Something I Never Told You

by Shravya Bhinder

  ‘I should have worn my black trousers with this blazer,’ I told my mother, trying to take her mind off the unnecessary stress she felt as my cousin basked in the limelight.

  ‘No, you look just fine,’ Mummy replied, without taking her eyes off the group standing around the NRI admiring the funny tune he played.

  However, it did not take long for her to come out of her sad state. Soon her kitty party group was bored, and all of them gathered together to discuss the important stuff—the food at the party—and Mummy delightedly joined them, but not before issuing her instructions to me.

  ‘Be around and answer your phone when I call you,’ she told me and I nodded my head before leaving her with the group.

  After wandering around for a few minutes, I parked myself close to the dance floor, in the middle of the closed banquet hall. Very loud music played. I was thankful that I was unable to hear anything or anyone. It was the perfect place for me to stand and watch as people passed by. Some were dancing, some drinking, some doing both. Amidst the music and lights, memories of Adira managed to creep back into my head.

  I got some time to reflect upon what had happened those last few days in Australia. I could see that I was probably overreacting. Angad could just be a jealous friend who wanted me to stay away from Adira, and he had planted all this in my head, with my help of course. Maybe Adira had nothing to do with any of this. The more I thought about it, the more I saw things in a different light. I was finally looking beyond what Angad had made me see, and I realized how shallow I had been because of that one jealous moment when Angad said something. All it took was a few words to forget all that Adira and you had built—I wondered why. I always wanted to be with her, even when she didn’t know my name, and now when there was a chance, I had blocked her out of my life. Maybe it was fear of some sort. Maybe I thought that she was too good for me, and that I was not perfect for her. Probably, I was worried about losing her before I’d even had the chance to get her.

  I had ignored her texts and phone call when they were at the Great Ocean Road, and I’d ignored her completely on the flight. I had to be brave and talk this out with her. I realized that so far it had been the totally wrong way to approach the situation. I needed to act maturely. Better late than never, I told myself.

  Standing there, in the middle of the crowd, I could think better than I’d done sitting alone in my room. Despite all the noise that surrounded me, I could hear the pleas of my heart better than I had in the silence of my own space. It took me a split second to fish out my mobile phone from my pocket and type a message to her.

  Two hours went by very painfully as all I did was look at my phone which stared back at me in disappointment. Call her, I knew it made sense. So, I found my way out of the chaos to call and maybe apologize to her. I called her number, and surprisingly, her phone was switched off. I wondered what had happened. Maybe she has blocked you, I really needed to watch my thoughts—they were my real enemy at times.

  I took a cousin’s phone and dialled her number just to check if what I thought was true. Thankfully it wasn’t. Her phone was actually switched off, though I would have preferred to talk to her and find out why she had blocked my number instead. At least that meant all was well with her, and my worries could take a break.

  As I was returning and thanking my cousin for lending me phone, I saw my mother stomping over to us. The look on her face was full of anger and irritation, and I guessed it had something to do with the NRIs. Unfortunately, it didn’t. Somehow, I had managed to miss three of her phone calls, and she was there to scold me in front of everyone without considering the fact that I was no longer a kindergarten student—typical of my mom.

  Once her lecture on how careless and reckless I am was over, she came closer to me and screamed with all her force into my ears, ‘Chalo, I want you to meet someone.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked her, but the music was still on, and people on the dance floor were crazily screaming as well, which meant that my voice was lost in the melee. I wondered who was going to meet me there and get bored listening to all of my achievements, primarily my work (which no one understood) and the fact that I had just returned from Australia, as there was hardly anyone at the party whom I did not know already.

  Mummy held my hand tightly, and we walked towards a table in the corner of the hall. Two pretty girls and three middle-aged women sat at the table full of food and drinks. Thankfully, the music was not as loud around that table, and none of us had to shout our greetings to one another.

