Someone to Love Read online

  For Dada…

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part I

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  Part II

  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

  42

  43

  44

  Epilogue

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  One handwritten.

  One typed.

  Two letters.

  One written by a dead person.

  One written by someone he would happily kill with his bare hands.

  Two letters.

  One that shows how desperate love can make us.

  One that shows how base love can make us.

  Two letters.

  Atharv, clad in a designer sherwani selected by Mansha, thought about the two letters. He stared at the pundit who was chanting holy verses.

  ‘Please get the bride,’ called the pundit. Atharv got up. ‘No, no,’ the pundit said. ‘The groom should not get up from the mandap. The girl’s family will get the bride.’

  Atharv exchanged a look with his mother, who nodded her head almost imperceptibly. ‘The groom has already got up,’ said Atharv, smiling. ‘And I am her family.’

  Atharv marched off towards the room he knew she was waiting for him in. He was aware that his mother and Mansha were following him.

  The two letters. His mind went back to them. How much he would have not known had he not read the two letters. Would she have ever told him? No, she would not have. Nor would she have told him of the deceit or the suffering. And she would have never said a bad word about her.

  Love is weird, it is complicated even when it is simple.

  Stop thinking, he reprimanded himself. The past was just that, the past. The future lay ahead, to be lived and loved.

  He smiled a wide happy smile and knocked on the door. The door opened and he craned in to have a look at the woman he dearly loved, decked up as a bride.

  Atharv did not know it yet, but in another ten minutes he was about to find out about another letter.

  A letter on email.

  A letter written by him.

  A letter that showed how destiny walks ten steps ahead of us.

  A letter that showed how sometimes, even destiny changes its mind.

  The letter that was the beginning of it all.

  The letter, oh, the letter.

  PART I

  1

  ‘If he’s not doing anything to keep you, why are you fighting to not leave?’ she would ask herself often.

  For the moment, however, they were in Thailand, the henna from the wedding a bright orange on her palms.

  It was here, during their honeymoon, that things began to go downhill.

  And it started, really, with the sex.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ he said, smiling and reaching out for her hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ she mumbled and went back to gazing at the crystal blue waters, her mind blank. It had been but one day on the island, yet the azure of the sea had made the golds and reds of the ceremony a hazy blur.

  Her hand felt odd in his, she noted, like it didn’t belong there.

  ‘Come here,’ he whispered and pulled her into an embrace.

  She hugged him back, trying hard to believe it didn’t feel as wrong as it did. She forced herself not to recoil.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ he asked as he stepped back, the concern and disappointment in his voice unmistakable.

  ‘Yes,’ she said and noted with some relief that he had let go of her.

  That night, as she came out of the shower, still smelling of the sea, he wrapped his arms around her. Almost as if he had been waiting to pounce on her. The thought disgusted her. Sex or any kind of physical contact with this man made her want to throw up.

  ‘Hello, beautiful,’ he mumbled into her wet hair.

  Every bit of her froze.

  ‘H … hi,’ she said.

  ‘Hey, are you okay?’ he asked again, surprised at how rigid his wife felt in his arms. Wasn’t he allowed to hug her, he asked himself, taken aback. She had been more aloof than he’d expected in the lead-up to the wedding, but he had put it down to shyness or nervous excitement. But now…

  ‘Of course,’ she said, bringing him back to the present.

  He took her face in his hands and leaned forward for a kiss.

  She stood there, petrified and disgusted in equal measure. To her relief, there was a fortuitous knock on the door and she quickly removed his arms to go open it. She wondered how long her luck would last.

  By the third day, she noted how during the day, he no longer paid her any compliments – he was becoming aloof and she felt, an anger emanate from him. As he swam in the hotel’s infinity pool, she observed him from a distance and concluded that he looked mean. The sort of mean you wouldn’t want to mess with.

  His pride hurt, he was seething. Did she suddenly find him ugly? Repulsive? Too short? Too dark? Not up to her standards?

  That night in the darkness of a villa in Thailand, the furthest away from home she had ever been, coiled in foetus position in a far corner of the bed, intuitively aware of what awaited her.

  Her heart thumped with a mixture of fear and desperation when she felt him move over to her side and sneak a hand on her arm.

  Her body felt like it was on fire, a fire she hoped would numb what was about to happen.

  ‘Are you scared of something?’ he asked. ‘If you don’t know stuff, I can tell you or maybe we can look something up on the internet – would that make you feel okay?’

  ‘I am fine,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Then why not?’

  ‘Maybe later?’ she tried weakly.

  ‘Do you think I’ll be horrible?’ he taunted her.

  If only he would give her some time.

  Maybe, if he would give her some time.

  ‘No … no,’ she mumbled hurriedly now, feeling fear rise in her heart.

