A Forgotten Affair

by Kanchana Banerjee

  ‘Your questions don’t make sense,’ Rishab said, getting up and heading out of the room. He didn’t want to take any more questions; the confrontation had grown extremely disturbing for him.

  ‘Rishab, you and I … were we happy together? As a couple?’

  Rishab felt like a hard punch had knocked the air out of him. He turned around and glared at her, not knowing how to tackle the question. He was totally unprepared for this. What was worse, Sagarika glared right back at him.

  ‘What kind of a question is that?’ he said, looking away.

  ‘Just a normal question from a woman who’s trying to put the pieces together,’ she replied. ‘Tell me, you and I, were we happy together?’ she repeated, this time blocking his path.

  ‘Sagarika! I’m late for a game of squash,’ he said. ‘Shekhar is waiting for me.’ He pushed her aside and darted out before she could say anything.

  As he waited for the elevator, all Rishab could think about were Sagarika’s questions.

  She’s not the same any more. Wonder where these questions are coming from?

  He immediately called up Vina and asked her to meet him downstairs.

  As he sat in his car, he couldn’t help but feel that ever since Sagarika woke up from coma, she was more direct and assertive. The Sagarika of the past had been more pliant and Rishab found that easy and convenient. But the present Sagarika was something else. She made him uneasy.

  ‘Sirji.’

  Vina tapped nervously at the car window. Rishab made her uncomfortable. He had agreed to the salary she had asked for, added three thousand to it and explicitly told her what he expected from her. She didn’t like what was asked of her, but she did it for the money.

  Rishab rolled down the window. ‘Are you doing what I have instructed you to?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sirji. I am.’

  ‘Any calls?’

  ‘No, sirji. No calls.’

  ‘Any packages. Has anybody visited her…’

  ‘No, sirji. No.’

  Rishab drove away without a word.

  ‘Bastard,’ Vina muttered under her breath, staring at the car.

  At the club, Rishab was hitting the squash ball with such intensity, Shekhar had to duck a few times to avoid getting hit.

  ‘Something is amiss,’ Shekhar thought as he tried to stay safe on the court.

  ‘You’ve pounded the ball and the wall enough. Let’s shower and have a drink.’ He stopped Rishab and dragged him off the court.

  Minutes later, as the two sat at a cosy corner of the Golf Club, cradling their glasses of whisky, Shekhar waited for Rishab to open up about what was bothering him.

  ‘Are you going to talk or are you going to keep staring at the glass?’

  Rishab looked up and started blabbering about work, some recent projects that had been tough to crack, pressures of the job and so on. Shekhar heard him out and then smiled.

  It must be quite bad if he’s taking so long to talk about it. He will talk when he’s ready. He has been through a lot in the past year or two.

  After finishing their drinks and talking about business, the two went for a walk. The cold breeze made them button up their jackets. They walked in silence, breathing in the cold air.

  ‘Her mind is slowly waking up,’ Rishab said, suddenly. ‘Bit by bit, she is remembering things. Today, she asked if we were happy together … before the accident.’

  Shekhar almost stumbled and fell on hearing this. He was no longer thinking about the cold. ‘That’s a tough one. Of all the things that have been erased from her memory, this had to come to her mind!’ He could now understand why Rishab was so perturbed.

  ‘Yes, she is gradually remembering things from the past. Soon she will start asking more questions. What will I do then?’

  Shekhar didn’t know what to say. He knew there were no easy answers.

  ‘But, Rishab, you know it too – she has to remember. She can’t be like this for the rest of her life,’ Shekhar said, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Surely, you aren’t considering…’

  Rishab was shaking his head.

  ‘I just want us to start over. That’s all. We need a fresh start.’

  Hearing him say that again and again worried Shekhar.

  I hope he doesn’t get desperate and does something stupid.

  18

  Vina was an intelligent young girl. She was literate, proficient in English and solved Sudoku daily after finishing her chores. She read the newspaper every morning and given that she was Sagarika’s nurse, she made it a point to read tiny details, like the expiry date on medicines before letting Sagarika have them. Thanks to her smartphone, she could use an app to learn English and clarify any doubts she had while reading the newspaper.

  Not only was Vina smart, she was also blessed with a conscience – something Rishab had not accounted for.

