THE ONE YOU CANNOT HAVE

by Preeti Shenoy

  Vikram talks about how the new Chairman Steve Bagshaw is taking over and how sharp he is. He talks about a leadership forum that he recently attended and how forthright Steve was. He says he is a total go-getter unlike some of the older ones he has had in the past. He talks about the changes he has made in the reporting structure and Dipika joins in.

  ‘So you guys are having beer, eh? And nothing for me?’ she looks questioningly at her husband as she flops down next to him.

  ‘Sorry, darling. I forgot to ask you what you will have. What can I get you, my lady?’ asks Vikram with exaggerated politeness.

  ‘Some red wine will be nice, my lord,’ replies Dipika without missing a beat and she winks at me.

  I am not sure what to make of that wink. Is she flirting with me?! I am a little taken aback and I shift uncomfortably in the plush leather sofa.

  Vikram goes to get the wine and Dipika suddenly bends down and fiddles with the strap of the sandals that she is wearing.

  Good Lord. Is she doing this on purpose? I can get a full view of her lacy bra which is some sort of purplish-pink and her breasts spill out invitingly. The erection in my pants is now like a tent-pole. I am so turned on and I cannot tear my eyes away from her.

  She slips off the sandals and straightens up and, for a milli-second, catches me staring. She narrows her eyes and smiles and then tucks her leg in underneath her and undoes the first button of her kurti, looking at me all the while.

  God! I cannot believe it. She is definitely flirting now. And I am finding it increasingly hard to not stare.

  Vikram returns with her wine and I busy myself listening intently to all that he has to say. I nod at appropriate intervals but all the while I can feel Dipika’s eyes boring into me. Her movements seem slow, sensual, like a cat on the prowl and I feel like a prey being hunted.

  Perhaps it is the long journey and the beer that is playing tricks on my mind. How can Dipika flirt with me? I am probably imagining it, after that wild encounter with Tracy/Gracy. My brain has probably gone into sexual overdrive, I tell myself.

  I try harder to pay attention to what Vikram is saying about how the audit report that the team submitted shook up the top management and made them take notice, how the board has, in all probability, decided to stop outsourcing to third parties and how they feel it is imperative to set up their own internal resources. He talks about a role for me in it, perhaps spearheading the whole thing and now he has got my attention. That would be exciting and it would mean a huge leap in my career, from my current role to being involved in setting up this new division. It would be a big challenge and opportunity. Vikram says he is confident that I will deliver and also that it would be good for me, as a career move.

  ‘Hey guys, I am bored. This is not polite. No talking shop,’ interrupts Dipika and she stretches her arms above her head which again thrusts out her breasts. I quickly look away again and tell Vikram that she is right and it isn’t polite to talk shop.

  ‘So how was your stay in the UK? Met any nice firang babes?’ asks Vikram, taking the suggestion and changing the topic.

  ‘Haan, women there are something else but, honestly, I prefer Indian women,’ I say and Dipika smiles at me.

  She says she will set the table and I offer to help.

  ‘No, no, it is all done. I am just heating it up in the microwave,’ she says as she unravels her legs and then once again bends down to fasten the straps of her sandals and I get a good view of her breasts spilling out, yet again.

  Fuck. At this rate, I will probably cum in my pants.

  Is she doing this deliberately? Is she making a pass at me? Or is my imagination actually working overtime? I am not able to decide. Dipika has never done anything like this in the past. What is this new thing she is trying with me? Perhaps I am just thinking too much about it.

  Later we sit down for the meal. Ria and Reema, whose mealtime is a lot earlier, have already eaten. Dipika sits opposite me, and Vikram sits next to her.

  The biryani she has made tastes heavenly. I am eating proper Indian food after very long and relish it.

  Helping myself to the raita, I nearly spill it, when I find Dipika’s bare foot, on mine, under the table, making slow circles on my leg.

  I freeze and stiffen up and the only thing that I can think is, ‘Fuck, I am dead now. Really dead.’

