Someone to Love Page 8

  ‘Yes?’ He looked again at Koyal trying, she knew, to look as thunderous as he had a few minutes back, but failing miserably. In another world, Koyal would have burst into peals of laughter.

  ‘Thank you. You saved my life.’

  Again.

  ‘That’s…’ he began and then, as some squawks emanated from his phone, he turned to it. ‘No, Mum … Mum! Just someone … no … Mum.’

  Silence for sometime as Atharv appeared to be listening to the person on the phone.

  ‘Yes, you recognized the voice correctly,’ he said into the phone, his voice resigned. ‘No, Mummy! No! Okay … okay, stop that, Mum! One second!’ he said exasperatedly into the phone and with a final ‘Okay, fine, one second,’ he handed the phone to Koyal.

  ‘Mum wants to speak with you,’ he said when she looked quizzically at him.

  ‘Surya Aunty?’ Koyal uttered the name, horrified.

  ‘That is my mum, yes,’ he said.

  Koyal stared at the phone as if it was a dead man’s skull. She looked up at Atharv.

  I don’t want to have anything more to do with you, his angry eyes seemed to say to Koyal.

  Great, we continue to think alike, Koyal retorted silently.

  ‘I think you should speak to her,’ he said out loud, his voice formal and stiff, nudging the phone towards her.

  For a few seconds Koyal stared at the phone, trying frantically to think of excuses but no inspiration came to her.

  Damn.

  She nodded and took the handset.

  ‘Hello,’ she said tentatively into phone, fearing the worst. The firebrand that Surya Aunty was, Koyal wondered if she would be screamed at for having disappeared without warning all those years ago. Or maybe a barrage of uncomfortable questions would be hurled at her? Or perhaps something more subtle but acidic? Koyal had been the reason the two families, once very close, had stopped talking. And in the process, Surya Aunty had lost a dear friend – Koyal’s mother.

  At the back of her head, Koyal knew she deserved anything Surya Aunty hurled at her and she braced herself for it.

  ‘Koyal beta,’ a gentle soft voice, lathered with a mother’s love, reached Koyal and her shoulders sagged both with relief and despair.

  Oh, Surya Aunty, her heart said. Koyal had forgotten how big a part of her childhood this voice had been, and it all came rushing to her now. This was a voice that reminded her of home-made mango ice creams she had shared with Atharv in the summer months. Of shopping sprees when Ma would link her arm with Surya Aunty’s and giggle like a schoolgirl. Of late-night gossip sessions between the women that would have her mother doubling up with laughter, something she never ever did with anyone else.

  Love leaves memories even death cannot steal.

  ‘Hi, Surya Aunty,’ said Koyal, a tremor in her voice. Surya Aunty’s voice reminded her of a happy, young, carefree Ma. And how the idea of Ma being alive and healthy gave happy little wings to every cell in her body. Koyal wanted to hug the voice. To bottle it and keep for those times when her heart ached for Ma.

  ‘Where did you vanish, beta?’ came the voice again, sad now.

  Koyal stayed silent, biting her lips, willing the tears that were threatening to pool in her eyes to evaporate before they appeared.

  ‘I know something upset you, but even if you won’t tell me what it is, will you let the past be the past? And come and meet me?’ came the kind voice.

  Koyal remained silent.

  Surya Aunty was asking for too much. To step into the home of the woman who had destroyed her life was unthinkable.

  ‘Do you … do you … look like Priya now, Koyal?’ Surya Aunty asked hesitatingly, after a pause. ‘I … Can I get a glimpse of my long-lost friend through you? … Will you allow me that gift?’

  Koyal bit the insides of her cheek.

  Long-lost friend.

  This was a woman, unaware that her friend was lost forever, desperate to see a likeness of her friend in the daughter. Something about that made Koyal want to sob.

  ‘Will you come?’ Surya Aunty asked, her voice hopeful and teary.

  ‘Yes,’ Koyal heard herself say.

  ‘Saturday night, dinner? I’ll cook your favourite food.’

  Koyal bit her lips harder. The last person who had said this to her was long gone. Koyal stood in the reception of one of the biggest hospitals in London, phone stuck to her ear, amazed at the little things that continued to remind her each day, each minute, each second, of her mother. Nothing, she realized in that moment, ever separates a child from her mother. Not even death.