  ‘This is your Seema aunty. You remember her, don’t you?’ my mother gestured towards the lady sitting next to the two girls. Honestly, I didn’t know her, but I did know the drill to be followed whenever I met a ‘your’ aunty. I was supposed to bend down and touch the lady’s feet, and smile at her as if we have known each other for ages. She would pat my back or hit me on my head, or worse, kiss me on my cheek, tattooing me with her red lips. I did exactly what was expected and repeated the drill two more times for the other two ladies at the table who were ‘my’ Seema aunty’s sisters. All three of them patted my back, and I was finally allowed to take a seat.

  By now I knew I was being introduced to girls for an arranged match. People think that usually only girls in India are nagged, blackmailed and sometimes even forced to get married after they attain a certain age. Well, boys too are often not spared. They too are blackmailed, taunted or forced when it comes to getting married. The day I got my first job appointment letter, my mother started looking for excuses to tell me that I shouldn’t wait forever to get married, and then a few evenings later, the torturous rounds of arranged-marriage meetings began.

  ‘And this is Bhavna,’ my mother introduced me to one of the girls, who was looking as disinterested in meeting me as I was in her. With our respective mothers around, we extended our hands for a formal hello, and then busied ourselves with our phones—mindlessly scrolling, to be specific. Our mothers too began with stupid, aimless work banter about whose kid was better and why they were the better party if a match were to take place.

  Fifteen minutes later, I finally raised my eyes from the screen. Not that anyone had asked me to—I had run out of scrolling options after a session on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, YouTube and then back to Facebook. I looked at the faces of all the females around me. I realized that the younger women looked like the same person dressed in different clothes—Twins probably, I concluded unnecessarily. My mother realized that I was back in the meeting and began probing Bhavna, ‘So beta, tell us about your workplace.’

  Resting her hands on her lap, the girl began a pre-rehearsed introduction to her work. The only thing I heard was that she was working in a bank near my office. Thereafter, I lost her, and my mind drifted back to Melbourne. Sometime later, when I came back to their discussion, I heard Bhavna’s mother merrily listing some facts about her daughter while trying to arrange another meeting, ‘. . . Bhavna is a great cook. Why don’t you guys plan a lunch with us the coming Sunday? You can meet Bhavna’s father too . . .’

  I couldn’t take the yo-yo of thoughts any more, and I was well aware that sitting there would do me no good. So, I politely excused myself from the party and walked away, even though I felt my mother’s glare almost burn my back as I headed towards the exit. It was the only place where there was less noise. My mind was empty as I waited for my mother for what felt like an eternity. I knew she would follow me there. I was done for the day. I had had enough food, met many of my cousins, heard all about prospective brides, had been glared at by my mother more than enough times, was tired and had to return to work the next day. I explained all this to Mummy, who had nothing to say and agreed to head back. Dad had already gone back home with Rohit like he usually did at family gatherings—his fake headache always appeared magically at around 9 p.m., and Rohit was ready, as always, with his bike, at his beck and call. By 10 p.m. Dad is tucked in his bed and snoring.

  On our way back, Mummy told me how she thought that I wou
ld soon be past my sell-by date in the wedding market. ‘You have just returned from abroad and will get the best matches right now. It is now or never. If we miss this chance, you will have to settle for a less-than-ordinary wife.’ I wanted to remind her that I was not beyond ‘ordinary’ myself, so how and why does she expect an above-average bride for me? But then Adira is not ordinary or average; she is way out of my league. But why do we have these leagues in the first place? Why are these leagues based on looks? I could not disagree with and hate the grading system more than I did when I realized how important it was for everyone, including my own mother.

  Back home, Bhavna and her mother were all that my mother could talk about as she prepared midnight tea for both of us. I couldn’t sleep and kept dialling and redialling Adira’s number, and Mummy couldn’t sleep with all the excitement after meeting her future daughter-in-law. I was sure she was going to dream about future kids that night!

