‘Have you eaten?’ I asked, in spite of myself.
‘Not in the last thirty-six hours,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders.
Without another word I got up, went into the kitchen and returned with sandwiches and milk.
‘Eat,’ I ordered curtly, and handed the tray to him. Purva’s amused eyes followed my every movement. He smiled, took the tray from my hands and placed the food on the bed. He then took my hands in his.
‘Dheerbahi slum caught fire ... you might have seen it in the news...’ he said, staring at my hands ‘They brought all the casualties to AIIMS. I was the doctor in charge. A school … seventeen kids…’ he shook his head, reliving the memories. ‘I saw forty-seven people die … bit much even for me,’ he finished with a weak smile.
‘Oh,’ I said. So this was why no one could reach him. The anger that had already begun to ebb was now quickly being replaced by immense guilt and shame.
‘I am sorry, Kasturi. I know this birthday was important to you. It was important to me too, but I … I could not get away,’ he said in his characteristic low, grave voice, his intense gaze searching my face, reading each thought as it passed through my head.
‘You have not slept either, have you?’ I asked, smiling.
‘I need to go back in an hour,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Eat this,’ I said, pointing to the food, ‘and sleep on my bed. I will wake you up in an hour.’
Purva stared at me without blinking for a few minutes. He then got up, stretched himself to his full height of six feet and, pulling out a nicely wrapped box from his backpack, handed it to me.
‘Happy birthday, sweetheart,’ he said in a voice so low that it was almost a whisper. ‘I love you.’
Simple words, earnestly spoken by the tired man I loved, found their way straight to a place somewhere deep in my heart. I hoped fervently that Purva’s gift would be a box of expensive chocolates or a piece of jewellery. Anything more and I knew I would be in tears.
I unwrapped the gift and found myself staring at something that was very familiar.
For my seventh birthday, Mum and Dad had gifted me a musical box. Open it and a pretty delicate ballerina twirled to Mum and Dad singing happy birthday to me. I had spent an entire year doing nothing else but opening and closing the box. Predictably, it broke from overuse. Even then I could never let go of the turquoise box with the twirling ballerina inside it. It stayed with me when I left home for engineering college, came back home with me when I finished, went with me to B-school, came back home again and now was – or so I thought – with me in my apartment.
A spruced-up, sparkling-new version of the same box was now in front of me.
‘Open it,’ said Purva, staring intently at me.
The ballerina from my childhood appeared and, to my utter delight, began to slowly twirl around.
I shrieked with joy. However, before I could even look up at Purva, the sound of Mum and Dad singing happy birthday reached my stunned ears. Dad had taken this box to so many repair shops but it could not be fixed.
‘Is this a new box?’ I asked, bewildered. Mine broke almost twenty years ago and repeated attempts to put it right had failed.
‘No,’ said Purva. ‘The same one.’
‘But that one … it … it didn’t work…’
‘This has been my project for the last two months,’ he said, smiling proudly, his face suddenly looking a little less tired.
‘Oh my god,’ I whispered to myself as I rubbed the turquoise box in wonder. It was almost like being reacquainted with a lost, yet integral, part of my childhood. The mystical, magical, wonderful music box.
The thought behind the gift tugged at the strings of my heart and I felt my throat tighten. There is something so sacred about childhood, so pure and innocent that in touching a bit of mine, Purva had given me the best gift possible. Clutching the box to my heart, I looked up at Purva, only to find him staring at me.
‘I…’ I tried, but stopped. ‘The … the…’ I tried again, now deeply embarrassed at the tears that were beginning to stream down my face.
‘Shh,’ said Purva, looking mortified and bending low to wipe my tears with his hands. ‘Silly girl…’
The tears refused to stop.
‘This … this … is…’ I blubbered.
Purva pulled me closer and I drew towards the comforting wafts of chloroform like it was a magnet.
