THE ONE YOU CANNOT HAVE

by Preeti Shenoy

  ‘Then what is the harm in meeting him? Nobody is forcing you to get married and this is indeed a good match,’ says my mother.

  She is right, of course. How long can I hang around for Aman who is blow-hot, blow-cold? Maybe Dipika is right after all. Perhaps I am idealistic and foolish. Perhaps I am just holding on to some outdated notions of love which are not relevant when it comes to marriage.

  But no matter how much I try to be excited at the prospect of meeting Mr Washington, I don’t feel even the smallest bit of joy. Maybe I will feel it later. Maybe I will be dazzled when I meet him. After all, Aman hasn’t even hinted that he would like a relationship.

  What then am I holding on to? Some kind of vague notion of love? Some secret fantasy that Aman will declare his undying love for me? How silly and foolish is that.

  Late that night I text Dipika and tell her that I have been thinking and all that she said makes sense. I tell her to set up a meeting with Vipul and as an afterthought I add that I am looking forward to it.

  Chapter 24

  Aman

  I must be the only man on planet Earth to turn down the advances of a gorgeous woman who is practically throwing herself at me. I suppose I should have been happy about that kiss and elated that Anjali fancies me. The chemistry between us is sizzling too.

  Ironically, that is precisely why I have to be doubly sure of what I am doing. Right now, I do not want complications. It was bloody hard for me to stop when she started kissing me. All I wanted to do was follow her to her house, push her onto the bed and make love to her right then and there. She is ravishingly attractive and does not even realise how much she sets my blood racing. I am rock hard right now. It has taken me supreme will-power to resist her offer. But somehow I know it is the right thing. Anjali is a great girl and I think we ought to be ‘officially in a relationship’ before I can have sex with her. I know that Anjali is definitely looking for a relationship. She just isn’t the casual-sex-one-night-stand kind of a girl. Had she been, I guess I would have no problem taking her up on her offer. I do not want to hurt her in any way. And I definitely do not want to lead her on, by having sex with her and then deciding I don’t want to be involved with her anymore. That would leave me with a burgeoning sense of guilt which I do not want to be saddled with.

  Or at least this is the logic that I convince myself with. At the back of my mind is a niggling doubt about what I want. Are these the real reasons? Or is it because the way she kissed me brought back a thousand memories of Shruti? I do not know. All I know is that I couldn’t have gone further.

  I look at my wrist where her fingernails dug into mine. There are five red welts. I smile and think about how Shruti had once grabbed me the same way in a house of horror we had visited at an amusement park. To be honest, I too had been startled as people dressed as mummies and monsters leapt out at you suddenly in the darkness, but I had pretended to be cool and teased her a bit. Once outside, Shruti had laughed at the experience and averred never to go in there again even if someone paid her a million bucks to do so. With a sigh I force myself to push thoughts of Shruti out of my head. I have just had a great time with Anjali and I should stop thinking about Shruti at least now.

  When I check my mails I find one from Mark who says he is arriving on Sunday. He also says he has booked himself at a hotel and would love to meet up.

  I reply immediately telling him to cancel his hotel booking as he is most welcome to use the spare bedroom at my place.

  Mark replies back almost instantly. He says it is kind of me and he would be happy to accept. He says that he has already made arrangements to travel to Bandipur and hence would be staying with me just for a night.

  Then I remember that tomorrow is when my mother arrives too. I pick up the phone to call her, but when I look at the time, I realise that she must be fast asleep. So I just text her, asking her to call me the moment she arrives in Bangalore.

  My mother texts me as soon as she lands the next day. But I see it only two hours later, as we have been in meetings the whole morning. We are in the final stages of implementation and things seem to be in control now. Rao isn’t on my case as much as he used to be earlier and Vikram is mighty pleased with how our whole team has handled the entire project. My guess is that the pressure that all of us have been under will ease a bit from the next week onwards.

