Purva stared at me, his face now gradually clearing.
‘I did not see this coming…’ he said after a pause.
‘Neither did I!’ I said, swallowing hard.
Our eyes met; his shocked and mine desperate.
‘You don’t love me anymore,’ he said, calmly, more to himself than to anyone else. ‘Probably never did.’
A knife went through my heart as Purva quietly took the ring and put it in his pocket.
18
6 May 2013, 9.00 a.m.
‘You’ve lost it, Kas,’ said Pitajee’s text.
‘I know,’ I replied.
6.00 p.m.
‘Pitajee,’ I said, into the phone.
‘I hate you, Kas,’ he said.
I stayed silent for a minute. ‘You do, don’t you?’ I asked him.
‘I don’t want to lie to you about this, Kas, but I hate what you have done … I fail to see the logic,’ he said, in a dry voice.
‘Did you speak to him?’
‘Speak to whom?’
‘Purva!’ I said, exasperated.
‘Oh, you mean the man you ruthlessly ditched?’
I cancelled the call, anger surging inside me.
6.01 p.m.
‘Kas,’ said Pitajee, calling me up the next instant.
‘Don’t talk to me,’ I said angrily.
‘This is not us,’ he said, his voice sad. ‘We never fight like this.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘We never do. Everything has changed, Pitajee…’
‘I met Purva,’ he said, interrupting me.
‘And?’ I said, crossing my fingers. ‘Is he all right?’
‘Yeah. He told me what you had said to him. He seems to have doubled shifts and is working enough for forty bulls…’
‘Is that all? Did he say that I was horrible?’
‘He will never say that.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he loves you too much for that.’
I could say nothing to that because I knew he was right.
‘Anu?’ I asked.
Silence for a few minutes.
‘Ask her. I don’t care now,’ he said abruptly.
I slumped back into my chair. What had happened to the four of us?
Life, said a little voice in my head.
7 May 2013.
‘In case I haven’t told you this before, you’ve lost it completely, Kas,’ read Pitajee’s text.
‘Shut up,’ I wrote back.
9 May 2013.
In a bid to distract myself, I have been spending a lot of time toying with the pearls of wisdom (read: Mum’s blog).
Extract from a post titled, ‘Comparisons that should not be made’:
It is grossly incorrect to compare your life with that of those around you. Doing that will only make you feel smaller because there will always be someone with better health, a bigger career, a prettier wife. Remember, each of us has his own share of ups and downs. Experience the ups with quiet dignity and go through the downs with quiet dignity. The key to happiness is a stable mind. A stable mind, not given to troughs and peaks, while difficult to attain, is a beautiful mind.’
Extract from another post titled, ‘What you owe to yourself’:
We go about life doing whatever it is we consider to be our duty towards our friends, family and society. What we forget often, I am afraid, is the duty we have towards ourselves.
Do you know what the biggest duty you have towards yourself is?
I will put it simply.
Your biggest duty is to help yourself become the best you can possibly be.
I sat and read the last line a couple of times. It was powerful stuff, I had to say. My mind went back to what I had done to Purva and wondered if that had signified the worst in me.
Moving to other matters now, the number of followers of the blog is now an unbelievable 612. She has become some kind of cyber Shri Prabha Shankar.
My Parents’ Home, 10 May 2013, 3.00 p.m.
‘Give me one good reason,’ Mum thundered, as she furiously paced the living room.
I closed my eyes, trying hard to block out both the anger and the questions.
‘One good reason,’ she repeated, jabbing a finger in my direction.
Dad, Mum and I were sitting in the living room. Two days ago, I had announced to them that I no longer wished to marry Purva. Before the day had ended, the e-ticket to a flight home had arrived politely in my email.
After many rounds of arguments, where Mum mostly seemed to ask me to give her one good reason, we still had not made much headway.
‘Prabha,’ said Dad, ‘leave us alone.’
