Can This Be Love? Page 2

  ‘Relax, Ma. Chill,’ I said, shrugging my shoulders, getting very worried myself. I needed to pee.

  ‘So,’ began Arvind Mausaji in a very important voice. ‘Can I have your attention, please?’

  ‘May I have your attention please,’ muttered Purva under his breath. The grammar puritan, I thought benevolently, stealing a glance at the kurta-pyjama-clad doctor standing beside me. Purva is, if I were to be honest, not the most handsome man on this planet. Don’t get me wrong; he is not bad-looking. His large, intelligent, black eyes fanned with long lashes give him a sharpness and an innocence that I find very appealing. Thick, wavy hair frames a wise, calm face. Good-looking, yes, but let’s just say you won’t confuse him with Tom Cruise or Hrithik Roshan. Clad in a maroon-and-beige kurta, which was, I have to say, uncharacteristically fancy for the jeans-and-white-tee Purva, he did look quite handsome. My cousin Mili would not stop staring at him and I debated the pros and cons of taking off my expensive heels and hitting her on the head with them.

  Mausaji cleared his throat and launched into his speech. ‘Times have changed. They have! They have! My father used to buy bread that cost seventy-five paise and now I buy bread for seventy-five rupees.’

  ‘Seventy-five rupees!’ exclaimed Mausiji, her mood obviously still foul. ‘Is your bread made of gold?’

  Mausaji glared at his wife and then continued. ‘So, times have changed. Gone are the days when the girl’s family was any different from the boy’s family.’ Mausaji paused. It did not sound grand enough. ‘In fact, I will have to say that gone are the days when anyone was any different from anyone else,’ he said with a flourish. He fidgeted a little bit, pulled up his pants and patted his belly. Though everyone nodded their heads in agreement, I doubt if anyone – including Mausaji himself – was able to make sense of this valiant declaration.

  Not the one to be impeded by logic or sense, Mausaji continued. ‘So it’s easy to see…’ he paused and looked around dramatically, ‘that we are all the same. We are one!’ he said with a theatrical sweep.

  It was now my turn to disguise a laugh into a cough. The mental image of everyone in the room rolling into each other and becoming one just would not leave my head. Purva, his lips twitching, patted my back.

  ‘Now that we are all one,’ continued Mausaji, ‘it is time to … do something about those who stand in front of us.’ He had, quite evidently, lost the plot.

  ‘Prabhaji,’ said Mausaji, bowing gracefully towards Mum, who beamed in return. ‘Allow me to do this.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Mum in an instant.

  I glared at her. Do you even know what Mausaji has up his sleeve, I asked silently, getting quite worried. Anything could happen now.

  Mausaji smiled. Dad looked extremely bewildered. I still needed to pee.

  ‘Allow me, Mrs Shukla,’ said Mausaji, ‘to present to you the engagement ring.’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘What!’ exclaimed Dad.

  ‘What?’ cried Mausiji.

  Mausaji blatantly ignored us and continued to smile at Mum. Dad look decidedly uncomfortable when Mausaji began to walk towards Mum with the little jewellery box in his hands and a silly smile on his face. Mental images of Mausaji going down on one knee in front of Mum while a horrified Mausiji looked on made me feel very weak.

  Mausaji, blissfully unaware of the panic he was causing, cleared his throat, preparing himself to speak. ‘We know that every parent dreams of their daughter’s engagement. However, today is Purva’s father’s birthday. It would mean so much to us if, in his memory, Kasturi and Purva got engaged today. That way we would have included in the ceremonies that wonderful man whose time on the planet was cut short so suddenly.’

  Someone sniffed. Finally Mausaji was getting the kind of response he had been hoping for. Better late than never. Encouraged, he continued. ‘That man was the greatest doctor that ever lived. The greatest man that ever lived. The greatest soul that ever lived. So kind, so gentle. And if you agree with this, Prabhaji, it will be a very generous gift from your family to ours, for which we shall remain indebted to you for life. We know it is a surprise, but it would mean so much to us … so much, so much!’

  ‘Bhai Sa’ab,’ said Mum, wiping her eyes, though I am sure I did not see any tears. ‘Please, please go ahead. We have but the greatest respect for the memory of Dr Dixit and would love to include him in every way possible.’ Then she paused, looked at Dad and, as an afterthought, asked, ‘It is okay, isn’t it?’

