Can This Be Love?

  ‘Sir … umm … thank you. I cannot thank you enough, but I won’t be here next week. I was just about to book my holiday dates.’

  ‘Beta,’ said Mr Vijaywada, ‘don’t worry. Look at the worry lines on your face! Don’t worry, beta, don’t worry!’

  Don’t worry? Was he kidding me?

  ‘Just let me call Bhaiyya and I will see what I can do.’ And with that, Mr Vijaywada pulled out his phone, dialled a number and spoke briefly.

  ‘Now!’ he said triumphantly.

  WHAT?

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said with a wide, victorious smile.

  ‘Oh my god!’

  ‘God, my child, is with you. In the form of my world-famous ENT-surgeon brother.’

  I am so losing my job today.

  4.00 p.m.

  I sat on the cold steel stool, allowing one of the best ENT surgeons in the world to peer into my fully-functioning ear. On the outside, I was sure I looked confident, but on the inside, I was trembling with unadulterated fear.

  Whatever would Mr Vijaywada do when my lie was exposed? Fire me? Shout and scream at me? Hand me over to the police? Oh, the number of sickies I have applied for because of my ‘ear problem’.

  ‘So you can’t hear sometimes?’ Dr Vijaywada asked.

  ‘Yes Sir,’ I mumbled, looking at my hands. I will stick to my story for the longest time possible, I promised myself.

  ‘Can you hear now?’

  ‘Yes Sir.’

  ‘Is there a pattern to this illness?’ he asked.

  My Vijaywada butted in with, ‘Yes, yes, I think it is more on Mondays and Fridays … what do you think, Kasturi?’

  I gulped. I hate working on Mondays and Fridays.

  ‘Emmm … possibly,’ I said, feeling remarkably weak. I toyed with the idea of pretending to faint.

  ‘Let me look again,’ said Dr Vijaywada, a kind, distinguished-looking man, a little older than Mr Vijaywada. ‘Which medicines have you tried?’ he asked me after a minute.

  ‘Erm … Calcical … err… 500 and … and … Avomine 200,’ I said helplessly.

  ‘I see,’ said Dr Vijaywada, his face expressionless.

  ‘Poor girl, she has been to so many doctors,’ said Mr Vijaywada. ‘Bhaiyya, you have to do something for her. Please do something!’

  For a few minutes, no one spoke as Dr Vijaywada investigated the matter.

  ‘I am done,’ he declared.

  So am I, I thought to myself, crossing my fingers. Where is the last copy of my CV stored? I will, of course, have to lie about this to Pitajee, or else I will never hear the end of how I was fired from my job for lying about an imaginary ear infection.

  ‘Yes, so what can we do?’ asked Mr Vijaywada.

  I did not feel up to hearing it. Should I just run for the door and make a dash for it?

  Dr Vijaywada looked at me for a moment. ‘Nothing can be done,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Mr Vijaywada.

  Of course nothing could be done. There was nothing to be done. Come on, say it, Dr Vijaywada. I prepped myself for a hearty round of tears. Maybe they would help?

  ‘The eardrum has been irreparably damaged, I am afraid. Such episodes of deafness are generally cyclical in nature. In Kasturi’s case, they happen on Mondays and Fridays. All you can do, Bhai, is be as supportive as is possible.’

  What? WHAT?

  ‘Are you sure, Bhaiyya?’ asked Mr Vijaywada, crestfallen.

  ‘Are you sure, Uncle?’ I asked in a small voice, just to confirm before I started the mental somersaults.

  ‘Bhaiyya, this poor girl is getting married in a few days. Which mother-in-law will put up with a half-deaf daughter-in-law? India may have progressed but still, girls are girls.’

  I am sure the image of his four girls swam before Vijaywada’s eyes as he sniffed away a tear.

  Dr Vijaywada sighed. ‘Doctors are not gods. This is incurable. I have seen a few cases before this and…’ he shook his head sadly, slowly, ‘… no, nothing can be done.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I tried hard, very hard to look half as crestfallen as poor Mr Vijaywada.

  ‘You will have to be supportive. Please make sure you do not give her too much work on Mondays and Fridays,’ Dr Vijaywada said.

  Mr Vijaywada nodded his head. ‘Of course I won’t, Bhaiyya.’

