Another fit of giggles followed this.
30 June 2013.
‘Paddy,’ I said, looking intently at P.P. Padma’s bangs. There was something I had been meaning to ask her for the longest time.
‘Hmm?’
‘Why did you hate me so much in the beginning? Am I really horrible?’
Paddy put down the cup of coffee she had been sipping from. ‘I could lie or I couldn’t lie.’
‘Don’t lie,’ I said, meaning it.
‘Well … I felt you had everything very easy … too easy.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘You know … how little you worked and how smitten Vijaywada was with you. How you seemed to have this bunch of really cool friends … you know.’
I grunted, not really getting it.
‘Okay,’ she said firmly, ‘I will say it as it is … or was. I was jealous. Plain jealous. I felt you had it all. Good looks, charming personality, fabulous boyfriend, doting parents, great friends...’
I did not know where to look.
‘I told myself that obviously something has to be wrong with Kasturi and decided that you are horrible. Which you are not and you went out of your way to help me and really changed my life, in a way, and I … I…’ Paddy fumbled, helpless now.
It was my cue to get up and give her a big hug. ‘Let’s forget all about it,’ I said.
‘Let’s do that, Kassie!’ said Paddy, returning my wide smile with an even wider one.
3 July 2013.
I feel absolutely miserable.
It does not help that, of late, Mum has taken to sprouting Hindi idioms at me. Idiom of the day is, ‘Jaisi karni, waisi bharni.’
The idiom yesterday was, ‘Ab pachhtaye kya hoye, jab chidiya chug gayi khet.’
I get it Mum, I do!
10 July 2013.
Dear World,
I get it. I messed up. Now will you please stop making me feel this small?
World peace and warm regards,
Kasturi
15 July 2013, 10.00 p.m.
I had been dreading this call. Since the day I left him waiting for me at TGIF, Rajeev has sent me many emails. Overtaken by events, I had not had a chance to reply.
Till last night.
I needed closure and I knew, even though I had not spoken to Rajeev in years, that he did too. There was a time, however brief, when he and I had connected at a very deep level. We did not realize it then but I understand it better now. Though we parted ways in the ugliest manner possible, I know I loved him then just as I know now that he needs closure to move on. Just as I know I do too.
I emailed him saying that I would like to speak to him. He gave me his number and that is what I dialled now.
‘Hi,’ I said, surprised at how nervous I felt.
‘Kasturi!’ he gushed.
It was odd to hear his voice. Some part of me immediately recognized it as a voice that, at one point in time, had been my most favourite sound in the world.
‘I’m sorry, Rajeev, for not turning up that day.’
‘It’s okay. I’ve done worse by you. I don’t think I have any right to complain,’ he said. His voice was heavier than I remembered; more mature, with a warmer ring to it.
‘I … I want to keep this short. I don’t think I’ll be meeting you or calling you. I’m sorry, Rajeev. This is it.’ I said, biting my lip.
‘Okay,’ he said softly.
‘Bye,’ I said.
‘Wait.’
‘Yes?’
‘Kasturi, if you can, please try to forgive me,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘I will always love you.’
I remained silent for a few moments.
‘I forgive you, Rajeev. Live well,’ I said and hung up.
Somewhere deep inside my heart, a little bit of me broke and I touched my wet face, surprised at the tears. Or maybe not really surprised. This was never going to be easy. You know, I still dream of Rajeev sometimes, vague dreams, dreams where nothing happens, but he’s in them. I wake up feeling as if I’d just met an old friend. With time, I find myself forgetting all the bad things that happened between us. The good times live on, not in a hormone-crazed, I-want-Rajeev way, but in a more quiet, dignified manner.
Rajeev probably thinks I am severing all ties with him.
I am not. I cannot. No matter how hard I try.
He is part of my past, a past that was, in most bits, very beautiful. He is a part of my subconscious because, when I loved him, I loved him with a fire I had not known existed inside me. He will remain there, probably for decades, as a beautiful memory that might begin to fade with time and one day vanish completely. Other stories from my life will overwrite Rajeev’s memory.
Maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe he will always be there, a gentle reminder of a love that once was.
Either way, I accept memories of us and the place in my life that they choose to occupy. And for all those wonderful memories, I forgive him the deceit.
I loved Rajeev, but I love Purva.
Live well, Rajeev, live well and prosper.
20 July 2013.
An extract from Mum’s blog-post titled, ‘True peace and Aradhya Bachchan’:
By the time I die, which I hope is a long way off – I need to first see Pimple get married and then ensure that she gets her children married on time. I am also, and understandably so, very curious to see if Aradhya Bachchan will become an actress like her parents and grandparents – I want to have found my peace. True peace.
That is also my biggest hope for you. For you to find peace.
What is true peace, I hope you are asking yourself now.
True peace is knowing that you have followed at least some of the dreams that you have held closest to your heart. True peace is knowing that you have nurtured at least some of the people who have been closest to your heart. True peace is knowing that you have expressed at least some of the feelings that you have felt closest to your heart.
True peace comes from the quiet in your heart, so take care of it.
As of today, 435 people follow her blog – twenty more than last month. Mum is already on her way to cyber stardom.
25 July 2013.
‘Errr,’ said Pitajee.
‘Stop err-ing and start speaking,’ I snapped back at him. With Purva acting the way he was, patience, let us just say, was a rare thing to come by.
‘Umm…’
‘I will murder you now,’ I said in a voice thick with emotion.
‘It’s been three months now, Kas,’ he said hesitantly.
I sighed. I had never imagined that Purva would prove to be such a difficult man to win back. ‘Pitajee,’ I sulked into my phone.
‘Kas.’
‘He won’t even talk to me.’
‘I know.’
‘He won’t even look at me.’
‘I know.’
‘What do I do? I’ve tried everything in the world,’ I moaned.
The proverbial pause, pregnant with meaning.
‘Have you, Kas?’ he asked, in a sage voice. ‘Have you?’
11.00 a.m.
With renewed vigour, I have set on the most difficult task life has thrown at me. And as with most difficult tasks, my first stop was Google.
‘How to get your boyfriend back’ threw up a couple of depressing articles which preached patience and extolled the healing abilities of time. What utter rubbish!
‘How to win back upset bf’ produced another couple of articles that made me want to kill myself.
‘How to make up with bf’ … What? Did I just fall asleep?
Arrgghhh.
I muck up stuff in original ways so I must un-muck stuff the same way.
1.00 p.m.
Though I have a fertile, imaginative mind, nothing strikes me at the moment.
3.00 p.m.
No, nothing yet.
5.00 p.m.
I was watching reruns of the Great British Bake Off when it hit me.
An idea! Voi
la!
A few hurried texts were exchanged with Pitajee and Anu and it was agreed that the idea was undeniably cute. If this did not melt Purva’s heart, we could conclusively agree that he did not possess one.
6.00 p.m.
On a Great-British-Bake-Off-induced high, I bought all the things one would need to bake a simple vanilla sponge cake. The idea is to keep it basic and create the best, yummiest sponge cake that ever existed on this planet. For the plan to really work, I have to simply outdo all the bakers in this world. Given that I have never baked before, this will be a cakewalk for me. Pun intended.
With this noble thought in mind, I set to work, vowing to follow to the last word the recipe that Pitajee had emailed me. I religiously sifted the flour, added sugar and eggs and beat them to the right consistency.
That man, my friend Pitajee, is a national treasure. His support and enthusiasm for this baking project has been infectious. What else are friends for, he said philosophically, when I called him to tell him that all the mixing was almost done, and I agreed.
Proud of myself, I read the last line in the recipe and groaned.
‘Place the baking tray in the oven for 45-50 minutes till the cake rises.’
My phone rang. Pitajee.
Instead of the expected hello, what I heard was maniacal laughter that could only come from a man possessed.
‘Did you put the batter in the oven?’ howled Pitajee.
‘Shut up and don’t you dare ever call me again,’ I said. Just before I cancelled the call, I heard him burst into a fresh bout of the aforementioned maniacal laughter.