  Dad, too dazed to say anything else, nodded his head.

  ‘Smile!’ shouted Vikki as he began to furiously take pictures.

  ‘Hurray!’ shouted a bespectacled little boy from Purva’s family, clearly delighted that the boring monologue was now over.

  ‘What?’ said Purva, sparing a hand over his forehead. He had come for a meal but it seemed he was also getting engaged.

  ‘What?’ I said, looking around in bewilderment.

  ‘H ... how?’ asked Purva, wide-eyed with surprise.

  ‘I know!’ I exclaimed. We were now babbling indignantly to one another, as the relatives busied themselves in hugging each other.

  No one, of course, bothered with us and before I knew it, in the midst of claps and cheers and flower petals that appeared from nowhere, Purva had put a ring on my finger and I had put a ring on his. And just like that, working on autopilot, we were engaged.

  ‘What just happened?’ I asked, looking at the ring on my finger.

  ‘I have no clue,’ said Purva, shaking his head. ‘I think we just got engaged.’

  The mothers clasped us to their chests. Dad got all teary-eyed. We went around the room touching relatives’ feet and were fed so much kaju katli in the process that I was sure I would be sick. It was about ten minutes later that I found myself in a quiet corner with Purva. Alone at last, just the two of us…

  Mum walked by, smiling knowingly and then paused, turned around and winked.

  At Purva.

  I could do little more than roll my eyes.

  ‘We are engaged!’ said Purva once Mum had gone, his face expressing mild surprise.

  ‘You know, Purva,’ I said, putting my hand in his.

  ‘Yes, darling?’ he said tenderly, leaning in so that his face was but a few inches from mine.

  ‘I really, really need to pee.’

  4

  9.00 p.m.

  I grimaced as I straightened my back. Anju Aunty – Purva’s mum – had just given me another tour of her side of the family. The following had happened in the last twenty minutes:

  Number of times I was kissed: twelve.

  Number of times I was told that I was very pretty: fourteen (Yay! Whoop! Whoop! Don’t I love it?).

  Number of times I was told that Purva is a very lucky man to have found me: seven (Smug smile of agreement).

  Number of times I bent down to touch someone’s feet: twenty-nine.

  Being the would-be daughter-in-law was already proving to be back-breaking work ( no pun intended).

  The bespectacled six-year-old boy from Anju Aunty’s family who had followed me closely as I met every person in the room now went up to his mother, tugged at the pallu of her sari, pointed a thick finger at me and asked, ‘Mummy, who is that girl?’

  His mother smiled a warm smile and looked benignly at her cherubic little son. ‘That’s your new chachi,’ she said.

  ‘Thaathee?’ the boy repeated with a drawl.

  ‘Chaa-chee,’ said the mother.

  ‘Tha-thee,’ said the boy, sucking his thumb and jutting out his chin.

  ‘Say cha,’ persisted the mother.

  ‘Cha,’ repeated the boy obediently.

  ‘Chee,’ said the mother.

  ‘Chee,’ the boy agreed.

  ‘Cha-chee,’ said the mother.

  ‘Tha-thee,’ said the boy obstinately.

  The mother took a deep breath and I knew that she was reaching out to the ocean of patience that God creates in would-be mot
hers during the nine months of pregnancy. Out of the blue, the boy started screaming and crying loudly. He began to wipe his eyes with the back of his hands, though I could clearly see that there were no tears. The drama, I thought indignantly, feeling for the mother with all my heart.

  ‘Why are you crying now?’ said the mother, looking at me exasperatedly. I nodded sympathetically and a glimpse of the future – a dozen kids clinging to me, screaming ‘maa-meee’ – flashed in front of my horrified eyes. My head reeled. My heart beat faster. The image was gone in a second, but it left me feeling weak. A wave of panic swept through me. I had just got engaged. What happens next? Marriage? Then kids? Then more kids? Then their kids! Where does it all end? Had I thought this through? Oh dear!

  My line of thought was disrupted as the sounds of the boy, sobbing most pitifully, reached my ears.

  ‘What happened, darling?’ asked the mother.

  ‘She did not,’ Darling said, looking accusingly at me and jabbing a pudgy little finger in my direction. What, in the name of the heavens above, had I done? Or not done?