‘What? Why? Why should I leave my daughter alone? I was the one who gave birth to her, not you.’ Then she changed tack. Do you know how horrible it was for me to call up Mrs Dixit and request her to postpone the wedding for the time being? Do you have any idea how stupid Kasturi is?’
‘Prabha,’ Dad said, his voice dangerously calm, ‘Please leave us alone.’
Mum cast one look at me and stamped away, leaving Dad sitting at the dining table, alone with me.
‘Beta,’ said Dad, ‘have you spoken to Purva since you came here?’
I shook my head.
‘I see you are not wearing the ring.’
‘I gave it back to him,’ I said.
Dad seemed lost in his thoughts for a few seconds. ‘It stopped being magical and it stopped feeling right?’ he asked in a low voice. I had to hear those words to start crying again. I felt relief wash over me; finally someone understood.
I nodded my head.
‘Why did it stop feeling right?’ he asked me, his voice gentle. When I did not answer for a long time, he continued. ‘Kasturi, it’s okay for things to not make sense sometimes. I am on your side. We are in this together. Tell me what’s going on in your head and we can sort this out together.’
I began to cry bitterly, anger, frustration and helplessness taking over. Why did I have to feel this way? Why?
Dad patted my head.
‘It’s Rajeev, isn’t it?’ he asked in a whisper.
I looked up at him, stunned. How did he know? I debated whether it would be a good idea to deny this, but decided against lying.
‘Yes,’ I said in a low voice.
Dad looked on intently at me.
‘I still think of him all the time,’ I said in a low voice.
9.00 p.m.
‘You have lost it, Kas,’ Pitajee’s text read.
‘Get lost,’ I replied, immediately. ‘Anu?’ I texted again.
‘Get lost,’ he replied, within seconds.
11.00 p.m.
Subject line – ‘I miss you’.
Dear Kasturi,
I miss you so much more today, there seem to be strings, strong though invisible, that connect me to you. I can never get too far away from thoughts about you.
I miss you.
Rajeev.
11 May 2013, 10.00 p.m.
Dad and I sat in his bedroom watching another rerun of Big Boss when he looked up at me and, completely out of blue, asked me about Rajeev.
‘What’s he doing these days, do you know?’ he asked.
I nodded my head. ‘LBS … MBA.’
‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘Not since … since…’ I trailed off. Not since Teena.
‘Is he married?’ Dad asked.
I shook my head and told him about the emails and all the information I had gathered about him from the daily email updates.
‘One email each day?’ asked Dad, surprised.
‘Sometimes more than one,’ I said, shrugging.
Dad said nothing and turned around to face the TV. Mum came in, in a big hustle.
‘Pankudi,’ she said, ‘keeps asking me about the Dixits! What am I supposed to say to that?’
Dad shrugged and I tried to look ashamed of what I had done.
‘Kasturi,’ said Dad, now looking at me thoughtfully. ‘Meet him.’
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I almost sputtered out the water I had just taken a gulpful of. The things parents say!
‘What?’ I said, in an appropriately screechy voice.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes to what?’ said Mum, looking first at Dad and then at me, suspicion written large on her face.
‘Are you kidding me?’ My heart had started racing excitedly. Meet Rajeev? After all these years?
‘No,’ said Dad gravely. ‘In fact, I insist that you meet him as soon as possible.’
‘Meet whom?’ asked Mum.
‘Rajeev,’ said Dad, turning around to face Mum.
‘Have you lost it?’ asked Mum, staring at Dad.
11.00 p.m.
‘Dad must have a reason,’ I said to Pitajee. It was late in the night and I had just told Pitajee all about Rajeev’s emails and Dad’s comment.
‘Kasturi, I don’t trust Rajeev. At all,’ Pitajee sounded grave. I could picture him shaking his head, his face serious.
‘He is a changed man, Pitajee … and I … I can’t help the way I continue to feel about him.’
‘So this is why you broke off your engagement with Purva?’
‘How could I marry one man and feel this way about another?’