  ‘And the stress of making that weekly report on Thursdays does not help much either,’ I added helpfully.

  Dr Vijaywada gave me a look.

  ‘But it’s fine! I deal with stress just fine,’ I said hurriedly.

  Dr Vijaywada looked like he was about to smile.

  ‘Are you sure, Bhaiyya, that nothing can be done?’ Mr Vijaywada asked again.

  ‘Yes, I am quite sure.’ Dr Vijaywada turned towards me. ‘Kasturi?’

  ‘Yes Sir?’

  ‘Just add cod liver oil to your diet … it may help, but may not also. You know how tricky this illness can be.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, shrugging my shoulders barely able to keep my face straight.

  ‘I am sorry I could not be of more help,’ he said, shaking his head seriously.

  ‘It’s okay, Doctor Uncle. I have heard the same prognosis from too many doctors now for it to affect me much. I just want to thank you! Thank you so much, Dr Vijaywada,’ I said, meaning it.

  Dr Vijaywada shook my hand solemnly. Just as I was about to turn and leave the room, he winked at me. ‘My brother talks rubbish all the time,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘Maybe I have just caught this disease from you.’

  ‘What?’ I exclaimed, my voice barely audible with the shock.

  ‘Go away now, I need to laugh,’ the elder Vijaywada said to me and I scuttered away before he changed his mind.

  35

  26 October 2013. Forty-five Days to Go for the Wedding.

  I returned home to do the shopping. Given that we have such little time to shop for the wedding, time has been allocated to specific items. The wedding lehenga gets three whole days. No more, no less.

  We went to eleven shops today and I tried on thirty-four red lehengas (I am not exaggerating) and liked none. It has to, has to, has to be a red lehenga and I am refusing to even look at other stuff.

  27 October 2013. Forty-four Days to Go for the Wedding.

  The usual is as follows.

  I spot a lehenga that I think I might consider if the world were ending. The moment the shopkeeper senses this, he goes into overdrive. After all he has just fed us samosas and chai.

  ‘Chotu,’ he barks at the thin man standing in the corner with a sullen look on his face. ‘Wear this!’

  I double over in shock. ‘What?’

  ‘Ma’am, he will wear the lehenga,’ says the shopkeeper with a nod of his head. ‘So that you get an idea of how this will look.’

  Really? No, I mean, really?

  And soon, in front of my horrified eyes, stands a thin man, clad in a lehenga with the ghoonghat draped over his head.

  I mean, like, really?

  We went to ten shops today and I tried on seventeen lehengas. I liked two. Mostly because the shop waale bhaiyya looked so downcast, as time progressed, that I refused to like any.

  28 October 2013. Forty-three Days to Go for the Wedding.

  We went to eight shops today, tried a million lehengas and bought one. It is cream-and-golden in colour. They draped it around me and covered my head like a dulhan, which made Mum get all teary-eyed. To be honest, I barely recognized the flushed girl who stared back at me in the floor length mirror. The two hundred people in the shop all nodded their heads and said that I looked very beautiful.

  Mum put up a post on her blog titled ‘How to buy a lehenga’.

  31 October 2013. Forty Days to Go for the Wedding.

  Do I like being the bride-to-be or do I like being the bride-to-be? Anju Aunty, Purva and Vikram spent the whole day shopping for me!

  Anju Aunty chatted the whole time about Pinku Mama (the first I had heard of him) who is down
with flu but redeemed herself by buying me a gorgeous pink-and-yellow lehenga for the wedding reception.

  Vikram, in spite of my protests, bought me a Rolex. I asked him if he was rollexing in money and, believe me, he laughed.

  Purva, after I pestered him, bought me lots of candy. I was, of course, most excited about the candy and ate so much of it that I felt quite sick afterwards.

  2 November 2013. Thirty-eight Days to Go for the Wedding.

  Does the shopping ever end? It is now becoming quite tedious.

  3 November 2013. Thirty-seven Days to Go for the Wedding.

  I stood in the corridor of the hospital, staring at Purva talk to the family of a patient. The mother was in tears and repeatedly tried to touch Purva’s feet. Purva tried his best to not let her do that, patting her back and even giving her a hug.

