THE ONE YOU CANNOT HAVE

by Preeti Shenoy

  ‘Ah-ha! Oh yes. You mentioned him. Your UK-returned boyfriend!’

  ‘Not my boyfriend, Sriram. We hardly know each other, except for a few emails. He is a good friend of Vikram and Dipika. I met him at their place. I mentioned him to you—Aman, remember?’

  I am a little exasperated with him now and want him to get off the phone. I have to yet put on my face pack for this date, and leave it on at least thirty minutes. Talking to Sriram is holding me up.

  ‘Okay okay. If you need me, just call me. Ain’t no mountain high enough,’ says Sriram, singing the popular classic song quite tunelessly and distorting it so completely that I burst into laughter.

  ‘Okay, I will. I have to go,’ I say and I am still smiling when I hang up.

  When I reach the guesthouse, I spot Aman waiting for me outside. I find that rather sweet of him. He is wearing a crisp white cotton shirt with broad light blue stripes, classic faded blue jeans and Caterpillar shoes. He looks great.

  ‘Hey,’ he greets me with a semi-hug and I am enveloped in an all-male woody scent that I instantly like. Then he says, ‘Let me get this,’ and before I can protest, he has paid off the auto guy.

  ‘Hey, Aman. Come on! There was no need to do that!’ I say.

  ‘Too bad, it is done now and good to see you,’ he smiles.

  God, he has become even more attractive since I last saw him.

  ‘Great to see you, Aman. Nice shirt!’

  ‘Oh, thanks. Bought it in the UK,’ he says absently as though he has just noticed it. ‘Do you want to come in? Or do we leave right now?’ he asks.

  I glance at my watch. It is only seven pm.

  ‘We will be too early if we leave now.’

  ‘Right then. Let’s hang around here for some time,’ he says as he escorts me in.

  The guesthouse is wonderfully done up. With Italian marble flooring, luxurious sofas that you can sink into, a large chandelier dominating the room, muted pastel modern art on the walls, carpets your feet disappear into, it is as good as the lobby of a five-star hotel.

  ‘What an awesome place!’ I can’t help exclaiming. ‘Your organisation sure knows how to take care of you! And here I am, stuck as a writer living in a little room, that passes off as a one BHK apartment!’ I say.

  ‘Oh, this is just for two months, till I get my place. I am looking, by the way. Looking to rent a place close to office.’

  ‘Okay, get a copy of the Ad-mag. It is this weekly paper that has ads and ninety per cent of them are property listings. It’s very useful. I also know a few real estate agents. If you want, I can put you in touch with them,’ I offer.

  ‘That’s very kind of you. But our company has their brokers and their standard properties. They will help me find a suitable one,’ says Aman.

  I notice the slightly British manner of speaking that he seems to have picked up and it endears him to me all the more.

  ‘See what I mean? Your company pampers you so much!’ I smile in what I hope is a coquettish way. But I don’t think Aman even notices.

  ‘Yeah, as long as you perform. Else you get the axe. They are very clear about that,’ he says, shaking his head and pursing his lips.

  Aman asks me if I will have a fresh lime soda or juice or anything aerated. I am watching my weight. I still need to get rid of four kilos. I weigh 64 kg at a height of 5’6”. I will look awesome if I weigh 60 kg. I watch my calories like a hawk but I don’t want to tell Aman about it. So I settle for fresh lime with just salt, no sugar or ice. Aman asks the staff for an iced tea.

  ‘So what was it like living in the UK?’ I ask.

  ‘Very good in some ways and bad in others,’ he says.

  The writer in me is curious to know more. Being inquisitive and knowing what makes people tick is an intrinsic part of my job and is deeply ingrained in me. I prod him for more.

  ‘Well the bad in the usual sense—you miss your country, you miss being near your parents, my mom in my case, and you feel like an outsider sometimes. But the good thing is the kind of facilities they have. There is a gigantic difference between a developed country and a developing one. There is no comparison,’ he says as he sips his iced tea and I nod in agreement, as though I know exactly what he is saying.

