That came as a surprise. ‘You work in a dog shelter?’
‘I volunteer there. Only on Sundays. It’s a nice place to be.’
I took a sip and realized I had finished the coffee.
‘Do you want more?’ she asked.
I held out the mug to her and within a few minutes, she got me another. Until then, I brushed my teeth and scrubbed my face, being spoiled for choice at the counter over the sink with all these face washes. At the end, not wanting to use anything without permission, I used the hand soap.
Coffee tastes different after brushing your teeth. When she left, I stood by her window, and watched life pass me by, not feeling like I was in a hurry to get somewhere, earn something or be someone else. People ambled on the streets, a pot seller yelling to get people’s attention, vehicles gliding along. I stood long after I had finished my cup of coffee, simply watching the busy street and not even thinking of anything in particular.
Last night’s episode was, in a way, cleansing. I hadn’t meant to cry the way I did. But then again, I hadn’t meant to show as much courage as I did. I’d rather be caught dead than admit it, but crying it all out felt nice.
I plugged in my dead phone for charging and as it slowly flickered to life, I took a quick shower. While bathing, I used her body wash, not being able to find a soap anywhere in the small cupboard. It felt more intimate to use her products, like I was getting to see a part of her I wasn’t yet allowed to. At the same time, it felt nice.
I ate the tomato omelette Vartika had left for me while checking my phone. I had three missed calls from Mom, one from last night and two in the morning; a few messages sat in my inbox too. I unlocked it.
Placing the plate of food by the window, I replied to her questions about where I was. I’m at my friend’s place. Don’t worry. Take care of Baba.
Instantly, she was online, then typing.
Mom: Did you eat anything?
Mothers, I mused. I sent her a picture of my plate, two omelettes and a glass of cold milk by its side. Under the picture, I wrote, Did he say anything after I left?
Mom: No. He’s still upset.
The answer was expected, but a sinking feeling still settled within me.
Mom: He’ll forgive you if you rethink your decision. I feel the same. The path you’re treading on is unsteady. All we want for you is a good life and a promising future.
I was done discussing that, so without answering her, I exited the chat and tossed the phone aside and decided it was best to simply enjoy the day. In the afternoon, I slept some more, my body craving for all the rest it could get, probably knowing this was fleeting. When you are not used to getting something, you try to take as much of it as you can when you do. Rest, for me, was one such thing.
Vartika’s call woke me up at around five, telling me she was directly going to the bar and would return home by seven.
An hour later, I was at the jogging park, feeling a renewed energy seeping in, a sense of newness that was foreign. A little physical distance from the rut seemed to have cleared my mind a great deal. It was as if I had been inhaling toxic air for all this time and suddenly I was thrown into the wilderness, asked to do anything and everything I liked. From where I stood, the possibilities seemed endless.
Treating myself to a cup of boiled corn and a boat ride to the middle of the lake, surrounded by couples and families slowly peddling alongside, I got a chance to think about where I wanted my life to head from here. I still had a month of job to finish. But the work was manageable. They were looking for a replacement for me. Until then, I was doing all I could to train Siddharth, the guy who would hold the post temporarily after me.
I called the designer whilst in the middle of the lake. He said he’d visit the next day, assuring me they’d begin the work at the latest by next month. Tomorrow, I’d get the menu card design and ad campaign ideas from Avliyaa, the ad agency I’d hired. My brief was specific, they’d said in the meeting, too specific in fact, but they were glad I was clear about my vision. ‘It’s easier for us to build a castle if you have a foundation ready for us,’ the owner of the agency had said.
As soon as that would be finalized, which I assumed would take a week at the most, I’d need to set up social media pages for the restaurant, then post about three food-related posts every day.
I was going to run an ad campaign on my own. That would save me a lot of money I could instead spend on kitchen appliances. Once the restaurant would begin buzzing with activity and I wouldn’t find the time to run it on my own, I’d think of shelling out more on handling the pages. For now, I could manage it.
