Can This Be Love? Read online

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  Acknowledgements

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Ma, Chacha, Sid, Diva and Neharika,

  For you are the wind beneath my wings.

  1

  4 January 2013, 7.00 p.m.

  It’s official.

  We are on red alert. There is no mistaking it.

  Mum is a rather spectacular shade of red from all the stress. Nothing can be less than perfect now, else Mum will murder someone.

  I am not kidding.

  No, seriously, I am not.

  Like really, I am not.

  ‘Kasturi,’ Mum said to me yesterday, staring thoughtfully at the curtains that she and Ramu had just spent hours hanging. ‘Have you ever noticed the curtains in Purva’s house?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ I said noncommittally, busy texting Pitajee. Pitajee, officially known as Amay – only no one calls him that now – is one of my best friends, who has just been offered a fantastic, front-end job with a hi-fi investment banking firm in Mumbai. I am, of course, trying my level best to dissuade him from taking it.

  ‘Are theirs better?’ Mum asked in her fake-disinterested voice.

  ‘Maybe…’ I said, still busy texting. The word was out of my mouth before I could stop myself.

  ‘Maybe? Maybe?’ shrieked Mum, and I readied myself for immediate flight. No one – I repeat most emphatically – no one should be around Mum when she gets all shrieky.

  New curtains have been bought, stitched and hung. All in less than twenty-four hours. Don’t ask me how. Ramu does not know either, but he is borderline hypertensive and is running a high risk for a heart attack.

  Ramu, you say? I know what you’re thinking – in this day and age, who has help called Ramu? How seventies is that? Well, to be fair, it’s only Mum and Dad who call him Ramu; I prefer the infinitely more fashionable ‘dude’.

  ‘Kasturi bitiya, doodh bol rahe hain hum,’ he says when I call our landline and he happens to answer the phone. And then he laughs, each time, without fail.

  I digress. If there were ever a championship at digressing, I would win the gold – no questions asked. I think it would be fun to participate in a digressing championship. Anyway, I digress again … coming back to today, the house is resplendent and gleaming, ready to welcome the guests. Mum is in a frenzy, trying her best to do everything at once, Dad is a little annoyed for he is unable to really comprehend the magnitude of the situation and Ramu is wondering if he has put salt instead of sugar in the gulab jamuns (he has done that before, mind you). The point I am trying to make – or rather was before I digressed again – is that everyone is so busy that no one is really bothered about how I am feeling. No aunt putting the aanchal of my sari over my head and telling me how pretty I look. No mum getting teary-eyed, no kurta-pyjama-clad dad looking at me with Alok-Nath-ish pride in his eyes.

  After all, the ladke waalas are coming home.

  And that brings me to Purva. At twenty-eight, Purva, a doctor at the prestigious AIIMS hospital in Delhi, is two years older than me. In the two years that we have been together, I have realized that he and I are as different as two people can possibly be. My unending madness starkly juxtaposes with his calm serenity. My hollers that reach neighbouring countries contrast well with his shy smile. And my complete lack of commitment to work can hardly be compared to his dedication for the ailing.

  *deep sigh*

  ‘Why are you not ready yet?’ Mum asked, walking past and not waiting for me to even answer. ‘Ramu! The flowerpots! The Dixits will be here before we know it and they will see the flowerpots looking all shoddy! Who will want to marry a girl whose flowerpots are all shoddy?’

  Somehow, in my head, something about this sentence seemed very, very wrong. However, I had little time to react with the indignation that such a sentence merited because the doorbell had just started ringing.

  ‘Oh my god!’ Mum shouted to no one in particular. ‘They are here! The Dixits are here!’

  No one said anything except for Sultan, our family dog who, excited by Mum’s shrieks, began chasing his tail and barking uncontrollably. I love Sultan but, sadly, I have no delusions about his IQ.

