by Divya Anand
‘Listen, you’re never going to find a cab right now,’ Abhimanyu said.
No shit, Sherlock, I thought.
‘I can drive you,’ he offered.
That got my attention. I finally looked up from my phone.
‘It’s at my sister’s place in Malleshwaram,’ I told him. ‘You’d be going completely out of your way and you’ll be stuck for hours in traffic trying to get home.’
‘So what’s your plan?’ he asked bluntly. ‘Walk? If you think you’re late now, you will most definitely be late if you attempt that.’
I had a mental image of me showing up sweaty and drenched, just in time to yell surprise for my dad’s next birthday party.
‘This is so nice of you, but there’s no way I can waste any more of your time. I’m sure you have plans for the evening,’ I said, even though I was desperate to take him up on his offer.
‘Believe me, all I have planned is to go home, get some ramen and watch TV. I would rather be your substitute driver than spend yet another boring evening at home. Aren’t you late?’ he pressed. I stared at both the apps on my phone, willing one of them to magically find a driver. But I was completely out of luck.
‘Just buy me dinner if that’ll make you feel better,’ he said. ‘Give me a good recommendation in the area and I’ll go there after I drop you.’
‘If you’re sure . . . ’ I said.
‘Sitara, I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t,’ he replied. He picked up his things and began walking purposefully towards the door. I followed.
At times like this I wondered if I was better off planning my day by looking at the weather forecast instead of a horoscope!
15
A Day of Surprises and Not All Pleasant
‘Which college student did you steal this playlist from?’ I asked as I scrolled through Abhimanyu’s Spotify playlist on his phone which was connected to the car’s Bluetooth system. ‘A.R. Rahman, Arijit Singh, Coke Studio are all great choices. I can even understand Shakira, I mean the woman is hot. But why on earth do you have Ellie Goulding?’
‘My music taste is perfectly normal,’ he insisted, even as the opening bars of ‘Call Me Maybe’ poured out from the speakers.
I raised my eyebrows.
‘Some of the songs remind me of college,’ he said, as I resisted the urge to point out that ‘Call Me Maybe’ definitely didn’t come out when he was in college. He smiled nostalgically, showing off the dimple that was otherwise well hidden. ‘Until then, I hadn’t heard a single English song. I grew up in a small town, and we didn’t really know much about English music.’
Now that was surprising. He didn’t come across as someone who’d grown up in a small town at all. I could’ve sworn he was a clueless city child like I was.
‘Well, I’ll forgive this weird selection as long as I don’t stumble upon the Backstreet Boys,’ I said.
Immediately, he turned down the volume and began a rendition of ‘I Want It That Way’. In Hindi. To say I was stunned was an understatement. Firstly, this guy could sing. And secondly, he seemed to have translated the entire song!
‘Oh my God,’ I breathed. ‘I don’t know whether to admire your memory and translation skills or to judge your terrible taste in music!’
‘Listen, there are boy bands whose music is actually great for cycling,’ he said, with a sheepish smile.
All that healthy food and cycling? No wonder the man looked the way he did, I thought, as I tried hard to ignore the mental image of his abs and those oh-so-toned calves he’d been showing off all day.
‘Oh! You’re into cycling?’ I said, trying to distract myself. ‘I’m part of a weekend cycling group. I’m not very regular, but I’ve gone on a few trips. What about you? Group or solo?’
I had conveniently stretched the truth, and hoped he wouldn’t jump at the chance to ‘join’ me. I had tried to join a weekend cycling group once in a misguided attempt to recreate my childhood nostalgia of cycling around the neighbourhood. I soon realized that whatever calories I burnt were more than replenished by the meals I consumed at pit stops. The final straw came when I went on one of their ‘away’ trips to Wayanad, where I gave up on cycling by midday and instead rode around in the car that was meant for ‘assistance’ in case of emergency. I didn’t have the guts to show up again after that.
‘Well, I used to be in a group,’ Abhimanyu began, with a faraway look on his face.
‘You can let me know if you want to come on one of our weekend rides. I can add you to the WhatsApp group where they share details . . . ’ I offered.