  Chapter 11

  Shruti

  Jealousy is a strange monster. It gobbles up relationships without leaving a trace, only a vileness so foul the stench permeates forever, staining the very soul.

  Ever since the time Rishabh has read those mails exchanged between Aman and me, he has definitely changed towards me.

  Gone is the easy camaraderie that used to be the hallmark of our relationship. It is now replaced by a terse coldness and measured responses to everything he says to me.

  I do not know what to do to make him feel better. I feel miserable about it. Is it so important for him to have known all my relationships before marriage? (Actually I have had only Aman.) Or is the fact that I slept with Aman that is haunting him? I wish he would open up and rave and rant about whatever is bothering him. I wish he would just express his anger instead of bottling it up inside. It would help if he got it out of his system.

  He comes now from office and he places his laptop bag inside the cupboard and settles down in front of the television.

  ‘You remembered to keep the bag inside today,’ I say, trying to lighten the atmosphere, even though I am dying inside at how he is treating me.

  ‘Yes. I don’t want to inconvenience you in any way,’ he says coldly.

  I wish he would go back to being the old Rishabh. I ignore what he has said as I want to make peace.

  ‘Can I get you orange juice?’ I ask.

  ‘No thanks. I am okay,’ he says.

  I sit next to him and put his arm over my shoulder. He yanks it back like my touch has given him an electric shock and says, ‘Just leave me alone, Shruti.’

  ‘Please, Rishabh. Don’t be like this. Come on. It isn’t that I did something behind your back. Please let it go. It was two years back,’ I plead.

  ‘How do I know?’ he says and each of those words stings like a sharp slap.

  The trust is gone now.

  Is he going to look at me through eyes clouded with suspicion from now on? It isn’t as though he never had relationships before we got married. He too has slept with at least two women. I haven’t crucified him for that. Why then can’t he accept the same for me? Why is he so upset?

  There is only one way to find out and so I decide to ask him.

  ‘Look, Rishabh. You also had your share of flings before marriage, didn’t you? It isn’t like you were a virgin, right? Then why in the world are you making such a big deal of this?’

  ‘Shruti. It was different for me. I was never involved with them emotionally. I did not love them. They meant nothing to me,’ he spits out the words in contempt.

  I do not know what to say. Is loving someone a crime? Is getting emotionally involved with someone so wrong? Would he have been okay if I had had multiple one-night stands and not gotten emotionally involved? I am unable to understand his logic. But I do not want to argue with him right now. I just want to make peace.

  ‘Shall we go out for dinner?’ I ask

  ‘No. Not in the mood,’ he replies.

  ‘I haven’t cooked.’

  It is an unspoken understanding between us that dinner is usually fixed by whoever gets home first. And on days that both of us are too tired to cook, we eat out. On a normal day, if I had told him that I hadn’t cooked, he would have either suggested that we go out or he would have offered to fix something. But I think the ‘normal days’ are gone. It has been a week since he read those mails and he still shows no signs of forgiving. It is almost as if the old Rishabh has been thrown out and in his place is t
his angry, grouchy person who feels wronged. I want to shake him and tell him to quit being so silly. But I guess he is entitled to his anger. After all, he has been completely open and transparent with me about his past relationships but I haven’t been the same. I have wished a hundred times that I had at least told him in passing—casually, like it was no big deal. We had talked about our relationships many times, and when he had asked me I had said that I only had silly schoolgirl crushes and since I went to a women’s college, he too had presumed that I probably hadn’t met a whole lot of guys, which was the truth. I had no one in my life except Aman.

  I recall the first time that I met Aman. Our respective colleges were participating at a cultural festival in his engineering college and it was one of Bangalore’s best intercollegiate fests. What caught my eye was that he was wearing the same shirt as I. I had represented my college in the personality contest. I had shopped for a Van Huesen shirt (a huge luxury in my student days) and picked a dark-blue one with white pin-stripes. Aman had been chosen to represent his college for the personality contest and had worn the same shirt as mine. When the participants met backstage, I had immediately spotted this. He hadn’t noticed it and saw me smiling at him. He approached me and introduced himself and asked if I knew him. I replied that I did not know him but his shirt sure looked familiar. That was when he had noticed the coincidence and we had burst out laughing. Even now that memory brings a smile to my face. Aman had won the personality contest. We had gone out for coffee afterwards and that was how it had all started.