‘Shhh … hey … come on … don’t cry … please…’ he pleaded softly. Purva took my face in his hands and kissed my moist eyes. Each kiss, each word so tender and so full of gentle, innocent love that I could do little to stop the fresh wave of tears. Wrapped tightly in Purva’s arms, feeling the safest I could possibly feel, images of me huddled over my laptop, reading email after email from Rajeev, flashed before my eyes and brought a fresh wave of guilt-ridden tears.
What the hell am I doing?
Purva, you are too nice, too good and too honest to be with someone like me.
16
5 April 2013, 5.00 a.m.
No, of course I will not open Rediffmail to see if there is an email from Rajeev today.
9.00 a.m.
‘Any calls from Anu?’ I asked, turning to look at Pitajee. In return for aloo paranthas cooked by me, Pitajee had agreed to drop me off at office twice that week. As he drove his fancy car, I munched on an apple, reflecting on the advantages of knowing how to cook. My paranthas, when I cook them now, turn out perfectly round and very soft. I am officially the type of parantha-making daughter-in-law that any mother-in-law would be proud of.
‘Yes.’
‘What? What did she say?’ I said, surprised.
‘I don’t think there is anything wrong with Govind.’
‘There will never be anything wrong with Govind,’ I said ruefully.
‘So…’
‘So we don’t know why Ahya called Anu home.’
Pitajee put his foot on the break and car came to a sudden halt. Turning off the ignition, Pitajee turned around to face me.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked, taken aback.
‘Kas,’ said Pitajee, his jaws set firm. ‘Why am I not good enough?’
I put a hand on Pitajee’s.
‘Is it just because I decided to sit for the MBA entrance and not the IAS exam? An exam will decide whom I get to marry? Or is it something else? Why am I not good enough?’ he fumed, frustration darkening his usually good-humoured face.
‘You may not be good enough for Ahya and Govind, but for Anu you will always be the best … and that is what really matters, does it not?’ I said, smiling.
Pitajee stared at me for a moment, opened his mouth and then shut it again.
‘You will always be good enough for Anu, Pitajee,’ I repeated.
For a moment, the darkness lingered in his eyes and I wondered what he would say next. But the dark clouds lifted from Pitajee’s face and the sun shone clearer. The old, lovable Pitajee was back.
I smiled a very maternal smile.
‘Sometimes, I begin to doubt us … but your words … they … you rock, Koochie,’ he said, grinning from ear to ear.
I thwacked his head with my purse.
‘Bhabhiji!’ he squealed and pinned my hands behind my back.
11.00 a.m.
I won’t open the email account.
1.00 p.m.
I won’t.
2.00 p.m.
I should not.
3.00 p.m.
I should not and I will not.
4.00 p.m.
Is there any harm in just reading the subject line?
5.00 p.m.
No.
7.00 p.m.
Subject line – ‘My deepest regret and a picture’.
Dear Kasturi,
I have many regrets, but the biggest is the way I treated you. I will never forgive myself and I spend a lot of my time and energy, trying to become the person you thought I was.
The one person very happy about this is my
mother, who speaks very fondly and very often about you.
I am also sending you a picture from yesterday. This is with Jon, who heads the mergers desk, at BNP Paribas, here in Europe. I worked very closely with him in the last few weeks and, right before this picture was taken, he asked me what kept me so motivated all the time. I smiled and said nothing and he asked me if it was a girl. I said yes, her name is Kasturi.
He smiled knowingly. Only he did not know the entire story. If he did, he would be shocked.
I miss you terribly … more so with each passing day.
Rajeev.
I opened the attachment and stared at the suited-up Rajeev. His diamond ear-studs were gone and he had started wearing spectacles which gave him a very intellectual look. A lot of things about him were very obviously different. The only thing that remained the same was that he continued to look utterly handsome.
9.00 p.m.
‘Dad! Sorry, I missed your call,’ I said, as I washed dirty utensils with the phone stuck between my right ear and shoulder.
