Can This Be Love? Page 5

  I will stop believing in love if their relationship does not work out.

  5.00 a.m.

  Talking to Anu has stirred something inside me … something that I had hoped I had buried deep. Memories from more than two years ago have been plaguing me for the last hour, as I lie in my bed, staring at the whale on the ceiling.

  About six months ago, in a fit of love for me, Pitajee had attempted to surprise me by sticking a glow-in-the-dark whale on the ceiling of my room. We still have lengthy discussions about what prompted Pitajee to think that I would like to have a grinning, glow-in-the-dark whale on my ceiling to stare at me every night. It was this glow-in-the-dark whale that I now stared at as I thought about Rajeev, surprised at the deep, seething, painful yearning that seared through me.

  Have you ever read about those loose women who have affairs with their bosses? And wondered who those girls are?

  Well, I was one of them … I know, I know … grossly unprofessional and all that but … well … that is what happened. In my defence, Rajeev was the most handsome man I had ever set my eyes on and I fell madly in love with that gorgeous face the moment I walked into his cabin. Just like that, in one moment, as if someone had flicked on the switch, I fell in love. That he seemed as interested in me certainly helped matters. To put it really mildly, he swept me off my feet. He was the knight in an embroidered waistcoat, carrying a sword in a scabbard and I was the pretty damsel in an off-shoulder white gown. Yes, it was as pathetic as that … really.

  All turned very sour then when I caught him red-handed with his girlfriend. The other girlfriend. The real girlfriend.

  How does it feel to be cheated on? I saw the question written on the faces that looked sympathetically at me during that time. Now, however, I will answer it. It’s quite simple really. First, you take the sharpest sword known to mankind. Heat it over a crackling fire so that the metal is molten red. Impale it in your chest and then slowly turn it around.

  That is how it felt.

  Oddly enough, tonight, the pain, the shame, the humiliation of being cheated on, did not come to me in the rushed bursts it still did sometimes. Tonight, I thought about how it felt to be that madly in love with someone. I don’t know if you will understand what I say now … but … let me give it a try. I love Purva with all my mind. He makes sense and, most importantly, he loves me more than I love him.

  Rajeev, I loved differently. I threw caution to the winds and loved him with my heart. I could think about something he had said for days on end. I could, probably, kill for that one look from him. He would stand at the other end of the room and when our eyes met, smile that beautiful smile of his and then wink at me – a quick, secret wink meant only for me. It was like we had a secret language that no one else could understand. Not that anyone else mattered. There was electricity between us … there was mad attraction … there was fire…

  As these thoughts danced violently in my head, a shudder, a fear ran through me and I hurriedly, frantically, dialled a number.

  ‘Kasturi, honey, is everything okay?’ came Purva’s calm voice the next instant.

  ‘I am fine, Purva … I just wanted to hear your voice,’ I said, holding the phone to one ear and hugging a pillow to my chest. No, I am not fine … something is wrong … why … why am I thinking of the past?

  There was silence on the other end for a few moments.

  ‘Are you scared, Kasturi?’ he asked, in his calmest voice, which, to my tired and worried ears, sounded like a well-loved lullaby.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I am so, so, so scared, Purva. Scared of myself.

  ‘Are you freaking out about the surprise engagement?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Everything all right, Kas?’ he prodded further.

  ‘What if something does not work out, Purva? What if something goes wrong?’

  I could hear Purva smile. If he were with me, I know he would have pulled me into a hug and I would have felt better immediately.

  ‘See, I am not going anywhere … and you are not either … or…’ he said, now laughing, ‘if you change your mind and think of wandering away, I will just pull you closer towards me.’

  ‘You will pull me closer?’ I asked.

  ‘I won’t let you go, Kasturi.’

  Please don’t let me go, Purva. Please don’t.

  ‘Do you want me to read something to you?’ he asked.

  I nodded my head and then remembered that he could not see me. ‘Yes, please.’ I said meekly.

  I heard Purva smile again. For reasons best known to the cosmos, Purva’s voice, generally a low, quiet baritone, calms and soothes me like nothing else can. Listening to him speak is my meditation.