I smiled at my wishful thinking, my guts to dream bigger.
I returned to an empty house. I freshened up, put the television on and trying to find the remote, opened a couple of drawers around it. In one of them, I found a picture of young Vartika wearing a green salwar kameez, smiling into the camera while a guy next to her had his arm around her. She wore a black beaded mangalsutra.
As if I’d been electrocuted, I tossed the photo aside. I grabbed the remote, but the television no longer held my attention. Vartika returned in a few minutes, as she’d promised she would. We exchanged a few pleasantries before she went to freshen up and change, but the air in the house had shifted, at least for me.
She joined me half an hour later on the couch to watch the television. She smelled like the primrose body wash she had, her hair tied back like it usually was.
Lowering the volume of the news, I asked her if we could go to the bar now. I’d had a good restful day, but she refused. Instead, she said, ‘I’m taking a leave today as well.’
That set me on the edge of my seat. Peering at her face, I asked, ‘Why?’
She shrugged, nonchalant to the thoughts in my mind. ‘I can use one too. And besides, we’re celebrating your liberation today.’
As if to prove her point, the microwave in her kitchen dinged. She rose to her feet. ‘I’ll be back.’ She returned with grilled sticks, slices of veggies with a fat piece of paneer between it. She put the plate on the table between us.
‘Vartika,’ I said, ‘it’s not necessary. You don’t have to do all this.’
‘I want to,’ she said, then offered the plate. Reluctantly, I took it. That was when I decided I could never enjoy this evening I’d dreamed and wished for if I kept thinking about her being married. I needed to clear the air.
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure,’ she said, bringing another plate of chips.
I went over to the television unit and picked up the picture lying by it, the one I’d tossed aside. ‘Who is this?’
She glanced up to see who I’d meant and, without missing a heartbeat, said, ‘My husband.’
It took me a second to find my voice again. ‘So you … you’re…’ I could barely bring myself to finish.
‘Married? I was.’ She shrugged. ‘Divorced five years ago.’
I was simply too shocked to feel any sort of relief. ‘You never mentioned it.’
‘I didn’t think it was necessary.’ She plucked the frame from my hand, tossed it in the drawer and shut it close. ‘Or particularly pleasant.’
‘What happened?’ I suddenly felt I was encroaching on her privacy by asking the question, but I couldn’t hold back. ‘If you don’t mind me asking you.’
‘Well, to start with, he didn’t like that I was entertaining a bunch of drunk men, catering to their hunger more than his.’ She reached the cabinet on top of the television and tossed me a look. ‘Wine?’
I nodded. ‘How long were you married?’
‘About two years,’ she answered. ‘I would rather you not discuss this with anyone.’
‘I won’t,’ I assured her.
Pouring a glass for me, she continued, ‘We had an arranged marriage. When they came to my place to meet me, I insisted on cooking for them. He was handsome, to say the least, and with my naive heart that had never been owned by anyone, I wanted to impress them.’
Sh
e handed me the glass, then helped herself to another drink. ‘I wasn’t a naive person, per se. In fact, I was quite the opposite. Headstrong and arrogant, mostly when it came to cooking, I knew I was a pro and so much so that I didn’t need anyone’s consent or praise or reassurance. So whenever someone said “the food’s great”, I’d simply reply with “I know’.’’
She scoffed, took a sip. Her eyes had the faraway look in them and I didn’t want to interrupt her. This was a part of her I’d never seen and getting to hear it now felt incredibly intimate. We were both guarded beings for the outside world but had different methods of protecting our cores.
‘On the day they came to meet me, his father requested if he could take home some paneer sabji so he can eat it for lunch in office the next day. My parents thought this was a great beginning and they couldn’t be happier.’