‘What are you doing? What’s that noise?’
‘Washing dishes.’
‘Sounds more like you’re throwing them around.’
‘Same thing.’
‘Agreed.’
‘So, how are things?’ he asked.
That is one loaded question, Dad. Rajeev is sending me an email a day and has been since the day I caught him with Teena. Teena is married to another man and Rajeev is now getting an MBA degree from the best business school in the world. He is also grovelling in misery and desperate for me to reply. I, on the other hand, am thinking more about Rajeev than about the man I am engaged to.
‘All good,’ I said.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘Yeah…’
‘Wanna get married in the Taj?’ asked Dad. I laughed out loud. Dad is very entertaining when he tries to use slang.
‘What?’ I said, laughing.
‘I am going to book the Taj reception hall for the wedding.’
I said nothing.
‘Kasturi? Are you there?’ Dad asked.
‘When, Dad?’ I asked.
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Dad,’ I said, after a pause, ‘is it always supposed to be magical … meeting the boy, getting to know him, getting married…’
Dad laughed. ‘No … more often than not, it is far from magical but…’ he paused, ‘… it has to feel right even when it is not magical.’
What if it suddenly stops feeling right? And something else that was all wrong begins to feel right?
10.00 p.m.
Exchange of text messages with Anu –
‘Kas, are you there?’
‘Yes, how is Govind’s heart? *sarcastic look*’
‘I am getting engaged. Day after tomorrow.’
Midnight.
Delhi flew past me as I stared steadily in front of me, eyes on the road, my mind elsewhere. I felt sullen and shocked in equal measure. Shifting to fourth gear, with Mum’s warning about road rage resounding in my ears, I let a Honda City overtake me. Although I liked this stretch of road from the airport to my home, images of Pitajee’s shocked face kept coming back to me.
I had just dropped Pitajee off at the airport. He had left in a desperate attempt to stop Anu’s engagement. I looked at my watch; the flight to Pune would have taken off by now.
I really, really hope it works. Both for their sake and mine.
10 April 2013, 10.00 a.m.
Subject – ‘Deer and their eyes’.
Dear Kasturi,
All my friends here know about you, the girl I love. The girl who is so angry with me – rightfully so – that she will not even read my emails.
Yesterday I went to Richmond Park for an early-morning run. During the two hours that I ran, all I thought of was how much you would have liked it. Sometimes I do this, you know, wonder about what your favourite places in London would have been had you been here with me. Anyway, so coming back to the park … I know without any doubt that you would have loved it! There are deer everywhere, sitting in groups … and oddly enough they remind me so much of you.
I know what you are thinking … What? Deer remind him of me!
Well, their gorgeous, kohl rimmed eyes did for sure. Your eyes are beautiful, Kas, very beautiful. Alive and always dancing with mischief. Sometimes I wonder when it was that I really and truly fell in love with you … neither a particular time nor a particular incident comes to mind … just your eyes … dancing with mirth, dark with anger, alive with mischief … always so full of expression. I have been thinking about them since yesterday.
I always miss you, Kasturi, but today … even more so…
Rajeev.
1.00 p.m.
I need to talk to someone.
Pitajee is not answering his phone and I have just left him my sixth voicemail telling him that I need to:
a) know what is happening with him and Anu.
b) tell him something important.
I don’t have a good feeling about any of this.
2.00 p.m.
What am I thinking?
Indira Gandhi Airport, Car Park, Midnight.
Pitajee sat stone-still, his usually smiling face devoid of any expression. I had just picked him up at the airport and we were now sitting slumped in the car. I had not even bothered to turn on the ignition.
‘Say that again,’ I repeated, aghast.
‘Anu is getting engaged to Saumen Dutta tomorrow. I tried to talk her out of it, but she is too worried about Govind’s heart to … to…’
I put a reassuring hand on Pitajee’s shoulders. ‘I don’t understand it Kasturi … why … why can’t she just say no?
