Wooohoooo!
00.03 a.m.
‘Happy birthday!’ Pitajee and Anu shouted in unison, as they burst through the door of my room. Pitajee was carrying a huge bunch of balloons and a box of cake.
‘Happy birthday, Kas!’ said Anu, planting a wet kiss on my cheek.
‘Happy birthday, Kas!’ mimicked Pitajee, planting a wetter kiss on the other cheek.
‘Ewwwkkks,’ I yelped, but the two of them had pulled me into a tight hug. Before long the cake had been brought out of the box.
‘Pineapple!’ said Pitajee, with a flourish.
I rolled my eyes and Anu smacked Pitajee on his shoulder. ‘I told you she doesn’t like pineapple-flavoured cake!’ Anu said, mortified.
‘What do we do with cake that the birthday girl does not want to eat?’ said Pitajee, narrowing his eyes wickedly at me.
‘Lord, no! NO!’ I shrieked, the moment I understood what Pitajee was going to do with the cake. I made a wild dash for the door but Pitajee’s powerful arms had grasped me by the waist and, in spite of my yelps and screams, a few seconds later, I had foul pineapple cake smeared all over my face and hair.
‘What about cutting the cake? We didn’t even do that!’ said Anu, laughing.
‘Worry not!’ said Pitajee, pulling up his collar and winking at us. I immediately felt very worried.
Pitajee used his hands to pull out a chunk from the debris that was once a cake.
‘Yuck!’ I said, disgusted.
‘You are a pig, Amay,’ said Anu, laughing nevertheless.
Pitajee, immune to our reactions, planted a big candle in the chunk of cake he had pulled out and lit it.
‘Cut it. Now,’ he commanded.
‘With? Where is the knife?’
Pitajee and Anu looked blankly at each other.
‘You lazy people!’ I shrieked, laughing. They had forgotten to get a knife!
‘Use your finger,’ Pitajee suggested. Anu looked like she was about to puke as I did exactly as I was told. Pitajee played happy birthday on his phone and began to sing with a lag, completely out of tune. Anu began the song a few seconds after Pitajee and sang it to some tune from Dabangg. It was in that mish-mash of hugs and laughter and shrieks and out-of-tune singing that I cut a chunk of pineapple-flavoured birthday cake with my finger.
As the song ended, high on giggles, we collapsed on my bed into a pile of cake-smeared arms and faces.
Pitajee got out of the bed and switched off the light.
‘What? Why?’ I objected. Pitajee crawled back into the bed and the three of us lay on our backs. I stared, open-mouthed, at the ceiling.
‘Buddaayy gift,’ shouted Pitajee, gleefully.
The glow-in-the-dark whale now had a friend! A glow-in-the-dark elf!
In all this madness, I had not even realized that Purva had not called to wish me a happy birthday.
8.00 a.m.
‘Bachche,’ said Anju Aunty.
Your son has not even called. Ninety-eight out of 140 batchmates from B-school, including someone called Pranav, whom I have no recollection of ever having studied with, have called.
‘Namaste, Aunty,’ I said, trying hard to keep my voice polite.
‘Happy birthday, Bahu Rani,’ she said.
Ugh.
10.00 a.m.
No call. Two hundred of his cousins have, however, called to wish ‘Bhabhi’!
Hmph.
1.00 p.m.
‘Dad.’
‘Yes, Beta.’
‘Purva has not even called.’
‘Why? Why was he supposed to call?’ asked Dad.
‘Dad! You just wished me a happy birthday. Don’t you think Purva should have done the same by now?’
‘Oh,’ said Dad, trying hard to keep the surprise out of his voice. ‘He has not?’
I have never been more peeved.
2.00 p.m.
Padma ordered a cake for me. I cut it listlessly, my head wrapped in thoughts. Vijaywada, whom I have been avoiding, gave me a hug and a notebook with my name on it.
‘For you to make grand strategy plans for Vijaywada & Sons,’ he said, beaming.
I was so low that I did not even pretend to not have heard him. I did not crack a single joke about Vijaywada’s gift.
