THE ONE YOU CANNOT HAVE

by Preeti Shenoy

  He does not answer. His expression is one that I have never seen before. A kind of silent rage. I get a sinking feeling. Something does not feel right.

  ‘Hey baby—I am sorry, okay?’ I apologise further.

  Yet he is quiet.

  So I am silent till we reach home. In the elevator, I try to hold his hand but he pulls it away. There is nothing left for me to do except follow him meekly.

  It is only after we enter our apartment and he closes the door behind him, that he speaks.

  And what he says sends a chill down my spine and tautness in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘Who the fuck is Aman?’ he asks as he looks at me accusingly.

  A million thoughts run through my mind. How does he know about Aman? Why is he asking this now? I haven’t had any contact with Aman for the last two years. Heck, I don’t even know where he is. Who has told Rishabh about Aman? And why is he angry?

  Rishabh is looking at me accusingly now. He is waiting for answers.

  And I have no idea what to say.

  Chapter 8

  Aman

  The first thing I feel as soon as I see her picture is utter shock and a strange sense of disbelief. I stare at the picture that has popped up with her name. She has changed her name. She calls herself Shruti Prasad now. I stare for a few more seconds to see if my slightly drunken mind is making a mistake. It isn’t. It is her all right. She has cut her hair short now. Very short. When I used to know her, she had long tresses. I loved burying my face in her hair. It was straight and silky and the memories pelt me like a sudden downpour. I remember the familiar smell of her hair—she always smelt so good. I loved running my fingers through her hair. But now it is so short, almost like a boy’s. She is looking into the camera and smiling. She seems happy and carefree.

  And he is there right next to her, with his arms around her. In the exact same pose of my treasured picture with her which she had stuck in the scrapbook she made for me.

  It rips me apart. Shreds my heart to bits. It is as though someone has smashed my face with a large mallet. The pain mingled with a sinking feeling now spreads all over me. It is hard to bear. So darn hard. And here I was, thinking I had got over her. She has obviously moved on. It is only me, the sentimental fool, who is still holding on to the book she made for me, and it is only me who is still mooning around for her. I feel like the biggest idiot in the world to have wasted the last two hours looking her up.

  What did you expect? For her to be single and looking for you?

  I do not know what I expected, but I certainly did not expect to feel like this. And what I did not expect is this sudden rush of emptiness and excruciating agony that hit on seeing her picture.

  I want to scream and shout. I want to yell at her. And yet I do not want to feel this way. I want to be free of her. I want to move on. I have to.

  I call up Mark and ask him what he is up to.

  ‘We’re going to be at Jamo’s tonight. Want to join in?’ he asks.

  I accept without a moment’s hesitation. I ask him if he can pick me up and he says he is happy to. I think Mark senses my loneliness. Whatever it is, I sure am glad to be getting out. Sitting alone and thinking of her is becoming unbearable. I need distraction and I need it big time.

  Jamo’s, a bar and nightclub with a dance floor and some electrifying music, is spread over two floors, and is one of the nicer places in Norwich to have a ‘wild night’. They mostly play hip-hop and R&B both of which I do not particularly enjoy, but I don’t care. I just want to forget.

  Andy who is our colleague also joins in and tonight it seems like almost all the best-looking Norwich girls have made their way to Jamo’s. We are a little early and manage to get seating—a low leather couch not too far from the bar or the dance floor. It is a nice place to sit—and we can get a great view of the dancers from here. I down three tequilas straightaway.

  Three hours later, I am too drunk to care. I feel happy and light. Mark has worked his charm and a group of three girls have joined us now. It is funny how we have ‘paired off’. We can hardly hear each other (or even see each other clearly as the lighting is very low) over the sound of the music, but the girl who is sitting next to me (I cannot make out if her name is Tracy or Gracy) has her hand on my thigh and is stroking it, giving a clear indication of what she wants. She tells me that she wants to smoke and we go to the smoking area.