  I call my mother and ask her about her journey and her staying arrangements at the university. She sounds happy and excited. She says they have just arrived and have an orientation class in the evening. They have a session the next morning and then they are free for half a day on Saturday and the whole of Sunday. The sessions resume early on Monday morning. I tell her that is fantastic and that I will pick her up on Saturday afternoon. She could stay over and I will drop her back Monday morning. I tell her that Mark too would be visiting. She asks if that would be a problem.

  ‘Oh no, Ma, not a problem at all. The house has two large, fully furnished bedrooms. You and I can share my bedroom and we will give Mark the other one,’ I say. This house that I am currently living in is probably one of the nicest I have ever stayed in. It is even nicer than the place that I had in Norwich, which my mother has never seen.

  I now recall how my mother had come with me to see my hostel when I had got admission for my engineering. I have come such a long way since I want to show her my house as well as my new car. My mother had sold off our car after my father died and we have never owned a car since.

  She says that she will text me her address and asks if I know the place.

  ‘Don’t worry, Ma, I will find it,’ I say.

  My mother loves my new car and it is an emotional moment for her, though I hadn’t thought of it that way.

  ‘I wish your dad had lived to see this day. He would have been so proud of you,’ she says as she blinks back her tears. My memories of my dad are few and faded. But I know it means a great deal to my mother and hence I nod.

  She is even more delighted about the apartment.

  ‘It is so well maintained, Aman,’ she says.

  I know what is coming next and of course I am right.

  ‘Now, you just have to find a nice girl and that will complete the picture,’ she says.

  ‘What picture? Dirty picture?’ I grin.

  ‘Shameless! Talking to your mother like that,’ she says as she playfully pretends to twist my ear and I chuckle.

  ‘So is there anyone special?’ she persists.

  ‘Hmmm. I am not sure, Ma,’ I reply truthfully.

  ‘You aren’t sure if there is anyone or you aren’t sure if she is the one?’ My mother isn’t one to let go so easily.

  ‘I am not sure that she is the one,’ I say.

  ‘And why aren’t you sure? What is wrong with her?’

  ‘Maaa, there is nothing wrong! Stop it please,’ I beg her.

  ‘If there was nothing wrong, you should have got married by now,’ she says simply.

  There exist some things that give Indian parents great joy. One is the supreme happiness that they derive out of getting their adult children married. The other great joy for Indian parents is feeding their children, stuffing them with food, even when they say they are full. The third is of course sending them for tuitions and telling them to study at every given opportunity. Thankfully I can escape the third, and the second I do not mind. But there is no respite from the first one. I sincerely believe, if Indian parents were asked to list their hobbies, these three things are what would figure most, whether they admit it or not.

  ‘Marriage isn’t high on my priority list right now and you know that,’ I tell my mother.

  She sighs. ‘So will you introduce her to me or no? When do I get to meet her?’

  ‘Ma, there isn’t anything like that.’

  ‘Okay, invite her over, Aman. I would like to meet your friends, get to know them,’ she insists. />
  I know that my mother will not let this go easily. I know that what my mother wants she usually gets. And right now she seems to be on a ‘let-me-check-out-this-girl-my-son-is-not-so-sure-of’ mode.

  ‘Fine, I will,’ I say and I text Anjali, asking her if she wants to join us for dinner tomorrow, and that Mark and my mother would be there. She replies saying she would love to.

  I tell my mother that Anjali will be joining us and I warn her not to talk about marriage at all.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ she says and makes an action of zipping up her mouth. I laugh and put my arm around her. Over the years my mother has become more my friend than a parent. Many people grow crabby when they grow old, but my mother has kept herself fit, active and her only ‘flaw’ if it can be called that is pestering me to get married. That I can live with, I think to myself as she ruffles my hair fondly, just like she used to do all those years ago.

  My mother says she will cook dinner.

  ‘That will be awesome, Ma. Actually I was just planning to order food, assuming you’d be tired or not in the mood.’