Not even one in my head.
4.00 p.m.
‘Maybe he has a really big surprise planned for you in the evening,’ Padma suggested.
I brightened up, immediately. Yes, I am sure that is the case. He will call me up any time soon, laughing and teasing.
7.00 p.m.
I closed my eyes and sat at my desk in front of the laptop. One hundred and seventy-four friends had posted birthday messages on my Facebook wall. Purva had still not called.
I had received seven texts from Anu and Pitajee, asking me to come out for a special birthday dinner. I had ignored all of them. Both of them had tried in vain to reach Purva. He was busy in the OT, the nurse had said each time. In the darkness that now surrounded me, I travelled back two years. I could still remember how Rajeev had made me feel on my birthday. Special. Very special.
I sighed. Could I stop thinking about Rajeev. I smacked the table in frustration.
10.00 p.m.
Why am I comparing this to the last birthday I celebrated with Rajeev? What is the point? Rajeev cheated on me and probably does not even remember my name now.
10.03 p.m.
How does it matter if one person did not call me on my birthday? Why don’t I look at the hundreds of others who did?
10.04 p.m.
I don’t want to cry.
10.05 p.m.
I won’t cry.
10.06 p.m.
Okay, just a little bit. After all, this has been a fairly disastrous birthday.
10.07 p.m.
The idea was to shed a few dignified tears, not bawl my head off like this.
10.11 p.m.
Almost mechanically, my fingers flew over the keyboard and before I knew it, Rediffmail was open. Without thinking, and blinking away tears, I typed in the username and password I had not used in two years.
‘There will probably be nothing from Rajeev...’ I mentally prepared myself.
After my break-up, I had abruptly cut off all ties with him. Anu used to work with Rajeev and he had tried to communicate with me through her when all else failed. I had deleted all the email accounts I had used then, changed my phone number, found a new job … I had done everything that I could to take myself away from Rajeev. Except for this one thing. Why I had not deleted this account, I cannot quite tell. What I can tell you is that I have not opened the account since the day I had caught Rajeev red-handed with Teena.
Until this moment.
I was hurting. This was my last birthday as an unmarried girl and all I wanted was to feel a little special. I wanted Purva to … to … make me feel special … and he had not even called. I had contemplated calling him many times during the day but my ego had got in the way each time. ‘Why are you doing this?’ I muttered to myself. ‘What do you want to see?’
The email account was now open. It took a minute for it to all register as I hurriedly wiped away tears with the back of my hand, stunned. A couple of quick clicks and my heart skipped a few beats. Soon I was sitting ram-rod straight in my seat, too shocked for words. My inbox contained 827 unread emails from Rajeev – at least one each day since I had seen him with Teena.
The subject line of the one on top of the pile simply read, ‘Happy birthday, my special girl, a very very happy birthday’.
The email had been sent at 12.01 a.m. today.
14
I opened a random email from Rajeev. The subject line read, ‘A new start’. Curious, I read on.
Dear Kas,
Today was my first day at LBS. As I walked into class I could not believe that this was really happening to me. I had done it!
The GMAT exam, the applications, the interviews and finally the admission. Even though I don’t think you read
my emails, I cannot thank you enough. You are my inspiration, Kas.
Thank you.
Rajeev.
I opened another email.
Dear Kas,
I am working hard at LBS. At the end of the tunnel I see that MBA degree that so many covet, and I know you would be proud of me. This is hardest I have ever worked and I can see some results already. Maybe I am not empty in the head after all.
Words can inspire. They can become wings that can be used to soar high. You had so much faith in my abilities, Kas. Whenever I doubt myself, I go back to our time together and in front of me flashes your innocent, trusting face, telling me that I can do whatever I set my mind to. I did not believe you then, but I have faith in your words now.
Your words, Kas, spoken with such innocence, have stayed with me, visit me often and always give me strength and hope.
Thank you.
Rajeev.
‘He got through LBS,’ I said to myself, amazed and impressed. Out of the blue, a quiet evening spent near India Gate, almost two years ago, flashed before my eyes.