  We had hit it off and had exchanged numbers. He was living in a hostel and had a lot more freedom than me. But I was good at making excuses and I lied blatantly to my parents to meet him. Soon our dates had increased and before we realised it, we were in a relationship. Aman was so easy to be with. He made me feel light-headed and special. The time I spent with him left me with an all-time high. He was intoxicating. His company was pure dynamite—I had never felt so alive in my entire life. He made me feel cherished, and how he made me laugh. I recall how much we had roamed the streets of Bangalore together. I remember how we had even visited the Visvesvaraya science museum once, as we had run out of ideas for dates, and surprisingly we had enjoyed it.

  ‘Let’s have Maggi,’ says Rishabh, interrupting my thoughts and I am startled out of my reverie. God, I am still thinking of Aman and actually enjoying thinking of him, while my husband is mad at me.

  ‘Okay, I will make it,’ I say and jump up eagerly to camouflage my guilt.

  I hope that Rishabh will eventually come round. I go about my business as usual. I am polite and nice to him. He is curt and cold.

  Three days later, things continue to be tense between us. Rishabh hasn’t thawed even a tiny bit. I am frustrated and angry now. I have a huge workload at office, as I am handling the work of a colleague who has gone on vacation. And when I come home, the last thing I want is to confront an irritable spouse.

  I try my best to not let my irritation show but it is getting increasingly hard. Rishabh has got home earlier than me today but shows no signs of budging from the television.

  ‘Hey, when did you get back?’ I greet him as I plonk down my handbag on the dining table and sink into a chair and kick off my heels.

  He does not respond.

  ‘Hello, I asked you something. At least reply,’ I say.

  ‘Shhh... Can’t you see I am watching TV?’ he snaps at me.

  That does it. This has gone on for long enough now.

  I jump up and grab the remote from him and switch off the television.

  He tries to grab it back but I am too quick. I dodge him and thrust it behind my back and I stand defiantly looking at him, challenging him to have a physical brawl with me if he wants it.

  ‘Shruti—stop acting childish and give me the remote,’ he says, his eyes blazing.

  ‘Look, Rishabh, we need to talk. This has gone on for many days now. Do you realise we haven’t had a proper conversation about it? Enough is enough. I explained everything to you. I told you I have buried the past long back. But yet you insist on acting like you have the whole world’s burden on your shoulders,’ I say.

  ‘Just shut up, Shruti,’

  ‘No. I will not shut up.’

  ‘Your handbag is on the table and your heels are lying next to it. You are making the house untidy. Go and put them away.’

  ‘Don’t try and change the topic, Rishabh. I told you I want to settle this once and for all. This has gone on long enough.’

  He is silent for a while. I am not willing to let him go so easily. So I continue standing there and look at him till he has no choice but to speak.

  ‘Very well. Then listen. I am very upset about this discovery. We have been together for almost two years and today I feel I don’t know you at all. You aren’t the person I thought you were and I was such a naïve fool to have been taken in by all that you said. What else have you been lying to me about?’

  ‘Rishabh—I never lied, okay?’

  ‘I wasn’t the one who hid things from the person I am married to. That is honestly the worst thing anyone can do. So you married me on the rebound, is it? Or did you marry me to please your parents?’

  ‘Look, Rishabh, we have been through this and I don’t want to discuss it. I have had a tough day at office.’

  ‘You were the one who brought it up, Shruti. I didn’t. I was watching TV quietly.’

  ‘Rishabh, I am tired of fighting like this. Can we just forget this whole thing, please?’ I ask him.

  I want him to just give me a hug, and I want all of this to be forgotten.