  ‘Wait a second, mac and cheese followed by ice cream are still your favourites, or have you moved to some vegan, organic nonsense?’ Koyal could sense Surya Aunty’s grin and she smiled. Spunky, funny, Surya Aunty. That was how she remembered her – the only woman she knew back then who could ride a bike.

  ‘Mac and cheese it is,’ Surya Aunty said. ‘Give me your number, darling – I’ll message you the address.’

  ‘Will Uncle be there too?’ Koyal asked.

  The pause on the other end was long enough for Koyal’s eyes to pool with tears.

  ‘Oh, gosh no,’ she whispered. ‘I am so, so sorry, Surya Aunty.’

  ‘I am sorry too, darling,’ said Surya. ‘He left us when Atharv was still in Medical School. It has been many years…’

  When, a few minutes later, Koyal handed the phone back to Atharv, she didn’t look at him. His gaze. It seared.

  It burnt.

  It lacerated.

  That he had the audacity to act like he was the victim made her blood boil. Had it not been for Surya Aunty, she thought, she would have never bothered with this man again. For her, Atharv did not exist.

  And then her mind went back to the night in Hema’s house when his mere presence had reduced her to a mess. Who was she kidding, Koyal asked herself as she walked out of the hospital, every cell in her body dreading the confrontation with Nili that now awaited her.

  20

  Koyal took a deep breath and knocked on the door, amazed yet again that British homes rarely had a bell on the door. Atharv’s house was situated in a green cul-de-sac in posh Chelsea, and Koyal wondered idly how much it cost. She rolled her eyes at the two Range Rovers parked by the gate and tapped her foot impatiently – all tactics to ignore the nervous, hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘Koyal!’ a familiar voice shrieked with joy and Koyal snapped out of her thoughts.

  Surya Aunty! On autopilot, Koyal ran into Surya Aunty’s outstretched arms and wrapped her in a very tight hug.

  ‘Show me your face,’ Surya Aunty said fondly as she leaned back and held Koyal’s face in her hands. ‘Gosh,’ she gushed. ‘You look beautiful.’

  Koyal stared at Surya Aunty. Lined, a bit tired, still beautiful and very familiar. God, so familiar. Her face, as she had feared, reminded her of Ma. And that was when the tears started to flow. A moment later, she had again wrapped her arms around Surya Aunty and was sobbing inconsolably.

  ‘Shh,’ whispered Surya Aunty, tears flowing unabated down her cheeks too. ‘Shh, my darling, shhhh.’

  But Koyal, try as she might, couldn’t stop crying. Everything about this woman reminded her of her mother. Koyal had been looking for Ma everywhere. In the whisper of leaves, in the sounds of the river, in the fragrance of flowers, to no avail. Ma was her first home, her first friend, her first love, she was her everything. And now she was no longer there.

  Hugging Surya Aunty felt like she was touching a bit of the Ma she had lost to the ether of the universe. And her soul rejoiced and sang.

  ‘Koyal?’

  ‘Surya Aunty?’ Koyal replied, grinning through her tears. Surya Aunty grinned back.

  ‘After all these years.’

  ‘After all these years,’ Koyal repeated, nodding her head, her eyes boring into Surya Aunty. The two women stared at each other, thinking of all that had happened.

  ‘Come on in,’ Surya Aunty said quietly, with a smal
l smile, discreetly wiping off a tear.

  Koyal stepped in gingerly, painfully aware that she was now in Atharv’s house. She wondered how, when she had spent the last decade hating Atharv, she had let this happen.

  Suddenly, Koyal looked up and stilled.

  A huge six feet by six feet portrait of a familiar face smiled at her from a large wall leading off from the reception room into the living room.

  For the millisecond it took Koyal to recognize the face, Koyal was taken aback by the beauty and goodness that emanated from the portrait.

  The face of an angel, as pure and innocent as a fairy, she thought, and then realized it was a framed black-and-white photograph of the woman she had hated with all her heart for the last ten years.

  Nili.

  And in that one moment, it hit her.

  She had to, just had to, forget Nili. No, not forget – harder still, she had to forgive.