  ‘You little devil! I can just find a book on cardio surgery. Will that do?’

  ‘Are you in the hospital?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I am … but don’t worry, I am between shifts. This book will do?’

  ‘Does not matter,’ I said, desperate to hear his voice.

  ‘Fine, then close your eyes and try to sleep,’ he said. I obediently followed instructions.

  In five minutes, with the phone stuck to my ear, I was fast asleep, sleeping a dreamless sleep.

  9

  2 February 2013, 1.00 a.m.

  I don’t mean to sound like a teenager who owns a pink phone and a purple bunny ear-cover, but my birthday is not far away!

  Yay!

  7 February 2013, 2.00 p.m.

  ‘Purva, darling,’ I crooned into the phone as P.P. Padma glared at me.

  ‘I know your birthday is round the corner,’ said Purva, laughing loudly.

  ‘Bye, then,’ I said. My job was done.

  2.30 p.m.

  That P.P. Padma hates me is beyond any doubt. How much she hates me, however, is worthy of being discussed in a panel chaired by the respected Arnab Goswami.

  The nation needs an answer!

  2.31 p.m.

  I was lazily nibbling a piece of chocolate when Mr Vijaywada popped over for a chat. Before he sat down, I quickly alt-tabbed the Facebook page that I had been mulling over for the last two hours.

  ‘Kasturi,’ he said loudly, obviously conscious of my deafness.

  ‘Mr Vijaywada,’ I said politely, hurriedly gulping down the piece of chocolate.

  ‘Ear okay today?’ he asked gently.

  I waited to see if a spasm of guilt would rack my soul. When nothing happened, I smiled even more widely. ‘No, sir,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Today is quite bad. Please be a little loud.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mr Vijaywada, his face falling. ‘I MEAN OKAY,’ he said, loud enough for people in Chennai to hear. I giggled mentally, wondering when this would ever stop being funny. I looked up at him with the most angelic smile that I could muster. P.P. Padma glared at me.

  ‘I have a proposition for you, Kasturi,’ continued Mr Vijaywada, in a loud voice.

  ‘Yes Sir?’

  ‘How about heading strategy for Vijaywada & Sons?’ he said, smiling widely.

  Ha. Ha.

  ‘At my current salary? No Sir,’ I said, returning his smile. I wondered if I should add some nonsense about needing money for ear surgery, but decided to let it go.

  ‘Then we will increase it!’ said Vijaywada, smiling benignly.

  I looked at P.P. Padma who was typing furiously, her ears red. Could this get any better?

  The ears. Now is a good time to tell you the story of how I came to be deaf.

  It all started in the first week I joined Vijaywada & Sons. I had only recently broken up with Rajeev and that fateful day, when Vijaywada repeatedly called out to me, I was sitting at this very desk, bawling my eyes out, unable to get over what Rajeev had done to me. Pitiful and pathetic, I was in no position to go speak to Vijaywada. Or anyone else on the planet. When Vijaywada marched to my work station, angry, he stopped short when he saw a red-eyed, red-nosed girl dabbing at her eyes.

  ‘Oh my gawd,’ he said, rolling the ‘god’. ‘What is wrong, bachche?’

/>   It was nice of him to bother, but I wasn’t going to confess my miserable story to yet another sympathetic face. ‘Nothing, Sir,’ I said, trying hard to stop the tears. The image of Rajeev would not leave my mind.

  ‘Why are you crying?’

  ‘No Sir, I am not,’ I said, as tears streamed down my face.

  ‘Arre,’ said Mr Vijaywada indignantly, ‘I called you again and again and when you did not respond, I had to come here, and look what I find … Kasturi in tears! Did anyone say something to you? Padma? Yes, Padma? Is it Padma?’

  Oh dear!

  ‘No Sir, not Padma … it is … er …’ I looked around, frantically, scratching my ears.

  ‘Your ear?’ said Mr Vijaywada thinking that I was pointing towards my ears.

  ‘Umm … yes … I guess,’ I added, shrugging. This was as bad as anything else I would have come up with.

  ‘What! Your ear?’

  What? My ear? Why the hell did I just say that?

  ‘Umm … yes, Sir.’