  I sighed and closed the door of my bedroom to shut away the madness. I desperately needed a moment to myself. I stood in front of the mirror and a sari-clad girl stared right back at me. The sari was Mum’s choice. Whatever said and done, there is no denying that she has extremely good taste in clothes. Even if I say so myself, the light pink of the sari set off my complexion beautifully. I took my time doing my hair, twirling strands of it around my finger before pulling it all in a low, elegant bun. Mum had planned my look for the evening and had sent me the link to a YouTube video titled, ‘How to make low bun like princess’ many weeks in advance.

  A lot was going on in my head. It was odd having Purva and his folks visit mine like this. It made things seem all official and grown-up. Was I ready to grow up? Probably not. But then would I ever be ready to grow up?

  I decided to not answer that question. Instead, I picked up the rather huge rose that Dad had plucked from our garden earlier in the day and stuck it into the bun, exactly as Mum had shown me.

  I breathed deeply. I looked elegant, demure and err ... unrecognizable. A small smile played on my lips as I wondered what Pitajee would say, were he to set eyes on me right now.

  I had been told that I was to stay inside my room and not emerge till I was called. So I sat down and thought. Thought of Purva. Quiet, calm, sensible, wise Purva.

  Soon, sounds of excited chattering from the living room reached my diamond-adorned ears. Mum was laughing that maniacal laugh of hers. I sighed. The maniacal laugh was a clear indication that she was stressed out. Poor Mum.

  I sat twiddling my thumbs for some time and then decided to check Facebook and Gmail. Another friend was getting married and no new emails had popped into my inbox since I’d last checked it about two seconds ago.

  I turned around at the sound of the purposeful clicking of heels.

  ‘Bettaaaahh,’ said Mum in a weird accent. Really, where does she get this accent from? It pops up every now and then, particularly when she has company she wants to impress.

  ‘Mum,’ I said, getting up, my heart beating fast.

  ‘Oh Kasturi,’ she gushed, and I almost smiled, ‘your hair is disgusting!’

  My face fell. Mum, of course, did not notice. She tried to do something with my hair, but gave up in about a second. ‘It is beyond salvation,’ she said dramatically, ‘Let it be. We don’t have time.’ She paused and seemed to think. ‘Do you want to cover your head with the pallu of your sari?’

  ‘Mum!’ I said, indignantly.

  ‘Okay. Okay,’ she said pacifyingly. ‘It’s fine, let’s go. You will look?’ she asked, looking expectantly at me as the two of us walked towards the living room. We had been through this drill many times in the last week.

  �
�Demure,’ I replied, mechanically.

  ‘You will not?’

  ‘Scowl.’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Stick my tongue out at anyone,’ I said, scowling and sticking my tongue out.

  ‘You will?’ she asked.

  ‘Smile.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Touch feet of Dadi and Nani?’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Not talk much.’

  ‘And?’

  Was there another ‘and’? I thought. I had hardly paid any attention to Mum as she had trained me for the ‘Session with the Dixits’, as she liked to call it.

  ‘And?’ Mum said, stopping now, the living room just a few steps ahead of us.

  ‘I will be nice to Purva,’ I said, scowling even more.

  Mum seemed satisfied. ‘Let’s go in,’ she said.

  And in we went.

  2

  7.15 p.m.

  ‘Bahu,’ someone said in a feeble voice as soon as I walked into the living room, flanked by Mum on both sides. I am not kidding, Mum can be on both sides of me at the same time. No, really, I’m serious. It’s just another of her superpowers.

  I looked around, smiling awkwardly at everyone, too dazed to really notice the faces, desperately clutching at the sari that suddenly seemed too loose around my waist.

  ‘Focus, Kasturi, focus!’ I said to myself. ‘You are a woman of the twenty-first century; you can handle this. You can handle anything.’ I was vaguely aware that the tall, broad form of Purva was standing somewhere close by. So dazed was I that I did not even acknowledge the man I had decided to marry. Also, in all fairness, it had just struck me that I needed to pee very urgently.