‘Maybe,’ he said evasively. I sensed that there was more to the cycling story than he was letting on, but he seemed to be reluctant to share. I lapsed into silence, racking my brains to think of a way to change the subject.
‘So,’ he broke into my thoughts with that familiar smirk. ‘Why don’t you connect your phone to the Bluetooth and show me what supposedly good music sounds like?’
I busied myself with trying to connect my phone to the car’s Bluetooth system when Abhimanyu suddenly jammed on the brakes. I looked up and realized we were stuck in a traffic jam.
‘Oh no! I’m going to be so late,’ I said, as I stared at the long line of cars ahead of us.
‘Main toh raste se jaa raha tha . . . ’ burst out through the car speakers.
Oh crap!
I was so busy looking at the traffic, I had accidentally played my favourites playlist instead of my carefully curated ‘for public eyes’ playlist. I blushed furiously as Abhimanyu burst out laughing and mimed eating bhelpuri. I tried to sink lower into my seat and avoided his looks. After all the fuss I’d made about his musical tastes, how terribly embarrassing it was to be caught with a campy 1990s Bollywood number on my playlist. I wondered if I could get away with claiming this was a playlist from someone’s sangeet.
‘Tujhko mirchi lagi toh main kya karun,’ Abhimanyu began singing along with full gusto. He moved his head and shoulders to the beat, looking like he was one dance floor away from breaking into a dance. I stared at him with my mouth open. This was so far removed from the serious and staid Abhimanyu we saw at work. Even at the Circle of Success retreat where he was more relaxed, we didn’t see this side of him!
‘Unlike you, I’m not a music snob. And I will not pretend I don’t love 1990s Bollywood songs,’ he threw at me as he continued with his impromptu singalong.
There was a red hot warmth spreading from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes. My arms prickled as he sang, and I noticed that his voice was giving me goosebumps. I needed to distract myself before he noticed that I couldn’t stop staring. I looked away and suddenly remembered I was in yoga pants and a ratty T-shirt that proclaimed my love for naps. Sahana would kill me for showing up looking like this.
I pulled out some eyeliner and lipstick from my bag so I could do a quick job of pretending I was somewhat dressed for this party. I would claim I meant to stop at home but got delayed at work, and that my make-up was my attempt at trying to look passable. Besides, trying to put on eyeliner while we were stuck in a standstill was probably my only shot at it. I would probably poke myself in the eye if I tried it at any other time.
If Abhimanyu thought it was odd that I was putting on make-up in the car, he was nice enough to ignore it as he continued to sing along. Soon, he began calling out requests as I played the in-car DJ. At some point of time, the traffic began to move. We spent the drive playing our favourite songs and singing out loud all the way. I hadn’t done this with anyone except Kavya before, but oddly enough it didn’t feel weird. In fact, I was just as comfortable with Abhimanyu as I was with Kavya. I leaned back into my seat, shut my eyes and sang out loud as song after song played.
‘You have arrived,’ the voice on Google Maps suddenly broke into my thoughts. I looked out of the window and saw that we were right outside Sahana’s house.
‘Thank you . . . ’ I began as I picked up my bag. It was an awkward moment because I didn’t really know
what to say now that we had arrived.
‘Chithi! There you are,’ Inaya materialized by the car, a bottle of some essential oil clutched in her hand. ‘Amma is so mad at you. I can’t even give her any more whiffs of this calming blend!’
She stuck her hand with the bottle through the window, as though giving me a calming blend was going to help the situation. I busied myself with getting out of the car to avoid replying to her.
‘Why are you sitting next to the Uber driver?’ she asked, peering suspiciously at Abhimanyu.
‘Inaya, this isn’t an Uber,’ I cut in hurriedly to stop her from embarrassing me. ‘This is my colleague.’
‘Hi, I’m Abhimanyu,’ he said. He stuck his hand out at her and to my surprise she shook it.
‘Oh,’ she squealed. ‘You had a toffee in your hand. But Amma said I’m not allowed toffees today because there’s cake . . . ’
‘It’s fine, eat it,’ I said. She didn’t wait to give either of us a chance to change our minds. Within seconds the toffee disappeared into thin air, much like how it had appeared—seemingly from thin air.