  We make small talk. He tells me about how he had to slightly modify his accent and slow down how he spoke in order to be understood better. He asks me about what I am working on at the moment. The conversation flows smoothly and I secretly congratulate myself on it. By about eight, I tell him that we ought to leave. And as we leave his company guesthouse, he smiles impishly and takes me towards a bike, a splendid one, parked in the garage. Even though I am not a biking enthusiast, I am impressed by this one.

  ‘Guess what, we don’t have to take an auto,’ he says as he turns the key in the ignition.

  ‘Wow! How did you manage this? This is lovely!’ I say.

  Aman handles the bike expertly. I thoroughly enjoy the ride with him. I hold on to his shoulders politely without crossing the ‘you’re-a-friend’ border. What I want to do is stick to him like cling-film. But I don’t want to scare him off.

  The date turns out to be the best I have ever had. The atmosphere inside is electric. I absolutely love the music that this place plays. The dim dance-floor lights, the DJ playing just the right tracks, great ambience, good crowd and most of all, Aman by my side. He is the perfect gentleman, very attentive, and gets me my daiquiri. I stop after three and in between we dance. Aman is not a great dancer, but he copies my moves and we make a good pair on the dance floor.

  Aman doesn’t touch a drop of alcohol though. I am amazed at how responsible he is.

  ‘Come on. Have at least one drink. It must be hard for you, to come to a place like this and not drink,’ I speak in his ear as the music is too loud. He bends down to hear me.

  ‘Oh no. I have to drop you back safely. I cannot risk it. Another time we will take a cab and then we both can totally let go and have fun,’ he says.

  We leave just before midnight and Aman drops me back. Since the next day is a working day, both of us don’t want to stay too long. The streets of Bangalore are empty now and I feel great sitting behind Aman and my hair flying in the wind.

  When we reach my place, he says a polite goodbye and shakes my hand.

  ‘Aww, come on! What’s with the formal hand-shake. I had a super time. Thank you!’ I say as I stand on tiptoe and plant a kiss on his cheek.

  He smiles and says, ‘Bye and take care’, and then zooms off into the night.

  Later as I lie in bed and replay the events of the evening, I realise that Aman, by saying, ‘We will take a cab next time’, has already made up his mind that there is indeed going to be a second date.

  ‘Yes!’ I think as I do a mental air-fist punch and the smile on my face refuses to go away even as I fall asleep.

  Chapter 14

  Shruti

  I don’t know what to do with Rishabh anymore. How much more patience must I show? It is almost a month since he spoke to me like the old times. The new Rishabh is excessively polite. At least if he yelled at me, I could yell right back and we could sort it out. His passive-aggressive anger is now getting to me, wearing me down. I have been trying my best to get things back to normal. But his ‘silent-treatment-and-talk-only-when-needed’ policy is now grating on my nerves. After office stress, this tense atmosphere at home makes me want to scream. I do not know when I will snap. I cannot handle it anymore. I detest the new Rishabh. I want the old one back.

  Of course, I mention nothing of this to my mother when she calls. I pretend everything is happy-go-lucky. I pretend I am having a great time. I tell her about work and we chat about the latest movie. My mother every now and then hints about a baby and I deflect the topic time and again.

  If I go by Asha’s words, having your in-laws with you is even worse. I comfort myself sa
ying that at least I don’t have to deal with that. Rishabh’s parents hate Mumbai. They have lived in Hubli all their lives and are comfortable in the huge palatial house that they have built. His business is very successful and there is no way they will wind up all that and move in with us. So to that extent, I am glad I will not have ‘in-law problems’ like Asha or some of the other women at work who share horror stories about their in-laws during lunch-breaks.

  On Monday morning I wake up feeling like my stomach is on fire. When I sit up in bed, everything spins round and I lie back, unable to focus on anything. I turn towards Rishabh and he is still asleep stretched out on his stomach like he always is.

  ‘Rishabh...’ I call out to him.

  He stirs in his sleep but does not wake up.

  ‘Rishabh, I feel horrible. Please wake up,’ I say again and nudge him a little harder this time.

  ‘What?’ he sits up.

  ‘I feel sick, Rishabh. Something is wrong,’ I tell him.