I had forgotten that I did not have an oven. Pitajee, that scoundrel, obviously had not.
26 July 2013, 9.00 a.m.
I got a store-bought sponge cake, cut it in the shape of the letter ‘I’, put it in a pink cardboard box, decorated the box with a huge pink ribbon, drove to AIIMS and left it with ward boy Ravi Singh for a certain Dr Purva Dixit.
27 July 2013, 9.00 a.m.
Sponge cake cut in the shape of the letter ‘A’ has been left at AIIMS with ward boy Ravi Singh for Dr Dixit.
‘Did he take the box I left for him yesterday?’ I asked Ravi Singh, as he patted the pink box I had just handed him.
‘No, Kasturi Didi,’ Ravi Singh said dolefully.
‘Did he at least open it?’
‘No.’
That grumpy man! Hmph!
28 July 2013, 9.00 a.m.
Letter of the day – M.
‘Did he take it?’ I asked Ravi Singh.
‘No.’
‘Did he open it?’
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Life is very unfair, Ravi Singh,’ I said balefully.
‘It sure is, Kasturi Didi,’ said Ravi Singh, looking wistfully at a young, pretty nurse who was walking past us.
29 July 2013, 9.00 a.m.
Letter of the day – S.
‘Did he…’ I began, as I dropped off the pink cake-box for the day.
‘No.’ Ravi Singh said.
‘Oh,’ I said, shaking my head with sheer, unadulterated misery. The plan was already falling apart and I had barely reached ‘S’.
‘But…’
‘What?’ I exclaimed.
‘Nurse Julian had kept the pink box in the cupboard, so obviously it was not in full view of anyone walking past the counter. Dr Dixit came to me late in the afternoon, after his rounds, and asked if there was anything for him.’
I was already mentally doing a tribal victory-dance. ‘Oh my god! Then? Then? Ravi Singh, what did you say?’ I asked, grabbing his arm in excitement.
Ravi Singh smiled a benign, Mother-Teresa-ish smile.
‘I said yes there is and handed him the box.’
‘OH MY GOD!’ I shrieked. ‘Then? Then? THEN?’
‘Nothing,’ Ravi Singh said, his face falling.
‘Oh!’
‘He looked at the box, shook his head and left.’
‘Looked in the box, you mean?’ I asked hopefully.
Ravi Singh shook his head. ‘At,’ he clarified.
‘Oh.’
‘I know.’
‘A word?’
‘No, Kasturi Didi.’
‘A smile?’
‘No, Kasturi Didi.’
I sighed.
‘Life is very unfair, Kasturi Didi,’ Ravi Singh said philosophically.
‘It sure is, Ravi Singh,’ I said, nodding my head in melancholic agreement.
30 July 2013, 9.00 a.m.
Letter of the day – O.
‘HE OPENED IT!’ Ravi Singh was already shouting at the top of his lungs by the time I reached him. His eyes were shining with wild excitement and, to my surprise, along with him stood the same pretty nurse I had seen his eyes follow the other day.
‘Did he? He opened it?’ I shrieked in delight.
‘Yes, he did,’ Ravi Singh smiled happily. The nurse also nodded her head vigorously.
‘Did he say anything?’
‘No.’
‘Did he smile?’ I asked again.
‘No.’
‘Did he take it with him?’
‘No.’
‘Who cares, Ravi Singh? He opened the box!’ I grabbed Ravi Singh and twirled him around. The pretty nurse stared at us with wide eyes and Ravi Singh tried to look very familiar, as if girlfriends of senior surgeons regularly twirled him around.
31 July 2013, 9.00 a.m.
Letter of the day – R.
Ravi Singh and the pretty nurse were waiting for me when I reached with my box. An elderly nurse, whom I had sometimes seen in the hospital, was with them. I had not even handed the cake-box to Ravi, when he said, ‘He opened yesterday’s box as well!’
‘And?’ I said, shouting with happiness.
‘He said… ’ continued the pretty nurse.
‘He said…’ repeated Ravi Singh in a teasing voice, exchanging a look with the pretty nurse.
