Tea for Two and a Piece of Cake

  Soon, we are having lunch together on all days. We also work together late into the night and leave together on most days, with Samir insisting on dropping me home. I vehemently protest and decline to accept. After much persuasion, he gives in to my protests, insisting on dropping me at least to the train station every day.

  We cannot hide our affair for long. Nobody has spoken to me directly about it so far, but I know that the entire office is talking about it. I can hear their hushed whispers at the coffee-vending machine and how they all go very quiet as soon as they spot me.

  I can see the smirk on Leena’s face whenever I go into Samir’s cabin to discuss something. I know Smriti is dying to ask me about it, but is holding her silence. I don’t feel very happy about it, but now Samir has become my daily fix, something that I cannot seem to get enough of. I want to see him every day, I want to talk to him, be there for him, be a part of every single thing he does.

  But the whole office talking about it is bothering me too. Prashant’s words fester inside me like a dormant volcano waiting to explode. While on the one hand I feel elated, thrilled, and overjoyed to be this involved in Samir’s life, on the other hand, I somehow feel uncomfortable and uneasy. It is strange to have these conflicting emotions.

  It has been five months since the Bali trip. Of course I am sleeping with the boss. But it is not like what Prashant implies. I am also very good at my work. Over the last couple of months, ever since the Bali and the Hyderabad trips, I have realized that I am indeed in love with him. I also know that I have never ever loved anyone or given myself to anyone the way I have given myself so totally to him. All my earlier one-sided crushes seem to pale in comparison to what I feel for him. I know this is the real deal. I am dependent on him. I have given away my heart to him, and he has total control over it. He can crush it, throw it away, toss it aside. Or he can value it. I have given the power of my very life to him. I truly and completely need him now. It is a very scary feeling.

  And there is not a single soul on this planet with whom I can talk about this. Once or twice, I do consider calling up Chetana or even Akash. But somehow I have travelled so far down this road that I would have a lot of explaining to do. So I do not call them and continue with my intoxicated state of being this involved with him. I am also now on the pill, having regular sex, and really enjoying my life.

  Yet one part of me feels like I am on a roller coaster travelling at top speed, and there is no way to stop it or get off.

  I am trapped, it is my own doing, and I do not know what to do. And the surprising this is that I don’t even know if I want to get off anymore.

  Sound of Silence

  At work, Samir is the perfect boss. Outside work, he is the perfect boyfriend. It is strange how easily we are able to switch between the two modes. Sleeping with someone for five months surely qualifies him as boyfriend, doesn’t it? Twice, I have even slept over at his place, when we have had to work very late. Like he said, it made no sense to go all the way home by train, when I had to rush back to work the very next morning.

  Both the times that I stayed over, I simply slept in his bedroom and not the guest room. The last time I was there, I had gone over to the guest bedroom, opened the drawer, and looked for the earrings. But they were gone.

  I say nothing about it for nearly two weeks.

  When I cannot hold it inside me anymore, I decide to ask him about it. The opportunity to do so comes the very next day, while having lunch at a small bistro near the office.

  ‘Oh! How in the world did you even know about those earrings? You really are a witch!’ he says. He sounds surprised that I brought it up.

  ‘Remember when I hurt my leg and stayed over? I had found them then, but did not know you well enough to ask you about it.’

  ‘And you think you know me well now?’ he asks amusedly, eyes twinkling

  ‘I know you well in bed at least, Mr Sharma. I know your appointments and what you do and where you go and who you meet. I even know what kind of underwear you prefer. Now stop changing the topic and tell me about the earrings.’

  ‘They are Jeena’s. She called and asked for them. Apparently they are her favourite pair.’

  ‘You never told me.’ It comes out accusingly. If jealousy is a hand grenade, he has just bitten the plug. I am ready to explode with it. And God, it hurts too. How could he not tell me that he had met her?

