide anymore.
Aman was history and a part of my past. But now he is a part of my present too. By telling Rishabh about Aman, I have now actually added him to our lives. Mine and Rishabh’s.
Rishabh is silent for a very long time. He reflects on all that I have said.
And then he says, ‘Tell me the truth, Shruti. Did you marry me as a consolation prize? Do you even love me?’
And I stand dumbfounded, unable to meet his eyes or answer the question he has so simply asked.
Chapter 10
Aman
When I emerge from the plane at Mumbai, the first thing that hits me is the noise. It is funny how quickly one adapts to a new country and integrates so well with it, that the once familiar feels strange again. I have grown up and spent all my life in India and yet, after two years out of the country, I find it extremely noisy in comparison to the UK, where the decibel levels are probably one tenth of the decibel levels in India, by default.
I have about an hour and a half before my flight to Bangalore and the first thing I do upon landing i
s call my mother. She is elated to hear my voice.
‘Achha, beta. You just landed? How are you? When are you coming to Gwalior?’ asks my mother even before I have a chance to answer her first question.
‘Haanji, Ma. Just landed. I will come the first chance I get. It hasn’t even been five minutes since I landed,’ I smile at her eagerness and typical ‘mummy-enthusiasm’. You cannot beat Indian mothers when it comes to asking questions about your life. They want to know every single detail.
‘How was the flight? You slept well? And what time is your flight to Bangalore?’ she asks.
‘In an hour and a half. Yes, the flight wasn’t too bad. When will you visit me?’ I ask her, giving her a taste of her own medicine.
‘Look, beta,’ she sighs. And I know immediately what is coming next. Sure enough, she says, ‘Get married soon. Then I will consider moving base. More proposals have come. Shall I send you the photos?’
‘Ma, we have been through this so many times. When I am ready, I will tell you. What can you make out from a photo anyway?’
‘As though you can make out anything without a photo. I am only telling you to meet these girls, not marry them. In fact, one of them is Bangalore-based. She is an MBA and she is working in some software company. Very good family.’ My mother does not give up so easily. Ever since that fiasco with Shruti’s parents happened, her one-point objective in life is to see me married. It is almost as though it will be redemption for the insults she suffered at their hands, and her ghosts will finally be laid to rest when I am married. While I was in the UK, she couldn’t do much except mention it every time I called her and email me pictures of the girls, which I never opened. The thing is, I just am not interested in marriage. How many times do I have to explain that to my mother? I am doing well in my career and marriage is the last thing on my mind. I can see her point of view, but it is my life, and I do not want to mess it up by adding marriage to it, till I am ready. When I marry, it has to be for the right reasons.
‘Look, Ma, we have had this conversation many times. I will tell you when I want to get married and you can start the bride-hunt then okay?’
‘All boys your age are getting married. Everyone in the community asks about you. I don’t know what to say at social gatherings anymore.’
I smile at her choice of words. At twenty-seven, I am still a ‘boy’ in India. I imagine explaining this to Mark and the others. They would never get it.
‘Ma, we cannot live our lives to please society. You, yourself have told me that so many times. And now what happened?’
‘Maybe I am getting old, son. I so miss your father,’ she says.
I do not know what to say to comfort her. She has started feeling insecure about her age. She was never like this earlier. She was always a strong-willed woman and after my father’s death, she has been very brave. Never once has she talked about how unfair my father’s sudden death was, about missing my father or any such thing. I have never seen my mother’s vulnerable side and today her voice sounds forlorn and defeated. I wish I could just say yes and meet the girls that she keeps lining up, just so that she is pleased. But, honestly, I know I have no inclination to. I do not want to simply cheat my mother and give her false hope. So I change the topic.
I ask about her garden. That is a topic she loves talking about. My mother started gardening ever since she retired and even won some prizes at the local horticultural fair for her produce of bitter gourds and bottle gourds. She tends to the garden almost every waking hour, and our terrace has been turned into a small little farm by her. She grows several vegetables in crates and her hibiscus collection is enviable. People come to visit her garden and she has been featured on local television channels for her gardening skills. She even conducts workshops for a local gardening chapter. My mother now describes all her latest projects and I am happy that I have deftly managed to change the topic.
Finally, I tell her to take care and that I will see her soon, and I hang up.
When I browse through a bookshop at the airport, just before boarding my flight, my eyes fall on Tiara and I remember Anjali. I buy the copy on a whim and go through the contents. I am happy to see a relationship column with her picture in it and the article that I gave inputs for. ‘Five Things to Keep a Guy Hooked to You’ reads the title. Anjali looks fantastic in the picture. It is perhaps professionally clicked or she has got an image makeover since the last time I saw her, which was at Vikram and Dipika’s place, when I visited India last year.