  ‘Let’s try? If it doesn’t work out, we can take it slower?’ he said in a tone that scared her. She knew right then what would follow. She knew there was no point resisting it now. No good, absolutely no good would come out of it.

  Her first night with her husband. What should have been the most special night in her life would for a long time remain the most painful. So painful that she would try hard to pretend that it never happened. Yet, much like many things we think will kill us, she survived through it.

  As a lover, he was inconsiderate, demanding and forceful. He wanted her to respond in some way, and when she did not, it further fuelled his anger, making him even more inconsiderate. Right in the middle of it all, when her weak protests had fallen on deaf ears, and the only thing she could think of was to hit him or scream out for help – neither of which she wanted to resort to – it struck her like a flash of lightning.

  He could do, and was doing, what he wanted to her body, but surely he couldn’t control her mind. That was hers and hers alone. That was one freedom no man coul
d ever take from her.

  And with that, she set herself free. She was no longer in a water villa in Thailand; she was in the hills, by the sea, in the desert. She thought of the birds and the butterflies she had chased as a child. The rainbows and their colours. The songs and the melodies.

  It was only later, as she lay on the bed, trying to block out the sounds of his snores, that she felt hot tears begin to stream down her face. This man had been her choice, she taunted herself ruefully – what right did she have to complain now? And who could she complain to? Who would listen? She felt like a bird, wingless and ravaged, in a cage that no one could free her from.

  It hurt.

  It hurt everywhere.

  But mostly, the pain was in her heart.

  She wondered how it had all come to this, when life had started so beautifully.

  2

  So this is the weird thing about all memories, Koyal would tell herself. You never really know when you are making them up.

  Especially the ones with Atharv in them.

  For, as hard as she would try later to think of her first memory of him, this hazy picture – of the two of them walking side by side on a road lined with gulmohar trees on a summer morning – would come to mind. He has a bag on his shoulders so they are going to school. Surya Aunty, Atharv’s mother, loud and full of life as always, is probably walking behind them, so they are at least five years old.

  His hair is dishevelled and he has that crooked, early morning smile. His face is animated as he mumbles to himself. He is telling himself another story. Oh, his stories – how she loved them how she hated them.

  She peers into his face. ‘You have muck in your eyes,’ she says finally.

  His eyes meet hers briefly, and he nods his head in an intelligent way. Of course he has muck in his eyes, he always does. Sometimes when she can’t stand it, she will pull out her hankerchief and wipe it off for him.

  ‘You, by the way,’ he says, looking down now and kicking a stray pebble, ‘have a moustache.’

  Surya Aunty’s sister is here.

  Koyal is about nine and has realized two things.

  One, she hates Surya Aunty’s sister with as much fervour with which she adores Surya Aunty.

  Two, a tsunami resides insides her. A tsunami that scares her and in the face of which she is powerless. It is darker than the night and scarier than the ghosts Atharv spins yarns about. She senses it each time it raises its head, this tsunami of anger, and when it does, Koyal is beyond logic and reason. Koyal’s mum says she gets it from her father’s side, but Koyal knows that no one has it as bad as she does.

  ‘Atharv is a very irritating boy,’ Bhavna Aunty says, grinning at Koyal.

  Bhavna Aunty is pretending to be funny, Koyal knows, for Atharv is anything but irritating, but she cannot rein in that stirring in her chest. Why wouldn’t Bhavna Aunty shut up?

  ‘And there is this girl in your colony that I think he really likes.’ Bhavna Aunty is now narrowing her eyes at Koyal teasingly, hoping for a reaction.

  Ma and Surya Aunty, blissfully unaware, are laughing over a cup of tea in the background. Koyal thinks about the two women. Their friendship is like a stream in the hills, happy and carefree. It is the best kind of friendship, but not better than the one she has with Atharv, which is, she thinks, like the sea, deep and endless.

  Atharv is sitting there quietly, engrossed in a book as he always is. However, Koyal knows he is listening to it all and choosing not to react. If only Koyal could be like that.

  ‘He likes her more than he likes you,’ Bhavna Aunty says finally, and before she can finish her sentence Koyal has lunged for her eyes.

  ‘He is my friend,’ Koyal is hissing at Bhavna Aunty, blind with anger, and soon Atharv, Surya Aunty and Ma are trying to pull her away.

  One tight slap, a long lecture on anger management and even threats of boarding school from Ma have no effect on Koyal. But one ‘that was so not cool’ from Atharv gets her teary-eyed.

  ‘Promise me,’ he says, holding her hand, ‘you’ll never react like that ever again, no matter what anyone says about me?’

  Koyal nods, her head hanging in shame.

  But she knows, as well as he does, that is not possible.

  She is 11.98 years old today (he has just done some maths on his palm which is now all blue from the ink of his pen). Tomorrow is her birthday. He is, he has told her, 12.42 years old already. His maths is all wrong, she knows, but she doesn’t say anything. It is complicated, this ‘knowing’ business. She likes to know things but never wants people to think she cares enough to know.