  ‘What happened?’ he asks, fully awake now.

  ‘I don’t know. If I sit up I feel dizzy,’ I say as I prop myself up in a half-sitting posture on the bed with the help of pillows.

  ‘Lie down, let me get you something to drink. Maybe you will feel better then,’ he says as he gets out of bed and heads towards the kitchen.

  He emerges ten minutes later with a cup of tea.

  This is the first kind act he has done for me ever since the reading the emails fiasco. Even though I feel sick, his act of kindness registers and I am grateful for the tea and I gulp it down. Ten seconds later, I feel bile rising to my throat and I rush to the bathroom and throw up in the toilet bowl. I am unable to even stand and I half-squat and half-sit, clutching the closet.

  A worried Rishabh emerges behind me.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

  I am not even able to reply with the awful taste of puke in my mouth.

  But the retching has now stopped and I feel slightly better as I rinse my mouth and flush. Rishabh holds me as I make my way to the bed.

  ‘Shall I call the doctor?’ he asks.

  ‘No, let’s wait. I don’t know what this is,’ I say.

  ‘Let’s just go. Why wait?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s probably nothing, Rishabh. Maybe last night’s dinner didn’t agree with me. Let’s wait and see,’ I insist. Somehow I detest hospitals after spending so much time in them when my mother was undergoing treatment for her cancer. The smell of hospitals depresses me. I will do anything I can to avoid going.

  Rishabh fetches me a bottle of cold water from the fridge.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asks.

  ‘Positive,’ I say. I am feeling better already but I don’t want to say that to Rishabh just yet. I am enjoying his attention and concern after being deprived of it for nearly a month.

  ‘I will call in sick today and rest. I will be fine,’ I say.

  ‘Should I stay at home too? Are you sure you will be okay?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah. Don’t worry. You go to work. If I feel worse I will call you up.’

  ‘Hmmm… okay,’ he says and then he hesitates a bit and looks at me. I am unable to make out his expression despite knowing him so well. ‘Do you… you know… do you…?’ he says.

  ‘What?’ I ask him, puzzled.

  ‘Do you think you could be pregnant?’ he blurts out.

  I almost laugh. ‘Ha. We haven’t had sex for the past one and a half months at least. It is more than a month since you even spoke to me. How will I conceive? Divine intervention?’ I snap at him though I don’t mean to.

  He looks crushed. Then gets up and walk out without a word.

  I should have remained silent. This was the perfect chance for a truce and I have ruined it.

  I hear him pottering about in the kitchen and I do not budge from bed. I just feel exhausted and tired.

  Before leaving, Rishabh comes to the doorway of the bedroom and says, ‘See you,’ and walks off. The unfriendly, sullen, angry Rishabh is back once more.

  ‘Aaaaaargh,’ I scream after I hear the door shut. I fling a cushion off the bed and it lands a few feet away. I am so angry with him.There is a limit to punishing me for something I did—or rather didn’t do (which is to not have told him about Aman before marriage). Honestly—what was there to say about a relationship that was over?

  But why then were you unable to answer him when he asked you if you still loved Aman?

  Do I? Is it possible to love two people at the same time? I do have a special place in my heart for Aman. But I love Rishabh. Or is that what I have conditioned myself to believe? What is love? These questions go round and round in my head.

  Scenes from my wedding with Rishabh flash before my eyes. I think of the time with him. Though we have got along well, I have never felt as alive with Rishabh as I have done with Aman. The time spent with Aman was simply magic. We used to laugh so much. With Rishabh, it has always been polite ribbing and teasing. Not the kind of easy familiarity and wild abandon that Aman and I shared. Aman understood me perfectly and I, him. There was nothing in the world that was too trivial to share with Aman. We even told each other what we ate, how long we slept and what we were doing throughout the day. We used to speak to each other on the phone for hours, whereas, with Rishabh, even during the time we were engaged to each other, conversations never lasted more than a few minutes. Rishabh is indeed a nice guy but it is Aman who made me feel that the whole world is mine for the asking.