  ‘She did not what?’ pressed his mother.

  ‘Thathee did not touch my pheeet,’ he screamed and then proceeded to bawl his lungs out.

  Darling stamped his feet and before his mother could look beseechingly at me, logic dictated that I scutter away – and scutter away I promptly did.

  9.02 p.m.

  Dazed, I walked into the kitchen where another little scene awaited me.

  Mum, for reasons best known to her, was standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding a pakora in each hand, her face wet with tears. Ramu and Dad were both standing at attention on either side of Mum, ready to spring into action should she have the meltdown she seemed so dangerously close to.

  The person with his arms around Mum, however, was Pitajee. No surprises there, really. Defying logic and sense, Pitajee and Mum have grown, of late, rather thick. Though they have little in common, they seem to get each other. That, as Pitajee once told me with a profound look on his face, is all that matters.

  Much like Darling, Mum also pointed a finger in my direction and, clutching the pakora to her chest, burst into tears. Really, what was wrong with everyone? It seemed that all I needed to do was to merely appear for people to burst into tears.

  Pitajee nodded his head sympathetically. What had I done now?

  ‘Eight-point-five,’ said Mum in a tearful voice.

  Pitajee nodded his head.

  ‘Twenty-six,’ said Mum.

  Pitajee nodded his head again ‘Twenty-eight, Aunty, if you count…’

  ‘Oh yes, see … twenty-eight! And now…’ Mum gesticulated with her hands. Someone had gone away? She was shooing me away?

  Pitajee seemed to understand and he nodded his head. He was about to say something soothing when Mum burst into a fresh set of tears and, petrified, I scuttled away. From the corner of my eye, I saw Pitajee give Mum a big hug.

  What was wrong with the world?

  9.03 p.m.

  Everything.

  9.15 p.m.

  This night seems to conspire against me and refuses to end.

  After the obligatory round of dancing, Purva’s cousins, colluding with mine, decided they wanted the newly engaged couple to play some games. After a few minutes of negotiations, Purva and I agreed to play one game.

  The game was going to be fairly straightforward. They would ask me five questions about Purva and ask Purva five questions about me. Simple. Whoever got the maximum number of correct answers won. Everyone sat around in the living room, gently nibbling on the food that there was no dearth of and stared expectantly at us.

  ‘Bhabhi,’ began Purva’s cousin Pinki.

  I continued to eat and no one responded to Pinki. How rude people can be, I thought lazily to myself as I chased a pakora on the plate.

  ‘Bhabhi,’ she repeated.

  Purva nudged me and it dawned on me that it was yours truly who was the ‘bhabhi’ in question.

  Anu and Pitajee giggled with sheer delight at my obvious shock. I hate it when they do that. With friends like these, who needs enemies?

  ‘Umm … err … yes, yes,’ I said hastily.

  ‘Bhaiyya’s turn first. We will ask him five questions about you. First, you wait for him to answer and then you tell us if he was right or not.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said.

  ‘So here we go! Purva Bhaiyya, Kasturi Bhabhi’s favourite restaurant is?’ Pinki said, putting on her fake game-show-host voice that drew a couple of laughs from the audience.

  ‘Saravana Bhavan, Connaught Place,’ came Purva’s calm voice the next instant. Everyone turned their eyes on me. I nodded demurely, trying desperately to look shy. Images of soft, round idlis danced in front of my eyes.

  ‘Bhabhi’s favourite book?’

  ‘Villette,’ said Purva without hesitation. I nodded my head again.

  ‘Question number three. Bhabhi’s favourite movie?’

  ‘Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge,’ said Purva, smiling.

  ‘That even I knew!’ exclaimed Pitajee indignantly.

  I nodded my head. I have seen DDLJ 126 times, the last eleven times with Pitajee.

  ‘Excellent, Bhaiyya! Question number four. Kasturi Bhabhi’s favourite colour?’

  Purva took his time to deliberate, which surprised me. We had gone shopping last week when he had all but shot himself in the head as we hunted for a salwaar in the right shade of pink. ‘Mauve,’ he said, after a pause.

  ‘Wrong!’ said Pitajee the next instant with a superior smile on his face. A glorious glare from Anu, and Pitajee visibly shrank.

  ‘Wrong,’ I agreed, smiling.