  ‘Your brand new email is ready,’ he says to her.

  She is suitably impressed. Email is the coolest new thing, everyone on campus seems to have an ID.

  ‘What is my ID?’

  ‘[email protected],’ he says and begins to laugh. She hits him on his head and then gets back to the more important matter at hand.

  ‘Don’t try to distract me – tell me, you won’t come?’ she asks.

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t be the only boy at your party.’

  ‘Dad won’t let me invite Akshay or Prithvi,’ she says. ‘Anyway, I don’t care about them.’

  He shrugs.

  ‘Please?’

  ‘They’ll all make fun of me,’ he says.

  ‘And that’s more important, isn’t it?’ she says angrily.

  For a few moments, nothing happens. She stares at him and he stares back, not sure if anything is expected of him.

  ‘Fine,’ she thunders, ‘don’t show me your fat face ever again!’ And she marches off.

  How would you feel if twelve girls you don’t care a penny about turned up for your twelfth birthday party but the one boy who really matters, your best friend, is not there?

  Terrible.

  And that is how she is feeling as she sits in the kitchen while music from the living room streams in, her frilly (and silly) white dress enveloping her.

  Ma is shouting for her to come down and be with her friends.

  A knock on the kitchen window.

  She turns abruptly.

  His ink-stained face is pressed against the window. He is grinning.

  She doesn’t want to but can’t help the grin that spreads across her face too. She opens the window.

  ‘Here!’ He places something in her hand. ‘Happy birthday. I can’t stay.’

  And with that, the greasy, ink-stained face disappears.

  Here. Happy Birthday. I can’t stay.

  She opens the badly packed gift. It is his Walkman, the one his uncle got for him from the US, the one she has often admired, the one he had only let her touch as a favour. Only his most prized possession.

  Here. Happy Birthday. I can’t stay.

  She clutches the gift to her chest in delight. She feels as if her heart has been dunked in a warm fuzzy drink. She doesn’t know it yet, but that is how it feels when your heart melts.

  ‘So you hit that boy?’ he asks, gingerly pressing his tie against her bleeding nose. It is their favourite place in the world – the little bench under the generous, sprawling branches of the ancient imli tree on the dirt road leading out of the back entrance of their school.

  With his hands pressed against her nose, they must look really weird, she thinks, her heart finally beginning to slow down. How her world had turned red when that fat boy had said all that about her and Atharv. She hadn’t even attempted to contain her anger – no voice of reason had raised its head as she had picked up the tennis racket and smacked his fat leg with it.

  ‘Did you?’ he persists, staring intently at her, his eyes serious. He has promised not to mention anything to her parents but Koyal knows the school has already informed her father who is on his way to pick her up.

  Atharv looks like a disappointed parent, Koyal thinks, allowing herself a little giggle. Atharv, the true friend that he is, has waited in the school library for the three-hour
after-school detention Koyal had to do and for that he deserves the truth.

  ‘You sound so much like Ma these days,’ she says.

  ‘Why did you hit him?’

  ‘He said stuff.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What stuff?’ His voice is sterner than before.

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  He smacks her lightly on her head, careful not to hurt her. ‘Koyal Hansini Raje!’

  ‘Atharv Jayakrishna!’

  ‘Koyal,’ he says seriously, ‘you have to strive to be the best version of yourself. You, me, everyone – we all owe that one thing to ourselves.’

  Koyal pretends to yawn and he smacks her again.

  ‘What you did was not you being your best,’ he concludes seriously.

  ‘But he called us funny names,’ she says, pouting.

  ‘Like?’ he asks. As if that mattered!

  ‘The koyal and the crow. She sings like a koyal and he looks like a crow.’ Koyal selects the least offensive bit the boy had said to share with Atharv.

  ‘I am the crow?’ he asks, nonplussed, and then realization dawns upon him. ‘Aah, because I am dark.’

  ‘You are a beautiful, rich coffee colour,’ she says loyally, meaning it, and Atharv starts laughing.

  She wonders idly if she should punch his face now but then she starts laughing too.

  3

  ‘I’m home, sweetie,’ he said as he walked in through the door.

  Sweetie. Something inside her gave way and a quiet kind of fear began to spread its clammy darkness in her.

  ‘Great, how was your day?’ she asked, putting aside the TV remote and adopting a fake happy voice.

  He turned around to face her, annoyed.

  ‘How many times have I told you not to ask me that? If it was great, I’ll tell you on my own, and if it was not, why ask and make me feel worse?’

  ‘Uh … no, no.’

  ‘You sit at home all day, watching TV and eating chips.’ He picked up an empty packet of Lays lying on the sofa and threw it in the dustbin. ‘The least you can do is go out and make friends.’

  ‘Um … I don’t … I don’t want to be around other people,’ she stammered.