  Next to Purva was his mum, the only person other than Purva and my own family that I recognized. She smiled sweetly at me and kissed my forehead.

  ‘Yo! Bhabhi Jaan!’ said a voice that was, rather disturbingly, as familiar as it was unfamiliar. I turned around and came face to face with a man who looked like Purva. Only he was not Purva. I looked at him puzzled and spotted Purva smiling widely in the background. This was one introduction he had been dying to make.

  ‘Kasturi, this is Vikram, my brother. Vikki, Kasturi…’ said Purva, in his characteristically quiet voice. My eyes darted from one face to the other. How could two different people be so similar, I thought, struck again by the two faces that looked at me with almost identical smiles plastered across almost identical faces. I had seen pictures of Vikki, of course, but seeing him in person was another surprise altogether.

  My parents have been lovely and whatever I might say about my mum, I have had the most perfect life with them. Except for one thing that I have always missed. It is a void that friends, toys and cousins have not been able to fill: a sibling.

  ‘Hello!’ said Vikki, taking my face tenderly in his hands. ‘How did a monkey like Bhaiyya find someone as beautiful as you?’

  I giggled.

  ‘My bhabhi gorgeous-est,’ said Vikram, his face shining with such love that I felt my throat tighten. I knew it right then, in that one moment, that Vikki and I would be friends for life.

  ‘Bahu,’ said the same voice that had called out to me earlier, feebler this time, but tinged with unmistakable annoyance. I would have barely noticed it, had not everyone begun to stare at me. Mum nudged me and began to nod her head so vigorously in the direction the voice came from that for a second I was worried that her head would drop off. I brushed away the gruesome image.

  ‘What? Bahu? Me?’ I said indignantly to myself and turned around to face an elderly lady who had found herself the largest, most comfortable sofa our drawing room had to offer.

  Naniji? Or Dadiji? Seeing that both the grey-haired lady and Purva’s mum had the same hawk-like nose, I concluded that it was the former.

  Would it not be absolutely fabulous if I scooped towards her feet, saying, ‘Charan sparsh, Naniji’? I would then be the would-be bahu – note the ‘would-be’ please – who not only does charan sparsh at the drop of a hat but also knows all the relatives by face. Do they even make those anymore? Oh yes they do! Meet Kasturi Shukla. Tada!

  With Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi playing in the back of my head, wondering if I should have, after all, covered my head with the pallu of my sari for added effect and almost revelling in the fact that all eyes were on me, I walked demurely towards Naniji. Bending low, I said loudly – so that everyone could clearly hear me – ‘Charan sparsh, Naniji,’ and, after a pause, added, ‘Pranam, Naniji,’ just for extra effect. Go full throttle, I say. No half-baked nonsense from the woman of substance that I am.

  There was deathly silence for a second. Puzzled, I turned to look at Mum and knew that something had gone horribly wrong when I saw that her face was getting redder by the second. The elderly lady cleared her throat, opened her mouth to say something and then closed it again. Further examination made it abundantly clear to me that something about our little exchange had disturbed her deeply; she seemed to be having trouble breathing.

  What had happened?

  Dad hurried up to me. ‘Beta,’ he said, looking stricken, ‘Naniji is here.’ He pointed to the dark corner where a frail lady with snow-white hair was sitting, a slow smile on her beautiful face. I turned around in slow motion to face the lady whose feet I had just touched. Now I was having trouble breathing. ‘Mausiji,’ said Dad, cringing visibly.

  ‘Aaah,’ I said, trying control the damage. ‘Badi Mausiji?’ Aunty had an elder sister, I knew, who was older than her by almost a decade. That would make sense, right? And make me look less terrible. I mentally patted my back. Quick thinking. Decisions on the go. Strategizing on the fly. That’s me. Give me a bad situation and I will emerge shining.

  ‘Purva’s mum’s youngest sister,’ said Dad wearily.