Taking the glass with her, she went over to sit cross-legged on the sofa and continued, now looking at me, ‘I talked to him privately in the balcony and he was so excited about my passion for cooking that he daydreamed about getting to eat new dishes every day, not really paying attention to the tiny part of our conversation where I mentioned I planned on feeding the entire town, not just him. If he was any smarter, he should have guessed a girl who was so wild about a “hobby” wouldn’t stay confined to the house to pursue it.’ She said the word ‘hobby’ as if it were a bad thing. But for some reason, I grasped what she’d meant by it. A passion reduced to a mere hobby was like saying a person was napping while he was comatose.
‘When did he find out?’ I asked, joining her on the couch, ‘about you wanting to cook for, you know, the entire town.’
She scoffed. ‘A month after our marriage when I got a job to work with Taj as an assistant sous chef.’
‘And … he wasn’t supportive?’
She tilted her head, lost in thought, transported back in time. Her face seemed dispassionate and detached, but reminiscent, which is how I could tell the memories no longer hurt her. ‘Far from it. But not initially. He knew I wasn’t the kind of girl to stay at home. I barely got by on Sundays without going out. Even when I was sick, I needed fresh air. I suffocate in enclosed spaces.’
She took a sip, pulled one knee up and hugged it. Being so close to her but not being able to hold her as she narrated a dark phase of her life was making my heart ache. So I took a massive gulp of the drink to distract my mind from the thought.
She went on, ‘What came as a shock to him was when I told him I was opening a bar with a partner. He strongly disapproved, told me that I would only waste money and that it required a special business sense and a different matured mindset to be successful at something like this. It wasn’t my cup of tea. Plus, both of us being girls, my partner and I, he said we were doomed to fail.’
She propped her chin on her knee and a lopsided smile touched her lips. Telling Vartika she didn’t have a business sense was like telling her she couldn’t cook. She was a born leader, a ruthless businesswoman. Of course, I didn’t agree with all her business tactics, like keeping her employees on their toes and sometimes using X theory while managing, instead of Y. But we both led by example, working overtime alongside the team to make sure the work was done. We didn’t shy away from being friendly with every person on the hierarchical chain. No work was too small or big for us when we extended a helping hand.
‘Did he ever find out just what you went on to build?’ I asked.
She smiled. ‘I’m glad he said those things, though. They only made my resolve stronger. But if only things were so easy.’ She paused to drink, then continued, ‘Halfway through the process of setting up the Copper Club, ignoring taunts from both our families, my business partner ditched me. That was when my real-life partner insisted it wasn’t meant to be and that I should quit while I still can. But I persisted, now more so to prove everyone wrong, especially this man who wasn’t even that good in bed.’
I nearly choked on the potato fry but tried not to show any expressions.
‘So, I continued the project with a new-found vigour. Business is never a small feat and it took a toll on all other sectors of my life. Poor bloke returned to an empty house and cold food. We had gone from fighting to not talking at all, not because we were giving each other the cold shoulder but because we hardly came face to face to have a conversation. We called each other every afternoon, making awkward small talk for the first few weeks. He initially asked about the progress of my business, but eventually he began nitpicking about things that set me on edge. So I stopped taking his calls and whenever I did, I dodged the questions about my work because I didn’t need any negative energy while I was taking on the most difficult task of my life.’
She tossed a chip in her mouth, chewed it slowly before speaking ahead. ‘A year later, he asked for a divorce and I happily obliged, both of us realizing that was the only time we’d actually agreed on something.’
She looked at me, her eyes warming. ‘And seven years later, here I am. In my own apartment. Owning the nights, owning the place and my restaurant, making investments and thriving much better than that sorry excuse for a man. Although I’m thankful for him. He awakened the beast within me, one that could destroy anyone who stood between her and her dream.’
I held up my glass as a toast, a small salute to her bravery. ‘And I don’t doubt that.’
She clinked her glass to the tip of mine. ‘Of course, it had repercussions,’ she added after taking a sip, ‘like my parents almost never talked to me after I left my husband’s home, and that son of a gun crapped all over the place, declaring how unlucky and pitiable he was that he was married to a “mad woman” like me.
