Preeti Shenoy is a bestselling author and artist. She has several academic qualifications, but believes life is the biggest teacher. She is an avid blogger, poet, nature lover and yoga buff. She loves playing basketball, travelling and spending time with her family and her dog.
Preeti Shenoy is currently based in Bangalore, India. To know more about her, go to preetishenoy.com.
westland ltd
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First published in India by westland ltd 2012
Copyright © Preeti Shenoy 2012
All rights reserved
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN: 978-93-82618-18-8
Typeset by Ram Das Lal
Printed at Thomson Press (India) Ltd.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, circulated, and no reproduction in any form, in whole or in part (except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews) may be made without written permission of the publishers.
For Satish, Atul and Purvi
And for Mum and Dad
Heart! We will forget him!
You and I— tonight!
You may forget the warmth he gave—
I will forget the light!
When you have done, pray tell me
That I may straight begin!
Haste! lest while you’re lagging
I remember him!
—Emily Dickinson
Prologue
THE CONVERSATION WITH TANU HAS REMINDED me with startling intensity, of the person I used to be—a person with hopes, ambitions and a desire to live life to the brim. I was just like Tanu—bubbly, enthusiastic and positive.
I think about Ankit. I think about that kiss. I have replayed everything that happened on that day at least a million times in my mind through all these years. I loved him with all the purity and innocence of a sixteen-year-old heart. I was certain at that time that he loved me too. I wonder how he looks now. I wonder what I will feel if I were to ever meet him again.
It is ironic how the years change you and yet you remain the same. Even if you are married, become a parent, deep down you are still the person you were before you became all of that.
Later, as I cook the afternoon meal, Ankit dances around in my head. He refuses to go away when I serve my mother-in-law her meal and make inane conversation with her. He is still with me when I greet Abhay, back from school, and remains there when I help him with homework. And later that night when my husband, after his usual round of television viewing, comes to bed and squeezes my breasts and has sex with me, he is still there.
I lie awake a long time that night, the darkness of my bedroom punctuated by Sandeep’s rhythmic post-coital snoring.
I realise with a jolt that Ankit had never really left. He has been in my head all along.
And now that the possibility of reconnecting with him has been presented to me on a platter, it makes me intensely restless. It is as though someone has poured a can of gasoline to the already blazing fire and turmoil within my heart.
Somewhere at the back of my mind, warning bells are clanging, but their sounds are very feeble, almost muffled.
The voice of my heart is too darn loud.
When you cannot get someone out of your head for eighteen years, it has to be true love.
One
THE HEAT AND HUMIDITY DIDN’T BOTHER ME back then. I guess when you are sixteen and in the throes of adolescent crushes (each of which you are convinced is the real thing, with feelings that chug at the speed of a locomotive, with an intensity just as strong), minor things like being drenched in sweat do not affect you as much as they do when you are an adult. You are enthusiastic, full of life and you believe that the world is yours to conquer.
I cycle back home after my Bharathanatyam classes which are thrice a week. I do not much like this difficult South Indian dance form, but Mother insists I learn it. I would much rather prefer Bollywood dancing or even ballet to this.
‘Look, now that your Papa is posted here, you should make use of every opportunity available to you here,’ says Mother. ‘Tamil Nadu is truly the cultural hub of India. You will never get such accomplished Bharathanatyam teachers elsewhere. So you might as well make the best use of it,’ she argues.
It has been a year now since we moved from Pune to Chennai. I did not like Chennai initially, but once I got used to the heat, I realised it was as good a place as any, even Pune. In fact, the co-ed school I attend here is far better than the convent I used to go to in Pune. But I will never admit this to my parents.
Some things are best not revealed.
When I suggest, very timidly, to Mother that I want to take up Bollywood dancing, her reaction is far worse than expected. She shouts and raves and promptly calls up her sister who lives with my grandmother in Ernakulam. Both take turns to admonish and lecture me about how great our Indian tradition is and how hard it is to master the Indian classical dances. They go on about how far superior Bharathanatyam is to Bollywood dancing which is crass and crude, only about shaking your booty and wiggling your hips. Like all the western dances which, according to my mother, aunt and grandmother, any fool can do.
‘Good Lord! What are you saying, Diksha? How can you even talk about the two in the same breath? Where is Bollywood and where is Bharathanatyam?’ Meera Mausi yells so loudly on the phone that I have to hold the receiver away from my ear.
I stifle a giggle at her hysteria, but she catches on.
‘Is that a giggle I hear? You shameless girl. What is so funny?’ she reprimands angrily.
‘Meera Mausi, I just pictured you as Goddess Durga,’ I say amidst helpless giggles now, whereupon she quickly changes tracks sensing that being so far away, she cannot do anything and that her anger is not having the desired effect. Her tone becomes gentle and persuasive. She tries to explain the dedication and discipline involved in classical dancing, and that I am fortunate to get admission in Natya Kesari Dance Academy, run by the renowned, Padma Shree awardee, Mrs Subhalaksmi.