  A little voice, a voice that often reasoned with her, a voice that sounded a lot like Ma’s now, spoke up. What did she do, Koyal?

  ‘She did something that I would never ever do, not even to the person I hate the most, Koyal fumed silently.

  You are not Nili. By not forgiving her, can you change the past? the voice asked.

  No.

  But by forgiving her, you can change the future, the voice said wisely and Koyal took a deep breath.

  Silence and then the voice spoke to her again. There is good in the worst of us and there is evil in the best of us. Pretend she is apologizing to you.

  What?

  Yes, pretend she is apologizing to you and accept her apology, the little voice in her head said determinedly. She is saying sorry to you, for she didn’t know that what she was doing would break your heart, spirit and soul. She could have been gentler, dealt with this differently, been kinder, and she is sorry. She forgot to be kind for a bit, that is all.

  Forgot to be kind.

  Forgiving is being kind too, the voice continued. Be kind to her, even if she wasn’t to you.

  Koyal stayed silent and stared at the photograph, feeling an odd kind of calm descend upon her.

  ‘I accept your apology, Nili Verma,’ Koyal mumbled. ‘I will be gracious and kind to you. And while we can never be friends, I will cease to hate you. Time spent hating is time lost and I am done losing time. At the very least, I hope you have loved Atharv deeply and truly.’

  And as that thought took shape in her head, Koyal froze. This only meant one thing. Even after all these years of first hating him and then trying hard to not hate him, and the years of strugging with what had happened, she still cared for that man.

  She shook her head in frustration. She did not want to hate him and she certainly did not want to care about him. No, not after what had happened. Never, never again would Atharv Jayakrishna hold any importance in her life.

  Koyal looked up when she felt eyes on her. Atharv had appeared in the living room and was staring at her, a strange, unreadable expression in his eyes. He was thinking, yes, she could see that, analysing even, but was there a streak of kindness in them, a kinship of some sort? Why did she think he wanted to rush to her side, take her in his arms and tell her it would all be okay? Madness, she thought, for when she looked at him again, the kind look, or whatever it had been, was gone and harsh eyes now glared at her.

  Surya Aunty sat Koyal on a comfortable sofa and took her hand in hers.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ Surya Aunty was saying. ‘How is everything? How is everyone? How have you been?’ She looked at Atharv who was about to leave the room. ‘Now you two, stop fighting like babies. Come and sit here, Atharv,’ she added sternly.

  ‘I need to go, Mum,’ he said but sat down when Surya Aunty glared at him.

  ‘So,’ said Koyal and Surya Aunty in unison and they both giggled.

  ‘How is Priya?’ Surya Aunty asked.

  ‘How is Nili?’ Koyal asked at the same time.

  The two women stared at each other, the smiles gone now.

  Feeling a cold hand clutch her heart, Koyal spoke first.

  ‘Ma is no more, Aunty,’ she said, her voice sombre. Even after all these years it felt weird to say the words. There was something so wrong about them. Of course Ma was there – she was always there in her thoughts, in her actions, in her spirit.

  Surya Aunty stared unblinkingly at Koyal, seemingly frozen.

  Koyal prepared herself for the inevitable questions. Questions she usually hated to answer but wanted to answer this time. The how and the when and the how are you dealing with it.

  Instead, Surya Aunty said something that for a second made no sense to Koyal.

  ‘Nili is no more, Koyal,’ Surya Aunty said.

  21

  Stunned, Koyal turned to look at Atharv.

  He was still looking at her, his eyes hard and angry.

  Surya Aunty was saying something, none of which reached Koyal. She was staring at Atharv, her brain unable to process what she had just heard.

  As she stared at Atharv, she found that her heart was twitching with a weird kind of ache – a sort of ache she had never experienced before. She had hated, been jealous of and felt disgusted by what she’d imagined was a very happy marriage. The happily ever after.

  Not this.

  For a moment, Koyal tried to picture Nili’s death and felt shivers run down her spine at the thought of what Atharv must have gone through.

  ‘I’ll quickly check on something in the kitchen,’ Surya Aunty mumbled, looking first at Koyal and then at Atharv, before leaving them alone. She knew that no matter what had happened between them, for now, they needed a moment alone.