‘Well . . . ’ I began as I looked at Abhimanyu awkwardly, wondering how to end this conversation and leave gracefully.
‘You can park over there,’ Inaya helpfully jumped in, showing off the caramel sticking to her teeth.
‘No, I was just dropping Sitara off,’ Abhimanyu began.
‘But why? The cake is yummy. I ate the leftover batter!’
‘My sister does make amazing cakes,’ I offered.
Inaya very rarely warmed up to someone so quickly. I suspected the toffee had something to do with this.
‘I couldn’t possibly impose . . . ’
‘Uncle, you have to come. I’m trying to develop my ability to spot kindred spirits. You seem to be one. Come, please,’ she grinned.
‘Inaya, are you sure you’re not identifying kindred spirits based on who gives you toffees,’ I grinned.
‘Listen, you don’t have time. Amma is already mad and we’ve been standing here for five minutes already,’ she said gesturing to her bright purple My Little Pony watch.
Abhimanyu looked at me.
‘Inaya really wants you here,’ I smiled. ‘Come in, the food will be great. And there’s the cake to look forward to!’
‘We also have Dilli-style chhole bhature . . . ’ Inaya began.
‘You don’t have to give uncle the whole menu,’ I cut her off.
‘Dilli-style,’ he mused. ‘Really? I haven’t had that since I moved . . . ’
I could sense he was beginning to waver.
‘Come on!’ Inaya began pulling at my arm. I gestured at Abhimanyu to follow us. He still looked mildly uncomfortable but parked his car by the side of the road and started walking by me.
‘This is weird. I’m not invited, it’s a family function,’ he said.
‘Actually,’ Inaya jumped in. ‘I was allowed to invite three friends, and only two of them are here. You can be my third friend. Now you’re invited.’
‘Besides, do you really want to miss the chhole bhature?’ I smiled.
He fell silent. We walked up to the door quickly. I knew I was really late and thought it would be a great idea to sneak into the house before my parents showed up.
The front door was slightly open. Ram must have left it that way because the baby was asleep.
I confidently walked up to the door and opened it.
I stepped inside, and—
‘SURPRISE!’
I stood at the entryway in shock, as the lights snapped on and I stared at a room full of people who clearly weren’t expecting me. A bunch of balloons fell on my head.
‘What are you doing here?’ Sahana yelled. ‘I messaged you to tell you that Amma Appa are almost here and you should come in through the back door. And you, Inaya, didn’t I tell you to tell Chithi . . . ’
Inaya shrunk behind me. Clearly, in her excitement she had forgotten to pass on the information she had been sent out with.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see your message,’ I began. I tried to collect the balloons that were flying about as I stepped in.
‘You didn’t answer your phone either . . . ’
‘What’s going on here?’ my father’s voice broke into our argument.
There was stunned silence.
‘Surprise!’ yelled Inaya, right on cue.
Almost immediately, everyone else gathered their wits and weakly joined in. Someone began singing ‘Happy Birthday’ in the background as people slowly joined in.
Sahana stared daggers at me.
‘Happy birthday, Appa,’ I said as I extracted my badly wrapped gift from my bag and handed it to him. I thanked God I had purchased and kept this gift in my bag, anticipating I might forget about the party on the actual day.
‘And this is . . . ’ said my father, staring at Abhimanyu and getting to the crux of the matter very quickly.
Abhimanyu was now looking extremely uncomfortable. I sensed he was trying to evaluate if he could just sprint away and pretend he wasn’t here. My father reached out and shook his hand vigorously.
‘Thatha, this is Manyu Uncle,’ Inaya announced. ‘He’s a kindred spirit, my new friend and the third friend I invited.’
Manyu? She’d given him a nickname already? I wondered if I should step in, but I didn’t know what I could possibly say.
‘Happy birthday, Sir. I’m Abhimanyu. I work with Sitara. Don’t mind me, I’m just here to drop her. Nice meeting you . . . ’ his voice trailed off, as he continued to look hassled.
‘Oh, no. You must join us. At least have some cake,’ my father said, ushering him inside. ‘Tell me, what do you do at Glam?’