  ‘There was nothing to tell. It is a closed chapter, Nisha. It is over. I have moved on.’

  But I am not satisfied and want to know more.

  ‘So where did you meet her? Did she come to your place?’ I prod.

  ‘Eh? Hell no! I did not want to see her. She is the one who called me and told me to look for them in the first place. I found them, put them in an envelope, and gave it to the receptionist, from whom she collected them herself.’

  I feel so relieved and so stupidly happy to hear this. A slow grin spreads over my face. Then I lean across over the table and kiss him on his cheek, right where his dimple appears when he smiles. I adore him for the fact that he chose not to meet Jeena.

  ‘I absolutely and totally love you Samir,’ I say, surprising myself. It is the very first time I have confessed it to him.

  ‘Oh Nisha, I love you too,’ he says somewhat abashedly. And he smiles. I could have been knocked over with a feather that moment.

  I want to cuddle him, hold him in my arms, and never let him go. He is almost shy. It is the first time I see this side of Samir. He looks so boyish and so vulnerable, not like the successful, savvy businessman that he is. My heart turns into squashed pulp looking at his shy smile and the dimple on his cheek. His face is radiating happiness. I want to kiss him again, but we have already created a small scene when I stood up and leaned over to kiss him. This is a quiet place and the regulars at the bistro, mostly the retired older folks, had turned to look when they heard me pushing back my chair. We must have shocked them with our PDA.

  It is a month later at a very exotic resort in Kerala where Samir finally pops the question. We have finished a twoday conference at Kochi, and Samir and I have both taken a day off. We have driven from Kochi to this amazing place called Munnar. Nestled among tea plantations is a lovely private bungalow which Samir has rented for our stay. It is a scene straight out of a movie, and all I can do is gasp in pleasure as we drive to the destination. When the bungalow finally comes into view, with mist all around, the cold mountain air, the tall, deciduous trees—it seems almost straight out of a picture postcard scene.

  We check into our room and I am delighted with the quaint way in which it has been done up, with antique furniture all around. We make love and he chooses the apt moment to ask.

  ‘Nisha, my one and only love, will you be my wife?’ he says.

  I laugh in delight.

  ‘What took you so long to ask?’ I reply.

  ‘Well, I had to see how good you were in bed first, and it took me this long to assess you. I am marrying you only for the sex, you know,’ he says with a straight face. I pommel his head with a pillow and he quickly ducks under another pillow and roars with laughter.

  At that moment, I know that I mean the world to him. I know he truly loves me. I know he needs me as much as I need him. I cannot believe how lucky I have been. What a turn my life has taken. Who would have thought that it would change so drastically in five months time, when I first accepted the job offer at Magellan? My cup of joy is overflowing, and I want to stand in the mountains and shout out to the world that I am getting married to the person who means the world to me.

  ‘By the way, my family doesn’t know it yet,’ he says.

  ‘Would your mother not want you to have an arranged marriage with a slim, rich girl who matches your family background?’ I ask.

  We have hardly talked about his mother or brother in these five months and I had almost forgotten they exist. This is the first time I feel somewhat inadequate with my lower-middle-class upbringing. He has been born with a silver spoon
in his mouth and I seem to have clawed my way into his heart. He is classy and I am down to earth. He is sophisticated and I am simple. He knows his wines and cutlery while I prefer to eat with my hands. He knows his caviar from his cheese. To me, they all taste like rubber, which would probably sound like blasphemy in the social circles he moves in. I imagine a scene where his mother accuses me of trapping her son. And then banishes him from her inheritance because he has chosen to marry beneath his status. I imagine his relatives sadly shaking their heads and saying that Samir must be off his senses to have found this plain, lower-middle-class plump girl suitable to be his wife, while he could have had the pick of women.

  ‘Hey, no Nisha! This is where you are mistaken. My mother and brother are really cool. They will be perfectly okay with whatever I choose to do. But I will definitely have to speak to your dad.’ he says.