‘But my poor old man warmed up to me over time, seeing how I was doing just fine on my own. My parents had stopped talking to me long before my divorce, when they learned I wanted to open a bar. And with my ex-husband’s excellent tear-jerking narrative that I never cared to debunk, they were on his side.’
‘So are you not in touch with your family?’ I asked.
‘I am,’ she replied. ‘My father called a few years ago when my niece was sick and asked if I could pitch in with some money. I gladly did, paying off all the bills before he could even utter ‘please’. Since then, he calls me once or twice every month to check if I’m still alive and thanks me for sending small cheques their way. I think everyone in my family knows that my doors are open for whoever wants to re-enter my life, but they also know I wouldn’t be the one to make the first move.’
‘I wish you would,’ my mind interjected but I shoved the thought away. ‘Why do you still have the photo frame though?’
‘A reminder of a mistake,’ she said. ‘Of what I shouldn’t do in life.’
‘Wow,’ I breathed. ‘That’s one heck of a life story.’
‘All tragedies are,’ she murmured, then held my gaze with hers. ‘This is also one of the reasons why I knew you could do it, you know,’ she said, placing her palm on my shoulder, drawing small circular motions on it. ‘A dream as strong as yours has the power to see it through because if you’re madly passionate about something that you’re ready to give up your soul to the devil for it, nothing can stop you from reaching the heights. I could do it without anyone’s support or guidance. You have me; you have a fire in your belly and a fat savings fund in your account. There was no one but you who was stopping you from going for it. You just needed a little courage.’
I was distracted by her touch, but I tried my best not to let her see it. ‘I guess you’re right,’ I muttered, then held up my glass. ‘Cheers to courage, then.’ While she took a sip, I downed the liquid in one go.
‘Whoa,’ she said, laughing a little. ‘What was that for?’
I swallowed the last big sip. ‘I could use a little more courage,’ I said.
She tilted her head, her soft dark hair that had escaped the suffocating clutch of the rubber bow falling to the side of her face, hiding her ear. ‘For what?’
I placed my glass on the side ta
ble, my heart beating so fast I could feel it in my chest, leaned closer to her and said softly, ‘For this.’
I kissed her lips.
ISHAAN
W
hen we pulled apart, I felt this incredible lightness in my chest, a calmness buzzing through my mind. But then I saw her face.
It had fallen. She didn’t look anything like how I was feeling and immediately my mind assaulted me with accusations; that I was terrible, that I had hurt her, that she would probably toss me out of her house right now and I’d have nowhere else to go.
Treading the ground carefully, I called her name. In response, she looked away. I panicked, only to blurt out, ‘I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry. I shouldn’t have … I should … I probably should…’ I wanted to say ‘leave’, but the word stuck in my throat.
She looked over at me, her face calm. ‘Why did you do that?’ she said in a deep, collected and completely reasonable voice and my heart sank to the bottom, the weight of the regret of ruining our perfect friendship pressing me further down.
‘Because,’ I wondered if coming clean would make the situation worse, but wasn’t it sort of obvious by now? I went for it anyway. ‘I love you.’
She blinked. ‘Why?’
‘Why?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I hope it’s not just because you’re feeling lonely or something. I am surrounded by men, Ishaan. I sometimes don’t know what’s going on in those big heads of yours. I need to be sure.’
It took me a second to realize what she was saying. ‘Wait, you’re comparing me to the other men you know?’
‘I’m just saying flings is not my thing,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘After dating for all this time, I want to settle down. And I honour commitments.’
‘Fling?’ I blinked. I leaned away from her, not sure how to react to her conclusion. I wasn’t even sure what it was. We were just probably on completely different pages, and of all the things she could have said to crush my heart, this was the one I had to laugh at. ‘Vani, I love you for all the right reasons. When I’m with you, I don’t have to act strong when I feel weak. I don’t feel the pressing weight of being a man, as perceived by everyone else, the one who doesn’t show emotions for the sake of every person in his life.
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