  ‘No, I am not that old to be tired and exhausted that I can’t cook. Especially when a potential daughter-in-law is visiting,’ she teases.

  ‘Maaaa, please. We are not even in a relationship,’ I protest.

  ‘Since when has that become a requirement for marriage? Your father and I, we were not in a relationship at all,’ she grins, knowing that she is infuriating me further.

  I throw up my hands and roll my eyes and she chuckles and calls me her marriage-phobic-baccha and tells me that marriage isn’t such a bad thing. Strangely it makes me feel all warm inside. Then she asks if Mark is okay with Indian food. Mark loves Indian food. When we were in the UK, he and I have gone to places that claim to serve Indian food. They are mostly run by Bangladeshis and Pakistanis. Sometimes the food is good, but mostly it is nowhere close to the authentic stuff. I explain all this to my mother and she says she will ensure that Mark has an awesome authentic Indian meal.

  Mark is delighted to hear that when I message him. He says he looks forward to meeting us. I tell him that a friend will be joining us.

  Mark arrives before Anjali. He has become even fitter than the last time that I saw him. He is slightly tanned now and with his naturally tall frame, he is an embodiment of an alpha-male. Plus of course he is articulate, pleasant, well-mannered, well-dressed and charming. No wonder, he is so effortlessly able to attract women, I muse. He is carrying a huge bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine. He hands it over to my mother and shakes hands with her, as I introduce them.

  ‘Very pleased to meet you Mrs Mathur. I have heard so much about you from Aman. Here are some flowers for a beautiful lady. I now know where Aman gets his looks from,’ he says as he hands over the bouquet to her.

  I can see my mother is amused but pleased. The Mark-charm seems to be working on her as well. I smile and tell him to come inside and I drag his suitcase in and put it in the second bedroom. Mark too, like my mother, is very impressed with my apartment.

  ‘You must be so proud of him, Mrs Mathur,’ says Mark. He pronounces it as Mat-uhrrr and my mother smiles. She asks him about his family. He says that his father left them when he was five and he has two older sisters. His mother raised them as a single parent and he has studied in boarding school, right from the age of eleven. He says that his mother now lives with his step-father. My mother asks him whether it is his first visit to India and what he likes about the place, and in no time they are chatting away like old buddies.

  My mother has made chhole bhature, one of her signature dishes and the aroma wafts across the apartment. Mark says that it smells divine. He says that the Indian food in India definitely tastes better than the curries they serve in the UK in the name of Indian food.

  Anjali arrives and I rush to answer the door. When I open it I stare at her for a few seconds. She looks so stunning I have to catch my breath. She has worn a completely white well-fitted salwar kameez with a multi-coloured dupatta. Her hair is loose and she wears some kind of dangling earrings. Her eyes are lined with kohl and she has a long bindi on. This is the first time I am seeing Anjali in an Indian outfit and I am gobsmacked at her transformation.

  Shyly she asks, ‘Am I looking nice?’, her voice barely a whisper.

  I am blown away completely, and am unable to articulate the range of emotions passing through me at that precise moment—one part horniness, one part excitement, one part pure surprise and one part sheer fascination at the magical transformation from ‘Anjali-the-modern-girl’ to ‘Anjali-the-well-raised-traditional-Indian-girl-fit-to-be-the-perfect daughter-in-law’.

  ‘Oh my God. You look stunning. Come in,’ I finally manage to say.

  I introduce her to my mother and Anjali bends over and touches her feet. I am floored. I have never seen this very Indian avatar of Anjali before. I can picture my mother holding a neon sign over Anjali’s head proclaiming to me, ‘Marry her, NOW’. In my mother’s head, the choice has already been made. I know my mother too well.