  ‘What happened to your ear?’

  My brain worked fast. ‘I go deaf every once in a while,’ I said jubilantly, smacking the table in front of me. ‘That would explain why I did not hear you call out to me.’

  ‘What?’ said Mr Vijaywada, shocked.

  ‘Yes Sir, I have met hundreds of doctors … spent hours in hospitals … taken all sorts of medicines … but nothing has changed. These tears, Sir,’ I said, melodramatically, ‘that you see staining my cheeks at the moment, are but a testimony of my anguish, my frustration at not being able to lead a normal life ... with ears … that … that…’ I left the sentence incomplete for two reasons:

  It sounded tragic and melodramatic.

  I did not quite know how to end the sentence.

  ‘Of course,’ said Mr Vijaywada, looking stricken beyond measure. ‘Of course … oh my! I did not know this. I am sorry, Kasturi…’

  ‘That’s okay, Sir. This is not your fault,’ I said, sniffing piteously. ‘Life is not fair.’

  Mr Vijaywada nodded his head; my words had hit a raw nerve. ‘It is not, Kasturi, it certainly is not,’ he said, shaking his head.

  I tilted my head as if staring into space, hopefully appearing to pontificate on life and its unfairness. ‘What has life done to you, Sir, if you do not mind my asking?’

  Mr Vijaywada sighed. ‘All I want,’ he said, shaking his head again, ‘is one son. What I have,’ he said, and paused, ‘are four daughters.’

  I tried not to giggle.

  ‘Not that I don’t love my girls, I do. But … just that … I want a son to play football with … to go fishing with.’

  ‘You play soccer, Sir, and you fish?’ I asked brightly.

  ‘Errr … no … not really … but … you know…’ he stammered, ‘I could...’

  I tried hard to not laugh as it struck me that the CEO of Vijaywada & Sons did not have a son. I remember that day well; it was the first time since the break-up with Rajeev that I had felt like my old self again.

  That was more than a year ago. P.P. Padma, of course, figured out my little lie very early on, but Vijaywada has remained blissfully – and thankfully – unaware. Ever since that day, Mr Vijaywada had sported a soft spot for me, favouring me blatantly over others in our small office, excusing the stupidest mistakes with a smile. The advantages of the little lie, therefore, have consistently outweighed the moral implications.

  4.30 p.m.

  Vijaywada has passed by my desk thrice since our little discussion and has each time spared a gentle hand over my head.

  5.00 p.m.

  I was about to leave for home when Vijaywada came to my desk. Overcome with emotion at the great deed he was about to do, he put a hand on my head again and said, ‘Kasturi Beta, you are like a daughter to me. My fifth daughter.’

  I almost choked on nothing.

  10.30 p.m.

  I was waiting outside Purva’s hospital in the evening when Pitajee called. Purva had been in surgery the whole day and asked me to come over to the hospital so that we could grab a quick meal before he headed back into the ward.

  ‘Dost,’ I said, in a happy voice. Purva was late and waiting made me feel very bored.

  ‘Kasturi,’ he said.

  I could not remember the last time Pitajee had called me Kasturi.

  ‘I am going to Mumbai tonight.’

  ‘Oh my god,’ I said. That Pitajee’s voice was laden with worry and stress was not lost on me.

  ‘To meet that stupid Ahya.’

  ‘Oh my god.’

  ‘They like Saumen, the IAS guy, and think he’s God’s gift to women and Anu would be the luckiest girl if she can marry him and his car with the red beacon light.’

  ‘Oh my god.’

  ‘They now, urgently, want Anu to meet the guy.’

  ‘Oh my god.’

  ‘So, I am going to meet Ahya and Govind,’ he said. I heard the slight shudder in his voice.

  ‘Oh my god.’

  ‘To see if Anu and I can make them see how much we love each other and that Anu does not really need a car with a red light.’

  ‘Oh my god.’

  ‘I am so scared, Kas … I will have to face the collective wrath of Govind and Ahya…’

  ‘Oh my god.’

  ‘Kasturi?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Please stop saying “Oh my god”?’

  ‘Oh my god … I mean … sure...’ I said, numbly.