‘Ravi Singh! And you!’ I cried, jabbing a finger at the pretty nurse. ‘Speak up!’
‘Did anyone get a chance to open the first few boxes?’
My heart leapt with sheer delight. At least I had his attention.
‘What did you say?’
‘What would I say Kasturi Didi? I said I had.’
‘And?’
‘He asked me if they were alphabets too and I said, yes, they were I, A, M, S, O.’
I beamed back at the three faces that smiled excitedly at me.
Could this work? Would it be cakes that would break the wall the angry Purva had constructed around himself? Cakes?
1 August 2013, 9.00 a.m.
Letter of the day – R.
Today when I reached the hospital desk, Ravi Singh, pretty nurse, elderly nurse and another orderly were waiting for me, smiles plastered on their faces.
‘He opened it, saw what was inside and left the box at the counter,’ Ravi Singh said. I no longer had to even ask.
2 August 2013, 9.00 a.m.
Letter of the day – Y.
A little group, consisting of no less than seven members of staff, was waiting for me when I reached the hospital today.
‘He said…’ began Ravi Singh.
‘That, that…’ said pretty nurse.
‘Please see…’ interrupted the elderly nurse.
‘…that the cake…’ said the orderly.
‘…is not wasted!’ concluded a nurse with long hair, who pumped her fist in the air.
I looked around at the faces that crowded around and an odd, warm, fuzzy feeling enveloped my heart. Many faces were unfamiliar and most were lined with worry, and yet in all of them I saw something that made me want to burst into tears.
27
3 August 2013, 9.00 a.m.
Letter of the day – A.
Ravi Singh wants to become an actor. The nurse with long hair, mother to two rowdy boys, is desperate to have a baby girl who might deign to listen to her once in a while and the old orderly is still grieving f
or his wife who died four years ago.These were all nameless faces I had barely registered in the two years I have been regularly visiting the hospital. Now they know a little bit of my story, just as I know a little bit of theirs.
Odd, the friends you make. Very odd.
4 August 2013, 9.00 a.m.
Letter of the day – N.
5 August 2013, 9.00 a.m.
Letter of the day – D.
Today, instead of Ravi Singh – who had taken a day off to audition for a role in a television serial – the head nurse of the nephrology ward met me at the gate to collect the box.
‘Kasturi Beta?’ she began hesitatingly.
‘Yes, Sister?’ I asked, jiggling the car keys.
‘Umm … do you … do you think you can get chocolate cake?’
‘What?’
‘I mean … vanilla gets boring after a while,’ she replied, shrugging her shoulders.
Ji, Madam, ji.
6 August 2013, 9.00 a.m.
Letter of the day – S.
Flavour of the day – Chocolate.
Number of people who came to receive the cake – eleven.
7 August 2013, 9.00 a.m.
Letter of the day – T.
Flavour of the day – Chocolate.
Number of people gathered to take the cake – fourteen.
4.00 p.m.
I was strolling aimlessly in Khan market, thinking about ways to tell Purva how much I loved him and how sorry I was, when my eyes fell on three people walking towards me. I choked on the coffee I had just taken a mouthful of and the American in front of me turned around curiously. I couldn’t care less, for, walking towards me, in deep conversation with each other were Purva, Vikram and Anju Aunty.
Someone – read: yours truly – has correctly said that the wrath of a woman scorned is nothing compared to the wrath of a mother whose child has been scorned.
These days Anju Aunty is a regular fixture in my nightmares. In one of the more violent ones, she dangles me by my throat over a steep cliff that rises above a sea of demons, hauls me up just before I die and chops me, alive and kicking, me into pieces which she later feeds to snakes.
Within seconds, I had ducked and hidden behind the only object of reasonable size I could spot – a remarkably smelly dustbin that was overflowing with choicest rubbish that Khan Market could come up with. Needless to add, the next thirty seconds, during which I tried my best to become one with the dustbin reeking of kebabs and urine, as the trio walked past me, were the longest of my life.
Can This Be Love? Page 13