  ‘I am not really close to my dad Samir. You know how it is,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah I know, but the right thing for me to do is speak to him. Tell me when I can come to your place and meet him.’

  I tell him that I will break the news to my father first, and then set up a meeting with him over the weekend.

  My father is watching television when I decide to break the news to him.

  ‘Papa, there is something I have to tell you,’ I say, waiting for him to acknowledge me.

  He takes a sip of the buttermilk that he always drinks after his meal and continues watching television.

  I clear my throat and wait for him to respond.

  He is perhaps hoping that I will vanish like I usually do. But today, I do no such thing. I instead wait patiently, dreaming of Samir.

  My mobile buzzes just then and it is a text from Samir.

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’ it reads.

  ‘Not yet, in the process.’ I text back.

  ‘Do it soon and call me,’ comes the quick reply.

  ‘Papa,’ I say again, and this time he grunts.

  I tell him that I have been working closely with my boss for the last five months. I tell him that he is one of the major shareholders in Magellan International. I talk about his educational qualifications and how he is as a person. Then I tell him that he has asked me to marry him and he wants to come and meet my father.

  There is absolutely no reaction from my father. He is like stone, sitting there totally impassive, and continuing to sip his buttermilk. I am so angry, I want to knock it over. I want him to say something. I want him to be happy for me. Or express anger. Or any damn expression. Not just sit there like a wall, which is what he has been doing all these past years. What about me? What have I done? Is it my fault that my mother died? I wish and wish my mother was around. At least she would have shared my joy. My dad still continues sitting there.

  Finally I ask, ‘Papa, don’t you have anything to say?’

  ‘What is the guy’s name?’ he asks with great effort, as though saying those words have placed an immense strain on his brain.

  ‘His name is Samir, Papa,’ I answer dutifully. ‘He wants to meet you,’ I add.

  I think even if I told him that the Prime Minister of India was asking for my hand in marriage, it would not have made an iota of difference to him. I am angry now at Samir for insisting that I tell my father. But then, what choice was I left with? Should I have eloped and got married instead? A little voice inside my head screams that even that would not really made a difference to him.

  ‘Okay, we will meet,’ he says finally.

  ‘When, Papa? Can I tell him to come this Saturday at four in the evening?’ I ask.

  ‘Okay,’ he says, as he goes back to sipping his buttermilk and watching television, and I know I have been dismissed.

  I barge into my room angrily and call Samir to tell him all that has happened. Samir asks me to keep my cool and be patient. We talk for long about the wedding plans amongst other things. He says that he wants to have a really simple ceremony, maybe an Arya Samaj one, with very limited people. I truly do not have anyone to call. I am not in touch with any of my relatives on my mother’s side, and my dad is a single child himself, having lost his mother when he was five or so. He was raised by his aunt who has passed away, and I don’t think my dad too will have anyone to invite. So I am just happy to go along with anything that Samir suggests.

  There are just two days left for Saturday, when Samir will meet my dad. Somehow I am nervous about the meeting. Samir has never come to my home before and the truth is, I am somewhat ashamed of my modest little home. The next two days pass off immersed in work, and as soon as I reach home, I try my best to make the home look a little more presentable.

  On Saturday morning, I wake up early and glance at the clock. It is 7.30 a.m. My routine on weekends is to sleep late, but that day I cannot sleep. On weekdays, no matter how early I wake up, I usually find my dad sitting on the balcony, in his easy chair, sipping his tea while reading the paper. But on that particular morning he is missing.

  I check the loo and find he isn’t there either. Puzzled, I look in his room and to my surprise, he is still asleep. I wait for an hour more. Then I decide to wake him up with tea. I make tea and walk to his room and keep it beside his bed.

  ‘Papa, wake up. It’s time for your morning cup of tea,’ I say.