  ‘Shruti,’ he says and there is a kind of finality in his voice. A kind of acceptance and defeat, a kind of quiet resignation. ‘I will forget about it. After all, I have grown to love you. But the question here is not whether I will forget. Will you ever be able to forget him?’ he asks.

  And his question breaks my heart.

  Chapter 12

  Aman

  Dipika’s playing footsie is freaking me out. There is no doubt now that it wasn’t my overactive imagination. What she is doing is deliberate. I shift my chair back a little and move my legs away very subtly.

  She is smiling coyly at me now and Vikram is saying something about catching a movie the next day. I am only half able to focus on what he says.

  ‘Sure, I don’t mind,’ I hear myself saying.

  ‘What about you, Dipika? Do you want to come?’ asks Vikram.

  I am certain that Dipika hasn’t heard a single word of what Vikram is saying. Or perhaps she has.

  ‘Yeah, of course. I wouldn’t want to miss it,’ she says.

  ‘Since when did you start liking action movies? It is all gore and blood, you know,’ says Vikram.

  ‘Hmmm, it has been so long since I saw a movie that I wouldn’t mind watching even a black and white documentary as long as I get to go to the multiplex,’ she says.

  I hurriedly finish the rest of the meal and push my chair back without making it obvious, so that Dipika cannot reach my foot.

  ‘You have hardly eaten, Aman! What happened? Didn’t you like Dipika’s cooking?’ asks Vikram.

  ‘Of course, it is lovely. It’s just that I am feeling a bit queasy. Maybe the long travel and difference in time zones,’ I reply.

  ‘Oh yes. You must be tired. Go and rest, Aman. Let me show you to the guest bedroom,’ says Dipika.

  ‘Yeah, you do that. I want to catch this NBA game and we’ll all go out for dinner in the evening,’ says Vikram, as he proceeds upstairs to the AV room to watch his match. I recall the room from my visit here last time. Their house has a nice den with an entire wall lined with bookshelves, on which rest an enviable collection of books. They also have their home theatre and collection of movies there.

  ‘Shall I help you clear this?’ I ask Dipika, trying to keep a straight fa
ce. Two years of living in the UK and I cannot for the life of me, not clear up a table when I finish a meal. In the UK, when friends invite you over for a meal, you always help clear up. You even help them do the dishes.

  ‘No, leave it. The maid will do it. Get your suitcase and bags to the room,’ she says.

  She marches ahead and I pick up my stuff from the floor of the living room and follow her.

  As soon as we’re inside, I glance outside and make sure that Vikram is out of earshot. I can hear the TV upstairs and I am certain that he must be fully engrossed in it. I whisper to her, ‘Hey, listen. What was that all about?’

  She giggles and says, ‘Come on, Aman. I was just having some fun. No need to get so serious about it.’

  ‘Fun? I nearly had a heart attack,’ I say.

  ‘Oh really? Why? Am I that irresistible?’ she asks as she moves closer and I hold my breath. I am hard now and I hope she hasn’t noticed it.

  I take two steps back.

  ‘Dipika, please. You’re my friend’s wife. Not even my friend—my mentor, guide, everything, I look up to Vikram and, honestly, you are putting me in a spot here.’

  ‘Come on, Aman. Don’t tell me you don’t want me. Vikram doesn’t have to know everything, you know, and it is not that I intend leaving him or anything,’ she says and smiles.

  I am shocked. Here she is, blatantly suggesting a ‘no-strings-attached’ affair. For a brief few seconds I am tempted. But then I consider Vikram—all that he has done for me, how he has helped me, what he means to me and most importantly his position in the organisation. You don’t mess with guys like Vikram.

  It takes me only a few seconds to decide. Thanks, but no thanks. I would rather be safe than sorry.

  ‘Dipika, you’re a married woman and a mother to two lovely girls. How can you say things like that?’ I ask her, trying to kind of make her feel a little guilty. After all, it is not me who has made a pass at her.

  But she is unfazed. ‘Don’t be such a holier-than-thou. And don’t act like you have never done anything like this before.’