Finally, under the weight of their collective persuasion, I agree and now find myself waiting for the dance class to get over so I can cycle home leisurely along Elliot’s Beach, watching the waves as I do. I love this part of Chennai where we live. Besant Nagar faces the beach and I enjoy the tiny garden which our modest middle class home boasts.
I cannot help thinking how unfair it is that my brother, Rohan, is never forced into doing things he doesn’t want to. A year older than me, he is the school captain and is on the school debate team. I think my parents are very proud of him and never miss an opportunity to mention his achievements to anyone who visits us.
Being a popular boy, his friends come over to our place often. They lock themselves in his room for hours and plan and prepare for all the upcoming school functions like plays, debates and dumb charades. They are an active bunch, very involved in the interschool cultural scene and have won many laurels for the school. Somehow our home has turned into their hub, probably as Mother is friendlier and sweeter to our friends than most other parents of teenagers.
‘At least they are sitting indoors,doing useful stuff, right under your eyes and not loitering about and wasting time,’ Meera Mausi had commented to my mother when these meetings had first started. My mother had nodded approvingly.
So far as I am concerned vis-a-vis my brother’s friends, I merely say a ‘hello’ to them when they arrive and a ‘bye’ when they lea
ve. That is the extent of my interaction with them. I am a junior at school and the senior guys do not really talk to juniors unless they are ‘cool’, and I have not yet qualified to gain entry into this category.
Sometimes Mother asks me to make chai for them and when I take the tea tray to his room, Rohan opens the door, takes it from me and shuts it again. In those brief seconds, I catch a glimpse of his friends. Some are sprawled on the floor, some having animated discussions, some practicing their lines.
My best friend and classmate, Tanu, thinks I am very fortunate to ‘have access’ to the senior boys.
‘I so wish I had an elder brother, Diksha. You are so lucky! How cool is it that these guys hang out at your place.’
‘It’s no big deal, Tanu, I hardly interact with them,’ I say, but that does not convince her.
Ankit Uttam is one of my brother’s many friends. Tanu and I would have never dared speak to a senior, that too someone as cool as Ankit, but for a blue canvas satchel with two large buckle-down flaps in the front and a red-piped border. The bag is what set the whole thing in motion.
One evening, I find this satchel lying by a pot in the foyer at the entrance of our home. I do not remember leaving it there and so I carry it into my room, a little puzzled by its odd placement. Tanu is with me as we meet most days under the pretext of combined studies. In reality, we just giggle, talk, gossip and, occasionally, try to study.
Ankit and my brother, Rohan, emerge after an hour or so from his room. They start frantically hunting for Ankit’s bag. It does not strike me that the bag I carried in to my bedroom could be his. It doesn’t even occur to me that his satchel is exactly like the one I have. I bought mine, choosing it with great care to project just the right amount of coolness and nonchalance so important at that age.
And so Tanu and I help them look.
We search for at least a quarter of an hour. We look in the hall, in all the possible places in Rohan’s room, in the dining area and even in the kitchen.
‘How can a bag vanish into thin air?’ moans Ankit. ‘And God! We have a Bio test tomorrow and I so need my notes,’ he grumbles.
‘Dude, we have wasted enough time looking for your bag. I tell you what, let’s study together and then you go home,’ suggests the very practical Rohan.
Ankit agrees that it is the best they can do and both return to Rohan’s room.
Tanu and I go to my room, still wondering about the missing bag.
‘Maybe he left it outside your house and the kachrawala cleared it away thinking it was garbage,’ giggles Tanu.
‘Shut up,’ I say, but with a smile.
Then I open ‘my’ bag and out tumble Ankit’s books. It takes us a few surprised seconds to comprehend what has happened. And then the penny drops. Tanu cackles with excitement.
‘Quick, let’s look at his handwriting,’ she hisses.
‘No way. We can’t do that. Let’s go and return it,’ I whisper back equally fiercely.
‘We will never get a chance like this. Come on,’ she insists.
Finally we take a quick peep, our teenage excitement peaking an all-time high at the prospect of checking out a ‘cool’ guy’s stuff, something we would never have had access to but for the serendipitous confusion. We riffle through notebooks covered with his neat handwriting and are amused to see the doodles on the back of the book. Then we shut it hurriedly, giggling away.
Tanu says, ‘Hey, I have an idea! Let’s scribble a message for him.’
‘Are you crazy?’ I say, shocked by her audacious suggestion.‘Rohan will kill me if he finds out. We can’t just scribble in someone’s book.’
‘C’mon, Diksha. You’re such a scaredy cat. Here, give it to me.’
Tanu snatches the book from my hand and, before I can stop her, opens the last page and begins writing. I watch in fascinated horror as she writes.
‘Hey, Ankit. I really, really, really like you. I follow every football match you play, and watch every debate you take part in. Whenever you’re around I can’t take my eyes off you. I think you are really cool and, let me be honest, I am a smitten-kitten. I won’t tell you my name. If you figure out who this is, call me. I know you are smart enough to figure out my name and my number. I will be waiting.’
She then makes a heart and adds some flowers. I gasp at her boldness.