  Even the normally charming and effervescent Mark is a little in awe now when I introduce her. I can see that he doesn’t know how to greet her, whether to shake her hand or just say a hi. Anjali extends her hand and puts him out of his misery. He is fascinated when he learns that she is a writer. I can see that Anjali is curious about Mark. Just like with my mother, he seems to have struck a chord with Anjali too, as she is asking him a lot of questions about living in the UK, what is different, and I find Mark laying on an extra layer of charm. It is funny how I feel like asking him to stay away from Anjali and how I feel like grabbing Anjali and steering her away from Mark. But they are both laughing about something now and Anjali seems so pleased.

  I ask them what they would like to drink. Anjali says she would like anything non-alcoholic and I raise my eyebrows at that and smile.

  ‘Since when did you become a teetotaller?’ I ask.

  She gestures with her eyes towards my mother, who is now in the kitchen, frying some bhajjas for starters. I tell her that my mother is okay and I ask if she would like some vodka, whereupon she says she will have it with Sprite, so that at least it won’t look like alcohol. I laugh at how she is so bothered about what my mother will think. I want to tell her that she has totally got the seal of approval from my mother, but I don’t. Instead I hand her the drink.

  Mark opts for a single malt neat, with just ice. I am glad that I have stocked up on the whisky, knowing Mark’s fondness for it. I am not much of a drinker and buy alcohol only if I am having company, which is the first time since I got back from the UK.

  Mark loves the bhajjas and by the time they get over, he is already four drinks down, while Anjali is still nursing her vodka-laced Sprite. One thing that I had forgotten was how Mark has no control over his tongue once he is a few whiskys down. I should have realised that before I offered him the drink, but it is too late now.

  Mark is now in excellent spirits and Anjali is throwing her head back and laughing at the jokes he is cracking with a completely straight face.

  ‘I love the English sense of humour,’ says Anjali.

  ‘And I love Indian women. They are so different from Western women,’ says Mark.

  ‘How so?’ asks Anjali.

  ‘They seem more intelligent, prettier and definitely nicer,’ says Mark, not taking his eyes off Anjali. He is looking into her eyes and narrows his eyes and smiles when he says this.

  God—this is his signature move. I have heard him use this line many times on various women at the pubs in the UK. I have heard him tell countless English girls about how she is the most intelligent, prettiest and smartest girl he has ever met. I can’t believe women fall for this crap.

  I expect Anjali to call his bluff and see through him. But to my horror she seems to be enjoying it. She is actually blushing and she asks him how he knows.

 
‘You are a perfect example. Permit me to say, your eyes are mesmerising. And I love your attire,’ he continues smoothly. Anjali is now eating out of his hands.

  I can’t bear it anymore.

  ‘Hey, Anjali, I need to show you something,’ I say.

  ‘Oh,’ she says and looks as though someone has just brought her out of a trance.

  ‘Can you step in here a minute?’ I ask as I march towards my bedroom, all the time furiously thinking about what to show her.

  ‘Sure,’ she says. As she rises, she tells Mark, ‘Excuse me, I’ll just be back.’

  She is walking towards my bedroom now.

  Think, think, think... I furiously work my brain but am not able to come up with anything. I look around in desperation and spot my mother’s bag. It is half open and there is a brochure of the Agricultural College. I grab that and wave it at her.

  ‘Anjali—see this prospectus. What do you think of it?’ I ask.

  She gives me a strange look. She is genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Hmmm, it’s nice. Anything in particular you want me to see?’ she asks as she darts a glance in Mark’s direction.

  ‘See this, Anjali. I was thinking that you can perhaps write a piece on this course?’ I am improvising wildly and realise I am blabbering.

  ‘On an agricultural course? Aman, are you drunk?’ she asks.

  ‘No, no, I was just thinking that not many women would know of this scheme that the government offers. And you know what, many women would benefit from this ...This mushroom-growing course which they offer. See—you can grow mushrooms in your home. They give you all the equipment, teach you and it is very lucrative,’ I finish, all the time reading fast about what is described about the course in the prospectus.

  For a moment Anjali is distracted. I know that for her, when it comes to work, she is undeterrable and focused. She so loves her job.