  Thankfully this is quieter and we can have a conversation. Tracy (or Gracy) is wearing a strapless shoulder dress and she has a nice pair. I have to make an effort to not stare at her cleavage. As she sits down to smoke, her already short dress rides a couple of inches up her thigh and it is tantalising. She is so darn attractive.

  ‘Tell me about In-di-yah, yes?’ she drawls. I do not know how much she has had to drink.

  I find her question funny and I am drunk myself.

  ‘Great country. You must come with me,’ I say and laugh.

  ‘Really? I just might take you up on that,’ she says.

  ‘Sure. I would love it,’ I reply.

  ‘You would love what?’ she asks as she narrows her eyes and licks her lips and looks straight at me.

  ‘You taking me,’ I reply.

  She laughs.

  ‘So let’s go?’ she asks.

  It is that simple. I have never done this before. Mark and the gang are professionals at it. Usually, I just go along with them and leave before I get too drunk and before things start ‘heating up’, which basically means pairing off with women looking for some fun. This is the first time I have gone the whole length. I am just a beginner but I am learning fast. I tell her that we can go to my hotel.

  ‘That is great. As I share a home with three girls, unless you don’t mind them watching,’ she giggles.

  ‘Oh no. I wouldn’t want that!’ I say quickly.

  ‘I was only kidding,’ she says and winks, like she does not mean it at all.

  We decide to leave. I tell Mark that I am leaving with her and he winks and gives me a smile as though to say, ‘Enjoy the night, mate.’

  We take a cab to the hotel and she giggles incessantly. She tells me about how she finds In-di-yah fascinating. My hands are stroking her thighs now and she parts her legs, inviting me to explore further. We can’t wait to get to my hotel room and tear off each other’s clothes.

  It has been two years since I last had sex. This feels so good. No wonder Mark and the others do their ‘pulling’ act so often.

  As soon as we are inside the hotel room, we have wild, unrestrained sex. I am overcome with desire and she kisses me aggressively. I am surprised when she even pulls out a condom from her purse. She is unabashed, insatiable, unstoppable—so darn different from Shruti.

  Fuck. I am having drunken sex with another woman and she is still somewhere at the back of my mind. But Tracy (or Gracy) is begging me to do it harder now and I oblige, shutting out everything else, just indulging in pure physical passion and immersing myself in it totally. This feels amazing.

  And at last we are done. The last thing I think of before falling asleep is that I should have done this a long time back.

  The next morning I wake up with a massive hangover. I only vaguely remember the happenings of the previous night. I remember calling up Mark and heading over to Jamo’s and I remember the three girls, particularly the one with the strapless dress.

  Gradually the events of the night come back to me. I vaguely remember having sex with her and feeling terrific about it. I get out of bed and there is a discarded condom lying on the floor. I pick it up, wrap it in a piece of toilet paper and throw it in the bin. I switch on the kettle for some coffee.

  Then I see the note that she has left for me.

  There is her number and she has scribbled, ‘U were awesome. Call me. xo xo’

  I smile and realise that I still do not know if her name
is Gracy or Tracy. But the sex sure has helped ease the pain I was feeling last night.

  Perhaps I would have saved the number had I intended continuing to live in Norwich. But I have a flight to catch in a few hours from now. I have no intentions of seeing her again. So I crumple it up and toss it in the bin, thinking that I must be the only guy on planet Earth to toss away a girl’s number, which she has so willingly given me.

  I log in to my laptop and clear a few pending things. There is a report which has to be sent out before noon today. There are a few mails to be replied to. I also have to go to office and hand over the security key tags and clear my desk.