‘You don’t like to work in the corporate world, do you?’ Rajeev had asked, his dimple presenting itself to me in all its glory.
I shook my head.
‘Then what would you like to do?’
‘Study further, do another MBA perhaps,’ I said.
‘But you already have a fabulous degree,’ he had said, inching closer. His deodorant, heady and intoxicating, wafted towards me in bursts as the wind changed directions.
‘I want another degree ... from...’
‘From?’ he said, smiling.
‘London Business School,’ I said, shyly.
Rajeev looked at me, his mind elsewhere.
‘You should try too…’ I said.
‘Would that make you proud of me?’
‘I am already very proud of you, Rajeev … but yes, I would be super-proud of you if you got through LBS!’
Rajeev had smiled a slow smile and the gorgeous beauty of his face distracted me yet again.
My phone rang, bringing me back into the present. It was Purva. I looked at my watch; it was 11.35 p.m.
I ignored the phone and turned to another email from Rajeev, dated December last year.
This one had an attachment.
Dear Kasturi,
I am in Vienna for a two-day break and guess what? It is snowing! Here is a picture of the hotel’s front lawn.
I miss you.
Rajeev
I opened the attachment and drew in a sharp breath. There was a picture of Rajeev, standing in the middle of what can only be described as a pool of snow. Packed in clothes and looking, if possible, even more handsome, he held in his hands a stick. He was looking up at the camera, grinning as he wrote with that stick the ‘I’ of ‘KASTURI’ in the snow.
I closed my eyes, unable to take it all in. What about Teena?
A quick search threw up some emails that had the word ‘Teena’ in them. I opened one, my heart pounding.
Dear Kasturi,
Today, I booked a date for the GMAT exam and am already feeling nervous. If you were still part of my life, Kas, I would just sit by your feet and put my head in your lap. I don’t think I have ever written an exam like this – armed with hours of prep, notes, practice tests and all.
I smiled.
I can almost see you smiling when you read this. I am sure this appeals to the geek in you
Teena got married yesterday, to some fellow her folks found for her in a matter of days. Kas, I know you probably feel that I never loved you … and that it was Teena all the way for me…
It was and then it was not.
I wish I could explain it all without sounding like the scum of the planet … but I can’t. I thought I was in love with Teena, but I was not. I thought I was never going to fall for you but … guess what? I did. I fell in love with you so spectacularly that I don’t think I will ever be able to forget you or forgive myself…
I miss you. I miss your smile. I miss your bright, twinkling eyes. I miss you. I miss you so very much.
Rajeev.
I sat still for a few minutes, my head in my hands. What had just hit me?
3 April 2013, 4.00 a.m.
I sat with my head in my hands, eyes swollen from the frenzied reading of the last three hours. Each email had been read and, some that had resonated more deeply than others, reread. Memories came rushing back to me in waves, each bigger than the last, each bringing with it a searing pain that I did not know what to do with.
And now I understood all that they say about your first love.
There was a desolate longing in Rajeev’s emails that I knew was real. He was trying very hard to be the man I’d thought I’d been in love with … how could I not be affected? As I had moved on, found love and created a new life for myself, Rajeev had clung to my aspirations for him and was now dedicating his life to fulfilling them.
For too long, Rajeev had been the bad guy, the man I was best without. Rajeev’s remorse shook something inside me. And the one question that had been niggling around me for the last few days finally dared to raise its ugly, monstrous head.
Was I still in love with Rajeev?
15
3 April 2013, 7.30 a.m.
‘Koochie Beta,’ chirped Mum. I had managed to fall asleep by five in the morning and the last thing I needed was Mum calling me ‘Koochie’ at seven.
‘No,’ I groaned.
‘No what?’
‘No, I don’t want to talk to you when you call me Koochie,’ I said, snuggling comfortably under the blanket. I knew this call would last a while.
‘You know the first word you learnt to say?’
I groaned. Not this story again.