  There is no response from him and I repeat myself again. When he again does not respond, my heart starts beating rapidly and I touch his forehead. It is icy cold. I try to feel his breath but I feel nothing, giving rise to my worst fears. I am so afraid that he is dead. I stand there like a dumb fool, not knowing what to do.

  I am petrified. Then with shaking hands, I dial Samir’s number. ‘Why is he taking so long to answer the phone?’ I mutter with increasing worry.

  Finally when he does, groggy with sleep, I break down and tell him that I think my father is dead.

  He tells me he will be right over, and keeping true to his word, he is at my home in twenty minutes. I have been pacing up and down the room the whole time, not knowing what to do, and I keep going to the balcony and peering to see if I can spot his car. He has called for an ambulance too and arrives minutes before the ambulance does.

  The paramedics shift my father on to a stretcher and we follow the ambulance in his car. We rush to emergency and the duty doctor checks for his pulse and then examines him with a stethoscope. Then shaking his head, the doctor says, ‘I am sorry, but I cannot get a pulse. He is dead. Nurse, note it down as a case of dead on arrival.’

  It Must Have Been Love

  Present day

  Mumbai

  Thoughts are whirling madly around me. My head is in utter turmoil. On the one hand I am angry. How in the world can Samir just phone me and tell me our marriage is over? What the hell? On the other hand, the reality that he can do so and has indeed done so, sinks in slowly like the gradual drizzle of rain. It is only when the water is ankle deep that I realize it had been building up slowly all along and that something has to be done about it now. And Samir has done it.

  The pain of it is too much to bear. It feels like a million pieces of shrapnel have entered my heart. It becomes increasingly unbearable. Were all these years a mere joke for him?

  With trembling fingers, I dial his number. He does not answer. My heart sinks. I dial again.

  This time he picks up.

  ‘Samir’ I say. My voice is a hoarse whisper. I am unable to stand upright, sitting on the floor on our balcony, my head bent low, and the phone cradled in one ear. I am so emotional, I can barely speak.

  ‘Look Nisha, the writing has been on the wall for a few years now. Don’t pretend you did not notice it. I am sorry it has to come to this, but it is over,’ he says ever so calmly and so very clearly. There is not a trace of emotion in his voice. It is the calm, collected, and unaffected way that he says it which does me in. How can he? How is he so cold, so heartless? Can’t he hear the plea in my voice begging him to come back? There is a huge lump in my throat and I start breathing rapidly. When I try to speak, no w
ords come out. I am speechless.

  Tears cloud my eyes. What writing? What wall? Why is he doing this? It makes no sense to me.

  My hands start shaking again, and the intensity of the pain is too much to bear. I am unable to talk at all. He cuts the call abruptly. I feel as though someone has held my head and smashed it hard against a rock. I feel as though I will explode.

  Did the past eight years mean nothing to him? Do his children mean nothing to him? Granted, it was me who was very keen to have them, even though he did not want children just then. But then, I have totally kept up my end of the bargain. I have been with them, day in and day out, with him doing only a guest appearance in their lives. It is me who chose Tanya’s school, it is me who held her though the sleepless nights, it is me who changed her diapers and took her for her vaccinations, it is me who was there for every parent–teacher meeting, for every single time she performed on stage. I was there through and through. I want to scream at him. I want to tear out his hair. I want to claw him and demand justice.

  The phone beeps and it is a text from him.

  ‘Please do not try to call me. I am moving in with Maya. Will contact you over the next couple of days and will try and sort out things.’

  That really kills me. It is the final stab, cold and brutal. There I have it. In black and white. He has left me for a younger woman. A bloody good-looking slimmer, smarter woman.

  I run to his cupboard and to my utter shock, I see that almost all his clothes are gone. How could I have not known? When did he pack? Was I so engrossed in Tanya and Rohit that I had not even noticed? Some of his other clothes remain neatly stacked in the cupboard. His belts and ties are there. It is too painful to look at them, and I shut his wardrobe with a pounding heart.