  With Aman, once we talked to each other over the phone the whole night. Finally at five am, we had said goodnight and fallen asleep. I couldn’t of course, wake up in time for college. My parents had been worried and my mother had presumed that I was ill, and had let me sleep. Aman on the other hand, had been woken up by his hostel-mates and had promptly fallen asleep in class and been sent out. I smile at the memory.

  Being in bed the whole day with nothing to do but rest gives me a lot of time to think and my thoughts keep rushing back to Aman. God, I miss him so much now.

  I wonder how he is and if he is happy. I wonder if he thinks of me as much as I think of him. I wonder if he is single or has a girlfriend now. The very thought of a girlfriend causes a sinking feeling in my stomach. It is ridiculous to feel this way, because I am already married and I was the one who walked away from him.

  How could I ever make him understand that it has broken my heart as much as it had broken his? I did what had to be done at that time. My mother’s health was most important. Heck—we did not know if she would even live and I wanted to do everything to make her happy. One crazy illogical part of me even believed that if I perhaps sacrificed my love and did what she wanted me to, perhaps her cancer would go away.

  And strangely, after her breast had been removed, it had. I knew logically that it was supremely foolish of me to think that way—that my action had somewhat played a part in curing her. But the illogical part of me still felt maybe there is something like a ‘pay-off’. And when the person who is closest to you, your parent, is fighting for their life, what choice do you have other than make it as easy as possible for them? That is what I had done.

  Aman was a single child too, just like me. He should have understood. Perhaps if he was in my place, and it was his mother who had been battling for her life, he would have done all that she wanted, who knows.

  I am overcome by a sudden urge to know what Aman is doing right now and how he looks and what is happening in his life. My laptop is right beside me on the chest-of-drawers next to my bed. I sit up and reach out for it and I log in to Facebook. I had blocked him on the day that we had broken up. I go to my profile and see my blocked contacts. Then I unblock him. Instantly I have access to his profile but he isn’t on my friend list anymore.

  I look at his profile picture. A sharp pain passes through me. A deep sense of loss. A dull aching longing. A desire.
Memories. A million emotions.

  My Aman.

  Except that he isn’t mine anymore.

  His profile picture is one of him alone. It is one which I have never seen which means it must have been clicked after we broke up. I look at his cover picture which is different from the profile photo. He seems to be in some foreign country now, judging by his cover picture which shows him and four of his friends, all foreigners.

  I am surprised. They seem like good friends too as one of the foreigners has his arm around him and he is laughing, looking straight into the camera. There is a girl in the picture too, right next to Aman. She has jet black hair, she is wearing a strapless dress and looks like a super-model. She is gorgeous. I burn with jealousy. I wonder who she is.

  This is ridiculous, I tell myself. You can’t expect him to not move on with his life. You were the one who got married and stomped all over his heart and now you deserve it. Burn!

  And burn I do.

  How can a person still live on inside you for two years?

  I wish now I hadn’t opened his profile and looked at his pictures. I wish I had just let it be. God knows what came over me.

  I feel even more miserable than I did when I was sick. And then once again without warning bile rises to my throat and I run to the toilet and throw up violently.

  I wish now Rishabh had stayed back home to look after me. I wish Rishabh had at least spoken to me and been there for me. Who knows, then, I would not have even bothered to look at Aman’s profile.

  But now I have and the ghosts of the past are back. They are dancing all over my brain. They have overtaken my very soul. Jealousy, longing and desire are very potent to handle even one at a time.

  And now all three are attacking me simultaneously and I have no place to hide.

  In desperation I call up Asha.

  She is in the bus, on the way to work and has all the time in the world to talk. I hear myself pouring out my whole story to her. I tell her every single detail about me and Aman. I tell her about how close we were. I tell her about the four inseparable years. I tell her about how we never envisaged this twist of fate. I tell her how much I miss him and how I long for him. I tell her about how Rishabh has been treating me for the past month ever since he read those mails. I tell her about how I am burning with jealousy ever since I saw the foreigner chick with him in the snap. I am dying to know who she is. I just want someone to understand what I am going through. I just want Asha to tell me it is fine and to hang in there.