  Who have you been calling?’ she couldn’t help asking after my hundredth attempt to call Adira.

  ‘No one . . . Rohit, actually . . .’ I lied, and bit my tongue. I hated lying to my mother but how could I tell her that I was obsessing about the whereabouts of a girl I had a nameless relationship with.

  ‘Talk to me then,’ she said, looking at me. I was supposed to put my phone away at this point. ‘Seema Aunty wants to talk to you,’ she said, holding my hand tightly as she started talking again.

  ‘I do not remember Seema Aunty or her sister, Mummy. What will I talk to her about?’ I asked her honestly. ‘Have I even met her before?’

  ‘You are right; you have never met her before, but that does not matter,’ she said, giggling. She started to tell me about this new Seema aunty.

  ‘Okay, so Seema is the wife of Dr Chadda, the vet in Amar Colony who had this huge bungalow in the lane next to Nani’s house. The yellow one. Do you recall seeing it?’

  I knew the place she was talking about, although I still could not figure out who these people were. But at this point, I was very far from saying no to her. ‘Yes, I have,’ I lied.

  She continued, ‘Nani told her about your big job when you were in Australia, and we are trying to fix you up with Bhavna . . .’

  By the time I went to my room, I was happy with myself as a son. Mummy and I had had a good conversation. Sometimes in life, you do not need big words of wisdom to clear your head; sometimes all you need is a cup of tea with your mother who would talk endlessly about things that don’t matter to you, but seeing her happy, smiling and excited takes away all the stress and uncertainty of the future. My situation with Adira was still the same, but I was not thinking the worst any more. I picked up a pen and opened the notepad in front of me to scribble my thoughts before hitting the sack. It was a long-lost habit.

  The next day I woke up with the same words inside my head that I had etched on the paper the night before:

  ‘Love filled a space in my heart, a space which I did not know even existed. It was like a serene sunset. I was mesmerized beyond words by it before it left me alone in the darkness.’

  NEXT DAY AT WORK

  I was late, which was not unusual. I had hardly slept the previous night, so it was nearly impossible for me to arrive on time, and I reached the office at 10.30 a.m. sharp, precisely an hour late. I expected the entire team to be at work and planned to talk to Adira during the break to clear the air.

  Everyone was at their desks, sitting and pretending to work except Adira. She didn’t seem to be in. I occupied my seat and started my pretence. A few months into the job, I had mastered the art. I thought of asking Rajbir about Adira’s absence but as luck would have it, Rajbir too was busy the entire day. He had back-to-back meetings, and it didn’t look right to invade the only breathing space that he had during his lunch hour for a personal inquiry. But I had to know, so I decided to talk to Prateek, another senior guy in the administration team, who was in charge of attendance. My luck never favours me, and that day was no exception. Prateek was also not available since he was working from home.

  I did not know who else to ask about Adira’s whereabouts but resolved not to think the worst and kept trying her number. I had to wait until the next day for a meeting with Prateek, so most of my first day back at work was spent worrying about Adira. I wrote and rewrote a report three times before getting it right and sending it to the client, only to realize that I had sent the email to a wrong email id, such was my state of mind.

  At around 5 p.m., luckily, I spotted Sakshi, Adira’s friend, strolling towards the pantry for a coffee break. I followed her in there like a puppy.

  ‘Sakshi!’ I called her name a little too loudly. Three other girls turned their heads towards me and laughed in unison. Lowering my head to hide my embarrassment, I walked towards Sakshi and smiled to initiate a conversation. I had hardly spoken to her at work since we had become team members or during our stay in Melbourne. Now when I think of it, I know why Sakshi’s face had a Why are you talking to me? look when I inquired about her life.

  ‘So, where is Adira?’ I finally managed to ask when I realized that she was already bored of the conversation and had started fidgeting with her phone. It was an indication that the conversation was about to end, and so was her break.