  Purva’s family let out a collective groan as if the son of the soil had let his country down.

  ‘And for the final question,’ said Pinki, quite the game-show host. ‘Which is Kasturi Bhabhi’s favourite Bollywood song?’

  Pitajee and I giggled in chorus. Even Purva smiled. ‘Hum kalein hain toh kya hua dil wale hain,’ he said, smiling and shaking his head.

  Everyone in the room – including Anju Aunty who had spent the better part of last year sending me parcels of Fem’s reputed bleaching cream that loudly promised to make you five shades fairer in the blink of an eye – laughed.

  I nodded my head.

  Once Pinki had finished laughing, she cleared her throat. ‘Four out of five. Great score but not unbeatable!’

  ‘Now Kasturi’s turn,’ said Anju Aunty, settling into her chair, as if the real circus show was finally about to start.

  I gulped. What if I got nothing right?

  ‘I will help,’ mumbled Pitajee discreetly in my ear.

  I gulped further. Even Pitajee knew I was going to need help. Purva winked at me. I took a deep breath. Of course I could do this.

  ‘Kasturi Bhabhi,’ said Pinki, ‘Bhaiyya’s favourite Bollywood actress is?’

  Hmm … I thought hard for the next few seconds.

  The mind, invariably, went back to last week. Purva, Pitajee and I had had a very animated discussion about Sridevi (mostly about the plastic surgery though). Purva seemed to have a lot to say. ‘Sridevi,’ I announced, loudly and confidently.

  Everyone looked at Purva who looked a little surprised. An instant later, however, he nodded his head.

  ‘Yay!’ yelped Pitajee.

  ‘See, my daughter-in-law,’ said Anju Aunty, proudly pointing a finger at me. I could have won a gold in the Olympics and Anju Aunty would not have been this proud of me.

  ‘Purva Bhaiyya’s favourite food?’

  ‘Chinese?’ I said, doubtfully.

  ‘That’s your favourite food, you idiot!’ hissed Pitajee in my ear.

  Before I could retort suitably to Pitajee who had stooped to a new level of low by calling me names on my engagement day, a round of applause resounded in the room. Purva had nodded his head and I had two correct answers.

  It was then that I realised that the game was not as difficult as I had thought it to
be. And boy, was I good! Before I knew it, I had announced, with unwavering confidence, that Vegas was Purva’s dream holiday destination, cricket was his favourite sport and meditation relaxed him.

  I had also, surprisingly, given five correct answers.

  With great joy, and amidst tremendous cheering, Anju Aunty clasped me tight to her chest. A girl who knew her son so well had to be given her due, after all. I think she got a little carried away and, in the flow of the moment, removed a gold bangle from her wrist and clasped it around mine.

  ‘Your prize, my darling Koochie,’ Anju Aunty said proudly and proceeded to smack another kiss on my forehead.

  ‘Koochie!’ I heard Pitajee repeat to Anu, sounding delighted beyond measure. ‘Kasturi’s mom-in-law calls her Koochie.’

  My heart sank. I knew, just from the sheer delight in Pitajee’s voice, that I would rarely be called Kas again.

  Terrace, Shukla Residence, 11.00 p.m.

  Most of the guests had gone. The house looked like it always did after a big party. Dishevelled.

  Anju Aunty, Mum and Dad were downstairs, talking in hushed tones, discussing the surprise engagement and the upcoming wedding preparations. Purva and I sat on the terrace on a rotting wooden box that had survived more monsoons than we had thought possible, under the stars that blinked happily. We sat in comfortable silence, my head resting on Purva’s shoulder, letting it all sink in. The white crescent of the moon bathed us in its pristine white. Anu and Pitajee sat on the floor of the terrace, holding hands.

  ‘We’re engaged,’ Purva said, smiling down at me.

  ‘I know,’ I said, twiddling the expensive solitaire that glittered joyfully on my finger. ‘Is this Anju Aunty’s choice?’

  ‘No, mine,’ said Purva, moving his head closer to mine. ‘Only I didn’t know that I was going to put it on your finger today.’

  I stared at the iridescent rock, transfixed by how much the mute stone signified.

  ‘Let me show you something, Kas,’ said Purva, gently tugging the ring out of my hand. I marvelled, yet again, at how gentle his touch always was. He pointed to the inside of the thick band and handed it back to me.