  As I inched closer to them, I heard the last few words she spoke before leaving. ‘My son has two gods, Doctor Sa’ab,’ she said with earnest tears in her eyes. ‘One that created him,’ she said, pointing heavenwards, ‘and another that gave him life,’ she said, looking at Purva.

  Purva smiled and shook his head, looking decidedly uncomfortable. ‘It’s my job,’ he tried to say but the lady would not hear any of it.

  I stood there, watching the little scene, my heart full of love for him.

  5 November 2013. Thirty-five Days to Go for the Wedding.

  After due deliberation between the parties involved, it has been decided that it will be most convenient if the wedding takes place in Delhi. Both sides have a lot of relatives in Delhi and it all seems to add up well. However, the tragic irony of it all is not lost on me; Anu and I will be getting married on the same day in the same city. I look forward to the day with joy and anticipation for I will be starting a new life with a man I love whereas Anu is readying herself to brave married life with a man she will never be able to love.

  In other news, thanks to some very highly-placed contacts of the Dixit family, the venue for the wedding has been confirmed. The gentleman who will be decorating the venue sent me a PDF file with options of various flowers to choose from.

  ‘Brides are so particular. They seem to know exactly what they want!’ said the man, winking at me as I looked at him blankly.

  After getting about eleven reminders from him, yesterday, I finally opened the file. Frankly speaking, they all looked the same to me.

  ‘Paddy?’ I said to Padma, looking over my laptop.

  ‘Huh?’ she said, flicking away her bangs.

  ‘Choose a number between one and sixty-seven?’

  ‘Twenty-three,’ she said.

  That is how, on the day of the wedding, the venue looked hideous – ‘decorated’ with an abundance of disgusting-looking orange and purple flowers. Not my fault, I would say then and you now know why.

  7 November 2013. Thirty-three Days to Go for the Wedding.

  Mum is writing a series on her blog titled ‘Getting Pimple married!’ where she speaks openly about the challenges of being the mother of an obstinate bride-to-be. The readership has swollen to about fifteen hundred followers and someone has created a fan page on Facebook.

  I just shake my head in disbelief.

  10 November 2013. Thirty Days to Go for the Wedding, 10.00 p.m.

  Anu and I sat cross-legged, face to face, on my bed. A disgusting green face mask covered most of my face. Mum has insisted that I put this on each day before my wedding to get the glow that has so far eluded me (because obviously I have not been listening to her).

  One month to go and life as we know it will change forever. For both of us.

  ‘So tell me more about the suitcases that Aunty bought for you,’ she asked, her eyes shining with excitement. It’s silly, the amount of interest she has in my wedding preparations when she hardly ever bothers with her own.

  I said nothing and she put a hand on my arm.

  ‘You feel uncomfortable talking to me about your wedding, don’t you?’ she asked, looking at me with a gentle smile. I stared at the dark circles under her eyes; she had not been sleeping at all. I hear her toss and turn every night.

  I did not say anything.

  ‘Please don’t do that,’ she pleaded. ‘You know your wedding is like a kaleidoscope through which I see the simple joys of a marriage. I try to imagine what it would feel like to marry someone you love … I live my wedding with Amay, the one that will never happen, through your wedding with Purva … let me live it. Please, Kasturi?’

  I stared at the girl sitting in front of me in wonder. It would be very easy for her to be jealous, sarcastic and acidic; most girls in her shoes would be just that. I am, after all, getting something that she wants but cannot get. And yet, there she is, eyes shining, eager to hear all about my silly red suitcases, in the process opening her fragile broken heart in front of me. I paused to wonder, yet again, what I had done in my previous birth to have found friends like Anu and Pitajee, and why God had to do something so horrible to them.

  ‘Yes, of course, Anu,’ I said, and hugged her tight and long. ‘Something good will come out of this, Anu,’ I whispered into her ear. I felt her nod her head. Neither of us were, however, convinced.

  ‘Now, about the suitcases,’ she said, withdrawing, a little too hurriedly.

  I continued to stare at her, spellbound. It is true, you get to know the character of a person not when the sun shines but when dark clouds gather.

  ‘I love you, Anu,’ I mumbled, more to myself than to her.

  15 November 2013. Twenty-five Days to Go for the Wedding, 6.00 p.m.

  I nearly died of shock today when I got a friend request from Lata Chaturvedi. The Lata Taiji wants to be my friend on Facebook.