  ‘I am not sure, yaar. Her phone is switched off. I thought you might know. She did not even turn up for Angad’s birthday last night when we had made plans to party at . . .’ Sakshi had a story to tell, but her audience was not interested in knowing the details of Angad’s birthday. So I interrupted her abruptly and shamelessly, something I am not very proud of. ‘Oh, okay, I am not on a break. I shall talk to you about his birthday during my break,’ I lied to her, not that she seemed to mind. She was a busy girl, and she got a call at the same moment as I headed back to my seat.

  It was a painful night, but like all things it too passed. The next day as soon as I reached work, I paid my visit to Prateek’s desk.

  ‘I know her phone is switched off,’ he told me in a calm tone when I worriedly informed him that a team member, who lived alone in the big city, was missing and no one had seen or spoken to her since we came back. ‘She did not do the right thing by vanishing like this. I tried to call her as soon as I got to know from Rajbir,’ he added.

  ‘What did she not do right?’ I asked him. To my surprise, he paused to check his emails. How could he tell me only half of the information, that too like a riddle, get then continue his work!

  ‘Oh, I thought you knew! Adira has resigned.’ He told me, shrugging his shoulders. His eyes were still glued to his laptop screen.

  I did not prolong our conversation. I thanked him, and then with all my effort, I dragged my feet back to my work desk, where I was supposed to be all this time. She’d resigned! Finally, I let the words out with a gush of air. To say that I was shocked is an understatement—my world had turned upside down.

  It took a while for it to sink in that Adira had resigned and had cut off all her colleagues from her life, including me. So, no matter what you thought, you were just a colleague for her. The obvious played in my mind on a repeat mode all day. That explained why she did not even bother to reply to my messages on Facebook.

  So there I was, worried sick and fearing the worst, all last night and the night before. I had prayed hard that all the evil thoughts which had managed to find their way into my head were untrue. There are very few times in my life when I have wiped the tears from the corners of my eyes in for someone other than myself, but that night, with my mind on an overdose of emotions, more than a few tears trickled down and found their way on to my cheeks and then my pillow.

  But the good news was that she was well, merrily enjoying her life somewhere with new people, new colleagues maybe. I was exactly where I had always been—more in love with her than ever now, after knowing her in the past three weeks. That evening, after bolting the doors of my room at night, I scribbled one line on my diary-:

  She is gone, again and again, and I failed to tell her how
much I loved her . . .

  ONE MONTH LATER

  An orderly life followed in the next thirty-odd days—home-office-home. Nothing worth mentioning happened apart from one message from Adira on Facebook to tell me that she was okay and had gone back to live with her mother in Chandigarh. She had also mentioned that she was looking forward to spending some time away from social media. It was more of an informative, generic message she sent to all her friends who were worried sick about her, like me.

  After receiving her message, I did not even reply to acknowledge that I had received it. But as hopeless as I was, I logged in to Facebook just a few days later to see if she was online and could talk a little. Surprisingly, she had even deactivated her Facebook account. I followed suit and deactivated mine too. After all, I had made the account only for her. I resolved not to bother her if she did not wish to talk to me.

  It was very tough for me to forget her, to forget all that we had, to forget all that we could have had; had she given us a chance to explore the possibilities. At that point, I was convinced that I was not entirely at fault, although maybe I was partially responsible for what happened between us in Melbourne on our last day there. The rest of the responsibility lay with Adira—those were the thoughts in my mind then.

  While I was broken and shaken from within, I threw myself into my office work, so that any time of the day, I had nothing else to think about; this was a deliberate attempt to stay sane. My bosses were impressed with me, or so I was told at the end of every week by Rajbir, and I had no reason not to believe him. He even gave me hints that I was most likely due for a promotion shortly, which meant a better pay cheque would come my way soon. Both my parents were beyond elated when I broke the good news to them. As I had expected, my darling mother spread the story of an impending promotion like wildfire in her social circle, and we started receiving more than the usual number of dinner invites.