  That was when I caught sight of Purva. The dark clouds of a guffaw, ready to break free, were evident on his face. He coughed a fake cough, trying his best to cover up.

  ‘Kasturi,’ said Purva in my ear, in what he meant to be a disapproving tone. His eyes, however, danced with mirth.

  ‘What am I supposed to do?’ I muttered angrily under my breath to Purva. ‘After all … inki twacha se inki umra ka pata hi nahi chalta!’

  This time Purva and Vikki, who were both standing close enough to overhear, made no attempt to fake it. Their identical guffaws rang loudly in my drawing room. The actual naniji was the first to join the boys and, before I knew it, everyone was laughing at the would-be ‘bahu rani’ who did not know where to look.

  Mausaji slapped Dad’s back and Mausiji managed a weak smile. The younger cousins joined in the laughter. Seeing everyone in splits, my mum began to laugh rather hysterically, so much so that I got really worried after about a few seconds.

  However, I have just one question to ask.

  Why me? Every bloody time.

  3

  8.00 p.m.

  I was in the process of being kissed on the cheeks by another unknown elderly lady when I heard Vikki yell. ‘Here they are!’ he cried, pointing towards the door.

  I looked up to see Pitajee and Anu bound in, hand in hand, like two cheeky monkeys. Right. It’s time for the all-important introductions. The goofy Pitajee, officially known as Amay, is my best buddy. Purva says Pitajee and I do each other no good and that he does not know who is a worse influence on the other. I will have to grudgingly agree.

  Pitajee is mad. I am mad. Our combined madness, however, is greater than the sum total of our individual madnesses. That, my friend, is the sign of the truest kind of friendship. Nothing is as much fun or as crazy without Pitajee around. He does not shy away from yanking my hair or pinning my hands behind my back and twisting my arm till I agree with him. Of course, I keep my dignity intact and do not resort to such uncouth behaviour. Instead, I have, in the glorious past, locked him inside the bathroom for four hours, thrown his mobile phone out of the car in a Zindagi-Na-Milegi-Dobara-esque moment of purpose and even crank-called his boss with a heart-wrenching tale of how Pit
ajee had ditched me for a prettier girl.

  And yet, we mean the world to each other. I will never forget the night when I had just discovered the truth about Rajeev, and Pitajee cradled me in his arms as I howled like a baby. I will not forget how, when I was roaming the streets of Delhi looking for a job, he used all his connections in the corporate world to get me interviews. And I will never undervalue how he always leaves for me the better, bigger slice of my favourite pizza.

  And then there’s Anu. Anu – short for Ananya – is my other best friend. Anu and I were part of the same management training program and even though we work in different places now, we continue to share an apartment in Delhi. Anu and Pitajee, who, incidentally, met through me, are also madly in love with each other.

  Seeing them standing there, hand in hand, grinning idiotically, I could not help but dramatically bring my hands to my mouth in genuine surprise. These guys were not supposed to be here. I looked at Purva, who was walking towards them, a surprised look on his face.

  ‘You guys!’ he said, slapping Pitajee’s back.

  ‘Yes,’ said Pitajee, winking at me from across the room. ‘Us guys. And who is that mataji in the corner there?’ he asked, pointing in my direction.

  8.10 p.m.

  Family members surrounded us with great fanfare. Purva’s family seemed to be getting very excited about something that they clearly had up their sleeve. One of Purva’s aunts made us stand in the centre, flanked on either side by parents and guests.

  While Mum looked decidedly uncomfortable, Dad did not notice anything odd. The frequency with which the ladke waalas were exchanging conspiratorial looks with one another was steadily – and worryingly – increasing. Vikki pulled out something from his bag that looked a lot like the bazookas I had seen on TV. Only it was not. It was one of those fancy cameras. He smiled at me and walked a little distance from us to take his position as the photographer of the evening.

  ‘What the hell are the Dixits doing?’ murmured Mum, looking around surreptitiously, as though she were a spy in a hostile country.