  And so Atharv and Koyal sat a few feet apart, not saying a word, not looking at each other, both trying to come to terms with news that was heart-breaking. Silence hung heavy around them like a thick, sad curtain, too heavy for anyone to lift. Koyal finally looked up at him; he was staring at his knees, lost in thought. Thoughts that were tormenting him. His eyes no longer seemed harsh or angry – they were softer, sadder … In that moment, Koyal felt she could see and sense every dark day Atharv had been through during and after Nili’s death, and something inside her gave way. She felt tears begin to pool in her eyes.

  I am crying because Nili is dead, she thought disbelievingly.

  You are crying because you know what Atharv must have gone through when Nili died, the voice in her head corrected her.

  But I don’t care about Atharv, she argued with the voice.

  ‘When…’ said Atharv finally. ‘Um … when did Priya Aunty … um…’

  A long-forgotten image suddenly flashed in Koyal’s mind. Ma had been crying for some reason and Atharv, with all the wisdom of a fourteen-year-old, had stood up, walked up to Ma. And without saying a word, wrapped his arms around her. Ma had sobbed into his chest and he had stood like that, all manly, all strong, holding the mother of his best friend.

  ‘I am there for you, Aunty,’ Atharv had said.

  ‘I know you’ll always be there for me,’ Ma had said, looking at Atharv with the look she usually reserved only for her son.

  ‘Four years…’ Koyal mumbled, looking at her hands now, biting her lips, very sure she didn’t want to cry. ‘She had been unwell for a long time before that…’

  Silence.

  ‘Um…’ Atharv was staring hard at the carpet, trying desperately to keep his voice steady. Koyal, surprised that even after all these years, she could still understand everything he was not saying, looked around helplessly for someone to just go and give that man a hug.

  ‘Um… I … I…’ he said, now looking up at her, the helplessness in his eyes breaking her heart.

  Someone. Anyone. Just please give him a hug.

  ‘Um … the illness?’ he asked, his eyes red.

  ‘Her kidneys…’

  Atharv grimaced. ‘Dialysis?’ he asked

  ‘Three and a half years,’ she said and he shook his head sadly and slowly.

  ‘Was she…’ and Koyal coul
d plainly see how difficult this was for him’. ‘Was she…’ he passed his hand over his forehead, ‘was she … okay … of course, she wasn’t okay, I mean, was she very, very ill?’

  Someone please, please go give him a hug, the voice in her head screamed.

  ‘No…’ she said, looking at his huge, wet eyes, feeling her heart break all over again. ‘She was physically weak, yes, but emotionally … mentally … you know, she told me a Santa Banta joke the night before.’ Tears were now streaming down her face.

  Atharv looked at her, his eyes and nose red.

  ‘Really?’ he said, smiling. ‘Which one?’

  Koyal laughed through her tears. ‘A really, really bad one.’

  And Atharv smiled, and for one instant, one fleeting instant, they were back to being best friends.

  You could speak a thousand words and some people won’t hear one.

  You need not speak a single word and some people will hear everything.

  Silence broken only by the gentle ticking of the huge grandfather clock. Two people, friends once, strangers now, sat wrapped in their thoughts.

  Finally, Koyal spoke. ‘Nili…?’ she ventured bravely. Somehow she knew the walls were back up now, the moment of forgiveness and friendship had passed.

  ‘Six years ago,’ he said in a voice devoid of any emotion.

  Koyal wanted to tell Atharv how sorry she was, but the word seemed remarkably insufficient. She had spent the last ten years envying Nili, Atharv’s love – her jealousy for what she had imagined was the perfect love story had cast an ugly shadow on each aspect of her life – but she had never, she now realized, not wanted Atharv to be happy.

  Surya quietly re-entered the room and had just settled into a chair when a voice yelped, ‘Dadi!’

  A little girl in a pink and white sleep suit raced through the room and jumped into Surya’s lap, burying her face in her shoulder.

  Surya laughed and patted the little head before wrapping her arms around her.

  ‘Why is Dadi’s little monkey not asleep?’ she mumbled into the girl’s thick black hair.

  ‘Not sleepy,’ came the voice and Surya smiled.

  Koyal stared, open-mouthed, at the little form clinging to Surya Aunty.