‘I understand that … but … I don’t … don’t trust Rajeev, Kas … I…’ fumbled Pitajee. ‘Are you going to...?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Dad would not ask me to meet Rajeev unless he thought it was a good idea.’
Pitajee did not reply for a long time. ‘You seem to have made your decision,’ he said quietly, a hint of desperation in his voice.
Midnight.
How do I begin?
1.00 a.m.
I cannot write a simple email.
2.00 a.m.
Bleh!
3.00 a.m.
Why am I so wide awake? And why, dear lord, can I not put together a simple email?
4.30 a.m.
So after staring at the screen for four hours and creating 117 drafts, I finally read through the short email once more before hitting the ‘send’ button.
Hi Rajeev,
I would like to meet you. Are you planning to come to India any time soon?
Kasturi
4.34 a.m.
I was about to log out of the account, when an email popped back in.
I am booking tickets right away for Saturday.
Rajeev
My mouth felt dry; it was Thursday already.
I reminded myself to breathe as my pulse quickened. This could not really be happening.
19
Car Park, Delhi Domestic Airport, 13 May 2013, 7.00 p.m.
I thought hard as I waited for Anu at the airport. Anu was flying in from Pune and my flight from home had landed half an hour ago. Anu should be out any minute, I told myself, getting a little restless. The plan was for us to go home together and, more importantly, catch up. ‘Kas!’ said Anu, tapping my shoulder.
I turned around to face her and stilled. The first thing about her that struck me was how sad her pretty face looked; there were dark circles under her eyes which looked ready to start watering anytime now. I noticed her hands next, covered in an elaborate henna pattern, a gentle reminder of the ceremony she had just attended. Finally, my eyes fell on the ring on her finger.
I took her hands in mine, feeling the gravity of the situation. She looked at me and shrugged helplessly, not trusting herself with words. She then held my hands in hers, her face registering an emotional struggle as she fiddled with my finger that was no longer adorned with a ring.
‘When I met you last, you had an engagement ring on this finger,’ she said in a low voice
‘When I met you last,’ I said, feeling my throat catch, ‘you did not.’
‘Why?’ she asked, half pleading, her eyes shining with a coat of water. ‘Purva is … is … he is the nicest man we all know.’
I sat down in the driver’s seat and Anu sat in the front passenger seat, but I did not turn on the ignition. Instead, I let my hands rest on the steering wheel.
‘Anu … I don’t feel sure about … about Purva … I could not … I just couldn’t go ahead with the wedding. It would have been so wrong … to marry someone you’re not sure about at all.’
‘It is so wrong to marry someone you’re not sure about,’ Anu repeated ghost-like after me and spared a hand over my head.
‘Yes, Anu, it is wrong and unfair on both people who are getting into the marriage,’ I said, fully aware that we were now talking about Anu and Saumen.
‘What did Purva say?’ she asked.
I shook my head. ‘I told him what I wanted.’
‘And?’
‘I guess he let me have what I asked for…’
Anu and I sat in silence for a few minutes, both of us lost in thought.
‘Did the surprise engagement freak you out?’ she asked.
I nodded my head.
‘I thought it was a bad idea,’ she said.
I sat there staring at the planet-sized diamond on Anu’s finger debating whether to tell her about Rajeev. I wondered if I felt ashamed of speaking the truth.
‘Your story?’ I said, turning around to face her. ‘What the hell happened? Pitajee just won’t talk about it. He keeps saying that everything is fine. I don’t know what he means!’
‘My parents were very rude to him,’ she said.
‘Nothing new about that! I don’t know how he puts up with that, to be honest.’
‘When I went home,’ she began, ‘I could see that there was going to be a lot of trouble with Mum and Dad about Amay. They insisted that I forget him – after all, they said, girls do have these flings. When I refused to listen to them, they realized that I will only forget him if they place a suitable boy in front of me.’
I stared at her.
‘Why did you agree to the engagement?’ I asked, a familiar surge of anger now rising in my throat.
‘I had little choice, Kas,’ she said in a small voice.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Dad.’ she said.