Abhimanyu began answering my father as I looked around the room. My heart sank as I realized that everyone was dressed to the nines in formal wear, Kanjeevaram sarees and the like. Meanwhile, I was in my gym wear and even the make-up I’d hurriedly applied in the car wasn’t really helping my cause. Almost as soon as I realized it, Sahana materialized by my side and gave me a sharp look.
‘You need to change,’ she said, glaring at me. Even her temple jewellery seemed to be tinkling in a disapproving tone. ‘Come with me.’
That tone brooked no disagreement. I looked back to see that Abhimanyu was still in conversation with my father. I went up to them and told Abhimanyu I would be back in a few minutes. Sahana dragged me away by the arm like a goat being led to slaughter.
She had gone all out for this party. My dad’s favourite songs were playing in the background, and there were fairy lights everywhere. She’d even taken the trouble of decorating the rooms upstairs even though nobody would go there. We got to her bedroom and she opened her cupboard, trying to find me something to wear. I wanted to tell her I was OK with what I was wearing, but I knew that wouldn’t end well. So I waited as she scrunched her face and analysed a bunch of ‘options’.
‘Here,’ she said handing me a neon-orange anarkali. It was exactly the kind of vibrant colour that she and my mother loved, and I hated.
‘Sahana, it’s really orange . . . ’ I began. She raised her eyebrows at me and gave me a deathly stare. I shut up immediately.
‘This is perfect for the occasion,’ she announced, like she was a celeb stylist tasked with transforming an unfashionable duckling into a passable swan. ‘I’ll see you downstairs in five minutes.’
I stared morosely at the bright, shiny outfit. Well, at least there would be cake.
By the time I changed and went back downstairs, I hoped Abhimanyu had left. I was wearing the bright orange anarkali. It was a weird length on me because I was taller than Sahana. She had got her revenge by giving me something she must’ve purchased post-partum. It dipped dangerously low at the cleavage thanks to the bad fit. I tugged at the neckline hoping I wouldn’t accidentally flash my entire family. I entered the living room and stopped in shock. I stared open-mouthed at the scene in front of me.
Abhimanyu was standing at the centre of a group of
my relatives, regaling them with some story. The group had my father’s sister Vasantha Athai and her daughter Janaki, a duo I tried to avoid with utmost diligence at all family gatherings. Even worse, I spotted Ambi Mama, who had found an unsuspecting victim in Abhimanyu. Ambi Mama was a random uncle who was related to us in some way that nobody remembered. Every Tamilian family has an Ambi Mama, and he attended all our family functions as the token Ambi of ours. I knew I would have to go there and extricate Abhimanyu before Mama latched on to some random story and bored him to death. Inaya had wisely taken stock of the situation and abandoned Abhimanyu. She was now sitting in a corner reading a library copy of Anne of Green Gables. That explained her sudden obsession with kindred spirits. Her friends were sitting next to her, trying to put together a complicated jigsaw puzzle.
I took a deep breath and walked up to the group.
‘Ah, you changed,’ said Abhimanyu with a grin. I tugged at the neckline yet again and then folded my arms across my chest hoping to cover up.
‘Hi, kanna*! What a lovely kurta,’ said Vasantha Athai. ‘So bright!’
‘It’s Sahana’s,’ I admitted, knowing that Athai didn’t mean ‘bright’ as a compliment. I was sure the outfit looked fantastic on Sahana. But I was really not doing it any justice, given my constant tugging at the neck and the fact that I had visions of myself looking like a giant, fat, shiny orange.
‘That explains it,’ Janaki said, going on the offensive immediately as was her wont when it came to me. ‘It’s really not your type of outfit, no? You normally wear those washed out colours! Remember the last time we met, I thought your brand new kurta was a second-hand one!’
She tittered. Janaki had hated me ever since we were kids, because our grandmothers had dedicated their lives to making us compete with each other in everything ranging from our marks at school to who wore the bigger pottu.** Unfortunately for her, I regularly won. That hate remained unwavering till this day. We often regressed to our childhood selves the minute we were near each other. I made a mental note to try and be the bigger person today.