  I reach office and as I walk along the cobbled streets of Norwich in my heavy overoat, I pass all the familiar landmarks—the Norwich Millenium Library, the marketplace, Jarrolds where I have spent many afternoons, Pret a Manger where I have had lunch so many times, the buskers who sing at street corners, the artists who display their paintings on the fence of St Peter Mancroft Cathedral and the flower shops that have the loveliest of flowers—my thoughts instantly go to Shruti. She loved flowers. Each time I pass the flower shops in Norwich, I think about how she would have loved it and almost instantly I push it out of my mind. I realise that a part of me will definitely miss this town which gave me such a lot, these last two years.

  But another part of me also longs to be back in my own country. I will not need these heavy coats there. I long for street food like chaat and piping hot ragda pattice which you do not get in Norwich at all.

  Finally, I reach office and when I log in, there is a mail from Anjali. She has actually asked me out on a date.

  I smile. Maybe that is just what I need. A nice distraction from all these thoughts of Shruti which are clinging to me stubbornly, refusing to leave me in peace.

  I draft a reply to her telling her that I would love to join her on Monday evening and I hit send.

  I get her reply almost instantly.

  ‘Oh, lovely! Looking forward to it!’ it reads and I smile at her enthusiasm and bubbly nature.

  Later, Mark drops me off at the bus station. There are coaches that drop you off at Terminal Five at Heathrow airport, which is where I will take my flight to India. I prefer the bus to the train, as taking a train will mean changing trains at Liverpool and I do not want to lug my rather large suitcase and my shoulder bag.

  Finally I board the plane to India and I have got a seat right in front, just behind the business class section. I peep in and it looks so comfortable and cozy compared to the economy class where we seem to be packed like sardines. I look longingly at the people who travel business class and think to myself that I will some day get there.

  I finally settle down for the eight-hour flight. I realise that I need to fully exorcise Shruti from my system. There cannot be any more mooning around for her.

  She has moved on and so should I.

  The more I think about it, the more my head tells me that Anjali is exactly what I need right now. But my heart still refuses to listen.

  Shut up heart. I have had enough of you.

  Of course, I have no idea about what lies in store. I think about how badly I am looking forward to finally being in India. I have no idea that the saying, ‘The road to hell is paved with good intentions’, is about to come true. I have no idea what I am setting myself up for. And so I drift off into a peaceful sleep, presuming that I am starting a new chapter in my life, not knowing that at times, the unfinished ones come back and haunt you, dance on your head and suck every darn thing out of you, till you are reduced to a jumbled mess of nothingness.

  Chapter 9

  Shruti

  I do not know what to say and so I remain silent.

  ‘There is something you are hiding from me, Shruti. I asked you a simple question. Who is Aman and why haven’t you told me about him all this time?’ Rishabh’s tone is low and controlled. As though he is holding himself back.

  I do not know why I feel guilty. After all, it is not as though I have cheated on Rishabh. Rishabh’s tone has made my throat go dry. My hands have gone cold. I am acting as though he has caught me having sex with Aman. I am nervous and I do not know why I feel so.

  ‘Look, I can explain,’ I say, my brain furiously searching for explanations. How do I tell him about the four years that I have spent with Aman? How can I tell him that I never thought about a future without him? That every waking moment during those four years were spent in thoughts of each other. That he loved me more than life itself and I loved him back. And that I never expected my parents to take such a hard stand and, worse, I never expected to not have the strength to oppose them. My mother was in such a state. Things were so different then. There was also that scene between Aman’s mother and my parents too. There is just too much history for me to tell Rishabh.

  Besides, I also wanted to start life over on a clean slate. I wanted to leave all that behind. And I have indeed not contacted Aman, even though I have thought often about him, worried about him and even secretly said prayers for him, almost every day.

  How in the world can I confess all of this to Rishabh?

  ‘Aman is history. I haven’t been in touch with him for the past two years,’ I finally manage to say.

  ‘What I meant is, why didn’t you speak about him till now? Haven’t I told you about all my past relationships, all my ex-girlfriends? Have I ever hidden anything from you?’ he accuses.

  Have you ever considered that it might be because I am open enough to listen to you and not judge you, but you might not do the same?