‘Pitajee,’ I said, helplessly.
‘You know what, Kas, I’m done with Anu … it’s all over.’
I turned my head sideways to stare open-mouthed at Pitajee. There was an air of resolute determination about him that scared the wits out of me.
‘Have you lost it, Pitajee?’ I said, not willing to believe him. Anu and Pitajee are meant to be together … theirs was one story that had to have a happy ending. Had to.
‘It’s over, Kasturi. It’s all over … I don’t understand Anu’s behaviour but it’s over,’ he said, shaking his head as if he could not quite believe it himself.
There was silence in the car for a few moments.
‘I need to tell you something too,’ I said meekly, already afraid of how he was going to react. I had spent many hours thinking this through and finally knew what I wanted to do.
‘Go on?’ he said, raising his eyebrows.
I gulped.
‘I cannot marry Purva,’ I said, jutting out my chin, obstinately. It was Pitajee’s turn to now stare at me aghast.
‘Are you kidding me?’ he said, shocked.
I shook my head.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ I lied, unwilling to share the real reason with him.
‘Have you lost it, Kas?’
Yes, I probably have.
17
Café Coffee Day, Green Park, Delhi, 3 May 2013.
Purva stared at me, his eyes wide behind the spectacles I had gifted him for his last birthday. His face registered confusion.
‘I’m sorry, Kas, what do you mean by that?’ he asked me, the smile vanishing now. The two of us were sitting in the café near AIIMS, one of our usual hang-outs. I had spent the last two days tossing and turning, a gazillion thoughts in my head. Finally, I had come to a decision; a decision that was about to wreak havoc in everybody’s life.
‘Purva,’ I said, staring at my fingers, ‘I cannot do this.’
‘Do what?’
‘Get married…’
Purva continued to look confused. My comment had blind-sighted him, I knew. It broke my heart to do this, but I knew I could not live this lie any more.
‘You don’t want to marry me?’ he asked, slowly, fiddling with the sides of his spectacles, which he always di
d when he felt nervous.
‘I don’t want to marry anyone,’ I said, emphasizing ‘anyone’. As if that helped.
Purva remained silent for a few seconds, as thoughts and consequences of this conversation filled me with a weird concoction of dread and nervousness.
When he looked up, which he did a little later, his eyes were red. Red and oh-so-terribly sad. So sad that I felt I could not breathe. I hated myself with all my heart for doing this to Purva.
‘Why, Kasturi?’ he asked softly, without the aggression that I had prepared myself for.
‘I … I don’t know…’ I said, tears gathering in my eyes, as I stared unblinkingly at Purva. I wanted to lunge forward, hug him and tell him I was joking and this would all be over. But I could not … I couldn’t live like this … this fake life where I pretended that my heart beat only for Purva.
Desperation closed in from all sides and a fat tear rolled down my cheeks and splattered on the paper napkin on the table. ‘I don’t know…’ I repeated.
‘Is it something I said? Something I did?’ he prodded gently.
I shook my head.
‘Then?’ he asked.
‘Purva … I don’t feel ready … at all…’ I said.
‘Kas,’ he said, grabbing my hands, ‘these are just nerves! Don’t worry, you don’t have to do anything … nothing will change. You … you stop those stupid parantha classes … everything remains the way it was, the way you like it.’
Purva spoke breathlessly and I sobbed throughout, looking down, not daring to meet his eyes.
‘It’s not easy for me, Purva … but … I … I can’t … just can’t…’
‘Why? What has changed? I … I…’ he trailed off.
I closed my eyes. I hated seeing Purva like this. I hated being the person who was doing this to him. With trembling fingers, I removed my engagement ring and placed it on the table between us.
‘Do you need more time?’ he said, subconsciously pushing the ring towards me.
I closed my eyes and shook my head. ‘Purva … if I don’t feel I will be able to give you or our relationship a hundred per cent … I will not, and should not, marry you.’
Can This Be Love? Page 8