‘Oh my God! Tanu! How can you write stuff like this?’ I am shocked at what she has done.
‘With a blue pen, by forming one letter after another,’ she says cheekily.
I shake my head and suggest we tear out the page. But Tanu will hear none of it.
‘Look, how can you write something so outrageous?’
‘What is so outrageous, Diksha? I do really, really like him. Gosh, he is gorgeous! And this is a godsend opportunity to tell him how I feel.’
‘Then tell him to his face. Don’t write anonymous notes.’
‘Noooo way! Tell him to his face? Are you crazy? What if he laughs at me?’
I know she is right. How can she walk up to a guy and admit she is crazy about him? I too have a secret crush on him which I have never admitted to Tanu. We’re both probably in love with the same guy. The difference is that she is ready to admit it while I have suppressed it and pushed it aside as though it doesn’t exist.
Finally, I give in to her demand and put Ankit’s book back into his bag. After which, I rush to my brother’s room and knock.
‘What?’ His tone is curt.
‘I found Ankit’s bag,’ I say, feeling a bit sheepish.
In a trice, Ankit is out. ‘Oh! Wow! That is amazing! Where did you find it?’ he asks, his eyes dancing.
I blush.
‘Er... Actually it is exactly like mine. I am so sorry, I took it thinking it was mine,’ I say.
Then I show him my bag to prove the point.
Ankit laughs heartily and Rohan joins in.
‘Hey, it’s okay. I am so glad to have it back, I could hug you! You know, it seems we have the same great taste,’ he says.
Tanu looks at me and mouths, ‘Wish he’d said that to me,’ and I quickly look away.
That afternoon, we have no idea what lies in store for us in the future. No idea whatsoever how a little joke played so casually will change our entire lives. No clue that we have sowed the seeds for a lifetime of deception and falsehood, woven a web so entangled that even an entire lifetime will not suffice to sort it out.
Two
‘DIKSHAAAAA, COFFEE,’ BELLOWS SANDEEP FROM our bedroom upstairs.
I glance at the clock. He has woken up ten minutes before than his usual time.
‘Coming. Making it. The water’s just beginning to boil,’ I yell back, suppressing a twinge of irritation. In the fifteen years that we have been married, not once has he made coffee for me. I suppose I must have found it cute, in the early years of marriage, how lost he was in the kitchen. Then the starry-eyed new bride I was, I would gladly make coffee for him which he would sip reclining in an easy chair on the balcony with his newspaper. I would, in the meantime, cook breakfast, lay out his clothes for office neatly on the bed while he showered, and pack his lunch for office.
Once he emerged from the bedroom in his formal clothes, I would rush to make him a toast or a dosa or something hot and fresh for breakfast. He would hurriedly wolf it down, praising my culinary skills and I would eagerly lap up the praise. He never asked me to join him. And in the early days, I did not mind it the least bit. As I would watch him eat, my heart would fill with pride at a meal well-prepared and my wifely duty of feeding my husband, done to perfection.
He would then leave and I would have my breakfast, alone.
The pattern that a couple inadvertently sets in the early years of marriage continues even later, unless a conscious effort is made to change it. That never happened in our case. And so, to this day, he and our nine-year-old son, Abhay, eat together and leave. I always eat later. The praise has stopped though. He does not utter even one word in appreciation these da
ys.
I have grown up watching my mother be the dutiful wife and, until recently, I did not even mind being one. But, of late, irritation has begun mounting and not knowing how to deal with it, I deal with it by suppressing it.
I know for a fact that it started after my cousin, Vibha’s, visit. When Vibha, who lives in Hyderabad, visits Bangalore for company projects, she stays with us for a week or so, and has observed this routine several times. When Sandeep and Abhay leave, she says, ‘Diksha, which century are you living in, girl? Look at what you have turned into. You have totally metamorphosed into a maidservant and cook.’
‘Shut up, Vibha. I don’t have a high-flying job like you, where your company sends you on fancy trips and all. I am just a housewife, and has it ever occurred to you that I like making hot food for Abhay and Sandeep?’ I counter her observation, not willing to acknowledge it.
I brush aside her remarks as if they are of no consequence, but deep down I know her words have found their mark. They rankle inside me now like the chains of a prisoner in medieval times who yearns to break free. She has voiced something that I have dared not admit even to myself and her words hang in the air like gloomy mist. Everything that I look at now is tinted with this greyness that had begun to gnaw at my insides.
‘Look, Diksha. So what if you are a housewife? That doesn’t mean Sandeep can’t make a cup of coffee for you! I have seen how much work you put into making their lives smooth. But what about you? You deserve more, girl. You never get to go out. Your mother-in-law being in the same town doesn’t help either as you have to spend every single weekend with her. What kind of life is that?’ she says gently.
‘Vibha, I am happy. I am happy that my mother-in-law lives close by and we get to visit her. Abhay loves spending time with her. Not everyone is like you. I don’t have to get Sandeep to make coffee for me in the name of women’s lib or whatever. He earns well, he provides us with material comfort and so it is indeed okay if I am the one taking care of cooking and everything else.’
The Secret wish List Page 1