‘What about him?’ I asked and then it hit me. ‘His heart?’
‘Kas, that night, after I had been forced to meet Saumen – that’s the name of the guy, by the way – I threw a massive tantrum. That is when Mum took me to another room and in a fit of mad anger began to fling files at me.’
‘What?’
‘Medical reports,’ she said quietly.
‘What medical reports?’ I asked.
‘Dad has a very weak heart,’ she said, tearing up as I shook my head disbelievingly. ‘Mum told me that Dad really wants me married to Saumen and could I not forget Amay, whom I have known for only two years, for the sake of my father who brought me into this world.’
I let out another deep breath. I could not contest the logic.
‘You should have seen Dad when I was throwing my tantrum! He was so red in the face, I thought he was going to have a heart attack! When Mum showed me the medical reports, she said…’
‘She said?’
‘She said Dad will die if I marry Amay.’
Oh the drama! ‘And then you agreed?’ Anu nodded, her head hung low. ‘Oh,’ I said, lost in thought.
‘Amay and I had a long conversation,’ said Anu, ‘and we came to a conclusion. I told him that I love him, I love him more than I love myself, but I don’t love him more than I love Dad. I would not be able to live if something happened to Dad ... because of me…’
I stayed silent for a few minutes. ‘What did he say?’ I asked.
‘He said he understood. And no matter how much he hated my father for doing this, if he were in my place, he would do the same…’ Anu trailed off, sobbing.
I have spent years squabbling with Pitajee, throwing pillows and coffee mugs at him. There was something so mature about the Pitajee Anu was talking about that I felt my heart break. I held my head in my hands for a few minutes, the silence of the car park disrupted by a girl shrieking with delight as
she leapt into the arms of her boyfriend.
No one deserved this. No one. Not the worst people on the planet and certainly not Anu and Pitajee who could not knowingly hurt a fly.
‘Kas, Dad is not keeping well … he looks fine but his heart is not good. I can live with any man if that makes him happy. I will try to forget Amay. I … I…’
I lunged forward and wrapped my arms around Anu in a fierce hug. I have known Anu since the day I set foot in Delhi. I have seen her morph from a tomboy to a girl madly in love with my best friend. I can read her expressions like the back of my hand and what I could read now broke my heart again and again. Two years ago, when I was piecing together bits of my life after the Rajeev debacle, Anu had told me that seeing me in such a mess had made her want to cry her heart out. It was only now that I understood what she had meant by that; all I wanted to do was to cry and not stop.
Friendship. How it can double your joy and also double your misery.
‘You poor, poor thing,’ I muttered into her hair, feeling tears sting my eyes too. ‘It’s horrible, isn’t it?’
I could feel her nod her head. And my heart broke again.
‘How will you do this?’ I said, my voice cracking as I felt the desperation that Anu had been living with these past few weeks
‘I don’t know, Kasturi. I have no freaking clue,’ she said, now openly sobbing into my shoulder.
‘Shh … Anu … you will…’ I never completed the sentence. Angry, desperate tears clouded my vision and I soon found myself clinging to Anu in the deserted car park, crying my heart out for all four of us.
Love. It’s like Father Christmas. A myth.
Vijaywada & Sons, Head Office, Green Park, 20 May 2013.
It is quite ridiculous, you know, this whole thing about being a VP. At Vijaywada & Sons, it becomes even funnier. We have three offices in Delhi and each office is headed by a VP. All three offices are fairly close to each other, so we actually have a vice president – Green Park, vice president – Connaught Place, Outer Circle and vice president – Connaught Place, Inner Circle.
I know. Strange, but true. Some smart MBA grad must have come up with this nonsense.
Even though it is Saturday, I am in the office, mainly because if I had nothing to do, I would die of anxiety. So there I was, grumpy to be at work on a Saturday morning and trying helplessly to drill some sense into the brain of the vice-president-Connaught-Place-Inner-Circle, when I saw Padma walk in, her brand new red stilettos clicking on the tiled floor.
Can This Be Love? Page 9