  ‘You have. You haven’t hidden anything.’

  ‘Then? Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?’

  ‘Why do you want to know, Rishabh? I told you, it is history. And how did you find out about Aman? Who told you?’

  ‘If there is nothing, why are you hesitating so much?’

  ‘Why are you insisting so much? And you still haven’t told me how you came to know.’

  He looks at me with an expression that is hard to comprehend.Then he looks at the dining table which has my laptop on it. My email account is open. That is when it sinks in.

  Rishabh has gone through my emails.

  Which means he has read all those private messages between Aman and me. Shit. There must have been hundreds. I feel like sinking into the earth. There is such a lot Aman and I have shared. I quickly try and remember if there were any mails that were explicit. I do not recall. There probably were. We were so madly in love.

  It is horrifying to know that Rishabh has had access to all of this. Nobody, no one other than Aman and I were meant to read any of that. It was highly personal, very private and so darn intimate. And now here is Rishabh questioning something that I shared with a guy before he even came into my life.

  I am hurt now. He has no business going through my personal stuff. How dare he. And how can he question me like this now. Like I am some criminal. I feel wrecked. I feel angry. I am a vortex of emotions.

  ‘Why did you go through my mails? And how the fuck did you log into my account?’ I ask.

  ‘Because you fucking left it open. I did not even know it was open. I logged in to find your office board numbers to contact Asha. Then I saw you hadn’t logged out of your account. So I thought, I would find Asha’s email id as that would be faster as she might be on Blackberry and would see the mail instantly, which she did by the way. I was bloody worried about you. Is that a crime?’ he asks and his voice has lost that controlled calm.

  I don’t know what to say.

  ‘So after you contacted her, you decided to go through my mails, is it? You pervert. You... you creep.’ I am upset now and so angry that I am unable to speak.

  ‘Watch your words, Shruti. I was not thinking as I was worried. I was desperately trying to reach Asha, and while searching for Asha, Aman popped up. It caught my attention because you said you liked th
e name. And I wondered who this Aman was whom you have never mentioned before.’

  ‘And so you decided to find out. And read all the mails. How could you, Rishabh? How the hell could you? Don’t you have any concept of privacy? Do I ever go through all your personal stuff? Have I ever once logged into your email account?’

  ‘I too hadn’t, till now. But I want to know who this Aman is and what your relationship with him was.’

  ‘How will that matter? It is over. It was in the past.’

  ‘Have you slept with him?’

  ‘So is this all about that? Why the hell should I answer that?’

  ‘Because it matters to me.’

  ‘What do you want me to do? Give you a performance scorecard? Aman versus Rishabh? Grow up. I told you it was in the past and it is over. I haven’t contacted him since.’

  ‘No? Are you sure? I am not so sure now, after reading all those mails. How do I know you aren’t texting him?’

  ‘God, Rishabh. I cannot believe this. Are you suspecting me? Are you seriously thinking that I am hiding something from you?’

  ‘Heck yes. Till now I didn’t. But now I feel I do not know you any more, Shruti. If you could hide such a huge thing all this while, God knows what else you have been hiding.’

  I do not know what to say to that. In a marriage, trust is the biggest thing between partners. If the trust is gone, the relationship stands on fragile legs. Right now the legs have taken a huge beating. I haven’t yet recovered from the shock that Rishabh has gone through something so darn private, something that he had no right to, and even before I have recovered from that, he has unleashed another arsenal on me—that he suspects my fidelity. I don’t even know how to react. On the one hand, is the hurt. On the other is the guilt of hiding such a big part of my life from him (even though it was over two years back—or am I feeling guilty because deep down I haven’t yet got the closure?). Added to that is anger at his having snooped through my mail. In hindsight, I should have deleted them. Then there would have been ‘no evidence’. But it is too late for that now. Besides I never even thought in my wildest dreams that Rishabh would sink so low.