‘“No”. That was the first word you said. There I was, sitting next to you near the potty and you…’
‘Mum!’ I said, cutting her short. I could not hear that story again. In fact, I did not want to ever hear anything that began with me near the potty.
‘Okay, tell me, what is wrong with “Koochie”?’ said Mum.
‘Mum!’ I said, exasperated. ‘What is right with “Koochie”?’
‘It’s so cute.’
‘Mum! It is not!’
‘In other news,’ said Mum, sounding a little hurt and changing the topic, ‘Anjuji called yesterday.’
‘To say what?’
‘She wants you to wear a yellow sari for the actual wedding ceremony.’
‘And?’
‘I said, behenji, the lehenga will be so expensive, she should at least wear it for the jaimala and the wedding.’
‘But Mum, in our family don’t brides always wear a yellow sari for the wedding ceremony?’
‘Of course,’ she said. I could hear her smile.
‘Mum!’ I said, exasperated, ‘Why are you uselessly picking fights?’
‘Anyway,’ she said, laughing. ‘What did you and Purva do for your birthday yesterday?’
I made a face and then realized that Mum could not see me.
‘Nothing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He did not even call me.’
Wrong. He had called me fifteen times from eleven-thirty at night to two in the morning, after which he had left me a couple of messages.
‘What?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is scandalous! Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Hmmm … you must ask. I am sure he has a reason.’ said Mum.
I grunted.
‘I have some more news,’ she said gleefully.
‘What?’
‘The wedding date has been fixed.’
‘Whose wedding date?’ I drawled, lazily stretching myself.There was silence. I sat upright. ‘My wedding?’ I asked slowly.
‘Yes, your wedding. Remember, you are getting married?’
I didn’t say anything.
‘To Purva,’ Mum added helpfully.
‘Oh,’ I said, th
e hundreds of emails from Rajeev still dancing in my head.
‘6 August,’ said Mum.
‘Eh?’
‘Your wedding date, Beta. 6 August.’
‘Oh,’ was all that I could come up with.
8.00 a.m.
The bell rang impatiently. I had already called in sick at work, citing issues with my ear, and disliked the injustice of being forced out of bed at this unearthly hour. Anu had left at five in the morning today to be with her mum in Pune. Ahya had rung up the previous afternoon, bidding her eldest child to drop everything and come home. She refused to give her a reason, leaving Anu to imagine the worst. Anu, of course, dutifully decided that there was something wrong with Govind’s heart.
‘There can’t be anything wrong with Govind’s heart,’ I had said.
‘Why?’ she had asked, looking hopefully at me.
‘Because he doesn’t have one,’ I had said, before collapsing into giggles.
The doorbell rang again, bringing me back to the present. I shook my head, an old habit, hoping that in doing so, I would be able to rid myself of the noise that was making my head ache. I trooped to the main lobby, hitching up my pyjamas, and opened the door.
Purva.
Feeling anger surge inside me, I turned around abruptly and walked right back in, shutting the door on Purva’s face. I almost ran the last few meters to my room and threw myself down on the bed, breathing in deep bursts.
Purva walked in slowly behind me and put a hand on my shoulders. I shook it away.
‘Kasturi,’ he said gently. ‘Look here.’
I sat still on my bed with my back towards Purva and my hands crossed across my chest.
‘Please?’ he pleaded.
I sat unmoving.
‘Please,’ he repeated, gently turning me around. I narrowed my eyes in surprise as I looked at him. Purva’s hair was tousled and his eyes looked weary. It seemed like he had not slept in ages.
‘I am sorry, Kas,’ he said in a soft voice.
‘All I wanted was to spend time with you on my birthday,’ I said in a small voice, looking at my hands.
‘Kas, I’m very sorry…’ his voice trailed off.
I noted, then, that his eyes seemed heavy with sleep…
‘You did not call me the whole day! Who does that?’
‘An idiot,’ he said, grinning. Not a fresh-faced happy grin, but a sad grin that failed to reach his eyes. The anger I had been harbouring inside me now seemed to ebb away just a little bit.
Can This Be Love? Page 7