  She turned seventy-two last month.

  Are you kidding me?

  18 November 2013. Twenty-two Days to Go for the Wedding, 8.00 a.m.

  I am back home – the last time I will be here as an unmarried girl. While most of my three-day trip will be used in giving measurements to the tailor (seriously, going to the tailor is as bad as going to the dentist these days), shopping and trying to make my face glow, there is another thing I want do to.

  I want to go around the house and hug each room and thank each chair and kiss each bed. Okay cross that, I sound deranged, but you get the drift, don’t you?

  8.01 a.m.

  My bedroom. It still has a poster of the Spice Girls from the second century BC and a desktop computer from a thousand years before that. Mum had tried to sell it but finally decided against it when they refused to offer her anything more than two thousand rupees. I am half afraid that she will hand it over to me after my wedding, as a treasured family heirloom.

  The number of hours I have spent in this room, eyes glued to the Physics textbook, trying desperately to mug up theorems that made no sense, knowing that mugging won’t get me through the hallowed portals of IIT. The fights with Mum, the gossip sessions with aunts and cousins, the gyaan session with Ramu … it has all happened here.

  8.04 a.m.

  The kitchen.

  The countless hours Mum has spent pleading with me and threatening, in vain, to teach me how to cook. For further and more embarrassing details, please refer to a post on Mum’s blog titled, ‘Getting Dimple to Cook (it must be easier to climb Mt Everest)’.

  The countless hours I have spent here, chatting with Mum, filling her with the details of my day.

  8.06 a.m.

  The living room.

  Sitting cross-legged on the now slightly frayed sofa as one of the parents hand-fed me dal-chawal.

  Sitting at the dining table, bawling my head off, because I had scored an eight-on-ten and not a ten-on-ten, as Mum and Dad looked on bewildered, desperately trying to pacify an inconsolable teenager.

  The television, my good, old, faithful TV. Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge, reruns of Friends, MTV…

  The recliner. Hours curled up on it with a book in my hand. From Enid Blytons to Nancy Drews to the Brontë sisters to Sidney Sheldon and
John Grisham.

  Oh gosh, the overwhelming memories of my childhood home.

  8.10 a.m.

  The garden.

  The banana tree that Dad had planted with me. I had then proceeded to religiously water it three times a day and had almost killed it. It survives only because Dad had the wisdom to order me to stay at least ten feet away from it.

  The strawberries that excite the entire family more than man reaching Neptune will.

  The soft green of the grass that I have sat on, soaking in the weak winter sun.

  The little brown bird that builds a nest every year in that tree, by the gate. The memories…

  8.15 a.m.

  Mum and Dad’s bedroom.

  The countless nights I have trooped into this room in the middle of the night, groggily dragging a pillow with me and snuggling in between Mum and Dad.

  The dreams and the comfort…

  I know I am not leaving any of it … I know, I know, I know.

  I know!

  I am going to be someone’s wife, someone’s daughter-in-law, there is a boy who calls me Bhabhi, there are snotty-nosed little kids who call me Chachi. I will be a part of their family, another set to love and be loved by. Yet it all feels so heavy and sad … a chapter of life is about to begin but another is about to end. I cannot help but feel this huge burden of emotions that weigh heavy on my shoulders. Why does life have to change? Why can’t it all remain the same? Why do we have to grow up?

  How we fight to let go and how we fight to keep.

  21 November 2013. Nineteen Days to Go for the Wedding.

  Anu and I shopped for bangles today. For me.

  She refused to buy anything for herself. Pitajee came to pick us up and did not, even for a second, take his eyes off Anu.

  It broke my heart.

  3.00 p.m.

  ‘Mum,’ I said, into the phone.

  ‘Is it important?’ she barked. ‘I am out shopping for the wedding. I have no time.’

  ‘Well, no one is dying,’ I said, sarcastically.

  ‘Good. Talk later then.’

  What?

  23 November 2013. Seventeen Days to Go for the Wedding.

  The wedding shopping is like this treacherous monster that attacks every positive feeling in your soul. I rebelled today by refusing, point-blank, to shop for pumice stone that Mum insists I need to buy. Before the day ended Mum had posted a long-ish blog titled, ‘Managing difficult children: Twenty things I have learnt as a parent’.