I briefly consider calling her up. If I do, she will probably read too much into it. Women always presume that if a guy calls them, he is ‘interested’. I definitely am not into her in that way, even though I have agreed to go on a ‘date’ with her. Finally I decide not to call her and instead I drop her a mail.
From: Aman Mathur
To: Anjali Prabhu
Sub: Just read your piece
Hey Anjali,
Am mailing you from Mumbai airport. I just landed and am on my way to Bangalore. Picked up a copy of Tiara—and I must say ‘Congratulations’! It feels good to think that a columnist is my friend.
Will see you Monday evening.
Aman
I get her reply within seconds. She says she is delighted to hear from me and thrilled that I saw her column in print and that she is looking forward to meeting me on Monday.
When I land in Bangalore, I call up Vikram. He informs me that Dipika has cooked biryani and jokes that because of me, he too will get some nice food. Dipika comes on line almost at once and asks me not to believe him and that she makes it often.
‘Yeah, yeah, the last time you made it was when your brother came and that was more than eight months ago,’ says Vikram.
‘What is this? Am I on speaker phone?’ I ask
‘Yeeeeeees’ yell a unison of voices—Dipika, Vikram and both the girls.
I smile. I know I am home.
Their apartment, a penthouse on the fifteenth floor, is in one of the premium residential properties on Sarjapur Road in Bangalore. It has a lovely terrace garden with a well-landscaped lawn and all their parties are hosted here. The security guards at the gate check with Vikram on the intercom and then make me sign a register and wave me in. I dismiss my cab driver and my rather heavy suitcase glides smoothly across the Italian marble in their spacious lobby. I wonder at what point in my career I would be able to afford a place like this.
As soon as I ring the bell, Ria and Reema tumble out and then, suddenly, stand there, shyly smiling at me. They look adorable, dressed prettily in white sleeveless frilly frocks and polka-dotted large hair bows. I have bought tons of chocolate for them from Heathrow airport and a pair of Moxie dolls which the store assistant at Hamleys assured me the girls will love. I can’t help thinking that Ria and Reema look exactly like the dolls I have. I give them a big warm smile. Then I say a hello to them and ask if I may hug them. Reema shakes her head from side to side which I guess indicates a no and Ria nods a yes. I laugh and hug Ria and extend my hand to Reema who then decides that a handshake is a good idea.
It is then that Vikram emerges.
‘Oh hello. I can see the welcome party has already greeted you warmly,’ he says as he shakes my hand and thumps me on the back and then proceeds to give me a ‘man-hug’ as well.
Then I see Dipika. Her hair is still damp from the shower and the shoulders of her white kurti are slightly wet where her hair touches it. Her kurti is semi-transparent and I can make out the outline of her bra clearly. She looks so stunning I draw in a sharp breath. I had forgotten how very sexy she is. She smiles at me and hugs me lightly.
‘Welcome back,’ she says softly and I get a whiff of her perfume. Her breasts brush against my arm as she steps back from her hug and I feel a flush of embarrassment at the sudden erection in my trousers.
Fuck. It has
been a long time since that has happened.
‘Thank you,’ I say and turn away quickly towards my suitcase and call out to Reema and Ria, ‘hey girls, I’ve got something for you,’ and I sit down and unlock it.
‘What is it?’ asks Reema half curious and her sister follows suit and chimes, ‘What is it?’, in her baby voice.
‘Oh, that is sweet of you, Aman, but at least have something to drink first. Give it to them later,’ says Dipika.
‘No no, let me give it to them. It is right on top. I hope they like it.’
Besides, let me calm myself down. You look too darn hot.
Ria is unable to hide her curiosity. ‘What is it? What is it?’ she asks, dancing around. Her sister copies her and they chant, ‘What is it’ like a war-cry.
‘Chup! Wait and see and if you don’t stop that right now, I will tell Aman to take it right back,’ says Vikram.
That makes them silent for a second. Then Ria says, ‘No you won’t. You cannot do that. Gifts cannot be taken back.’
Dipika and I burst out laughing and a second later Vikram joins in too.
‘Ha ha, yes, they cannot be. Here you go,’ I say handing them their Moxie dolls.
The girls squeal in delight.
Dipika looks at them and is stunned too. ‘Wow, they look so gorgeous. Aman, you shouldn’t have. But thanks,’ she smiles.
I smile and I try hard to not look at her breasts but I steal a glance anyway. It is hard not to, the way she looks right then.
‘Girls, say a thank you. Remember your manners,’ says Dipika.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ they chime and then vanish into their rooms, delighted with their new toy.
Vikram asks if I will have a beer and I gladly accept. After the cold in the UK, India feels warm, although by Indian standards, Bangalore has one of the most pleasant climatic conditions in the country.