  10

  Our Apartment, 12 February 2013, 2.00 a.m.

  I woke up with a start.

  Disoriented, I looked around, taking in the familiar surroundings of my room. The glow-in-the-dark whale grinned idiotically at me. I shook my head. That will have to go sometime soon, I promised myself again.

  I had had a dream, a dream about a man … a dream that had made me so restless that I sat in my bed, wide awake. Was it something to do with Purva? Dad? Pitajee?

  7.00 a.m.

  Who was it? The restlessness that I felt in the dream was so intense that I can feel it even now…

  3.00 p.m.

  I was sitting in the office staring at P.P. Padma’s bindi when, pretty much like it happens in Bollywood movies, flashes from the dream began to come to me.

  It was about a wedding … his wedding…

  7.00 p.m.

  ‘Mooli ke paranthe today!’ said Veena Aunty, the instructor of the cooking course, and I groaned out loud, making no attempt to camouflage my disinterest. Twice a week, I now suffered unadulterated torture in the form of these classes. As Veena Aunty and Anju Aunty are bosom buddies who caught up on a regular basis, I did not dare miss a single class.

  Veena Aunty cast a disapproving look in my direction; I was far from the ideal pupil. ‘Pushpanjali,’ said Veena Aunty, looking pointedly at me and talking to her favourite student, ‘how excited are you to learn the tricks of making the perfect mooli ke paranthe?’

  Now Pushpanjali, I suspect, has been born to marry. Her big day was drawing close and, having spent a lot of time abroad, she was keen to transform into a Hindi-speaking, parantha-cooking bahu that her in-laws could be proud of.

  ‘Bahoooot, bahoooot!’ she said obediently in a thick accent.

  Veena Aunty clicked her tongue. Correct answer, Pushpanjali, I thought ruefully as I poured two full glasses of water into a bowl that contained a handful of flour.

  ‘Not glasses! Table spoon! T-B-S-P. Not G-L-A-S-S,’ said Veena Aunty, looking dismally at the milk-like fluid that was in front of me.

  She shook her head and walked away. She was close to giving up on me. That was when, as I ran my hands through the watery mix, it hit me.

  The dream. The man in the dream. Not Purva, not Dad and not Pitajee.

  Rajeev.

  7.30 p.m.

  I can see patches of the dream now. It comes to me in bursts. In my dream, Rajeev is standing on the stage, about to get married, surrounded by people. Through the crowd, as his to-be-wife speaks to him, he spots me and still
s. Transfixed, his eyes follow me as I leave the room. Sometime, somewhere later, Rajeev and I are standing face to face and he tells me he can’t marry anyone else and neither should I.

  That was when I woke up.

  9.00 p.m.

  There is something deeply disturbing about my dream. I was so distracted during the cookery class that I made perfectly round and absolutely delicious paranthas. I suspect that the 150kg, ghee-loving Veena Aunty was closer than ever to a heart attack when I presented the sumptuous paranthas to her. I should not do this too often; after all, I do not hate her enough to have her blood on my hands.

  They say dreams bare your soul, spill out to you your most intimate fears and reveal your innermost desires. Was there something that the dream was trying to tell me? It is true that I have been thinking more and more about Rajeev of late. It has been two years since I last saw him and I am still dreaming about him. It does not make sense. Rajeev hurt me and I still smart from the stings of his adultery. And yet…

  I am very confused and very tired and wish Purva were not as busy as he is.

  10.00 p.m.

  I don’t.

  10.01 p.m.

  I don’t.

  10.02 p.m.

  I don’t. I don’t. I don’t.

  10.05 p.m.

  It is ridiculous to even suggest that. Of course I don’t.

  10.15 p.m.

  I don’t. I am not one of those women.

  10.30 p.m.

  I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t.

  In case you don’t get it, I don’t.

  11.10 p.m.

  Okay. I do.

  I still miss Rajeev. Sometimes so badly that it hurts.

  11

  13 February 2013, 11.00 a.m.

  ‘Kasturi.’

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘I have a blog now.’

  I sputtered out the coffee I had just taken a mouthful of. ‘You have a what?’