  Madamji is so nice. Always so polite. Asks if we have had our lunch. She even bought slippers and shoes for us, got geysers installed in our toilet. Why does sir suspect her? Madamji isn’t doing anything at all that needs to be reported. Poor thing has forgotten everything!

  It didn’t take long for Vina to decide not to be the spy Rishab wanted her to be. Firstly, she disliked Rishab and the tone in which he spoke to her. Secondly, she felt sorry for Sagarika and wanted to do everything she could to help.

  Just because I’m poor doesn’t mean that he can bully me with money and get away with it.

  The next morning, Sagarika stood in the balcony speaking to her mother, and then Deepa. When she hung up finally, she realized that they both kept saying the same thing over and over again: ‘You are so lucky to have Rishab in your life. Look at the way he’s taking care of you.’

  So much so that those words were beginning to get on her nerves. She no longer wanted to hear how awesome her husband was and how she should love him back. It was as if they had been instructed to praise him ad nauseam. Having thought of such a bizarre possibility, she scolded herself.

  I haven’t just lost my memory. I’ve lost my head and senses.

  Around that time, Vina came to the balcony.

  ‘Madamji, you are on Facebook. I saw your profile. Can I send you a friend request? Will you be my friend?’

  Sagarika was clueless what Vina was talking about. She was unaware of the global social networking phenomenon.

  ‘Madamji, this is Facebook,’ Vina said, logging in from her smartphone and showing her how it worked. ‘It will be clearer when you try it on your laptop.’

  Vina searched for Sagarika’s profile – the two of them couldn’t see her entire profile but her name and one of her photos were accessible.

  Sagarika was spellbound by her profile picture. Her hair fell below her shoulders. She had wild curls that flowed freely. She looked happy, carefree and at peace. In the background was the image of a beautiful sunrise. She couldn’t take her eyes away from the screen.

  I look so good in this photograph! Where was this picture taken? When did I see the mountains? Did I see this sunrise?

  ‘Madamji, Facebook is very good. You can chat with your friends and family. Wherever they stay, you can talk with them. And they can see your pictures, and you can see their pictures,’ Vina told her.

  Does Facebook have the key to what I left behind? Does it have the memories that I lost?

  Sagarika was suddenly restless and wanted to see more. ‘Open my page, Vina. I want to see it.’

  ‘Madamji, I can’t. I’m not your friend on Facebook. Unless I send you a friend request and you accept it, I cannot go to your page,’ Vina explained. ‘Only you can open your page and for that you need to know your username and password. But I’m not sure you remember…’

  Should I call Rishab and ask him if he knows my password? Wait … let me see if I can figure it out myself. But what do I type? I only know my name.

  Vina sensed her predicament. Just when Sagarika was about to start typing randomly, she said, ‘Madamji, don’t keep pun
ching anything. Facebook will lock you out and you won’t be able to login again.’

  Sagarika looked rather helpless. ‘Madamji, let me call my cousin, Shanti. She knows about computers and websites – she has done proper training in this field.’

  When Shanti came over during her lunch break, she realized that the ‘Forgot Password’ option could be tried out. ‘Madam, your Facebook login is a Gmail address. So you must have the same password for that too. We’ll go to Gmail and type that you’ve forgotten your password. They can send it to your registered mobile number or alternate email address.’

  ‘But madam no longer uses her old mobile phone,’ Vina pointed out. Neither did Sagarika have any recollection of an alternate email address.

  ‘What do people use as a password?’ Sagarika asked, feeling stupid.

  Shanti, who had been adequately briefed by Vina about Sagarika’s situation, said, ‘A nickname. Pet’s name. Name of first school. Or boyfriend…’ Shanti hesitated as she was acutely aware of the huge hiatus in their social standing and didn’t want to sound inappropriate. ‘These are the things people usually use as their passwords,’ she said.

  Nothing from my life in Mumbai exists any more. Did I have a pet? How does someone who didn’t even remember her name, know if she had a nickname?

  Seeing her helplessly stare at the computer screen, Vina felt worried and guilty as she was the one who had mentioned Facebook to her. If Sagarika got obsessed about attempting to login to her account, or if she mentioned it to Rishab, Vina knew she would get into trouble for not sticking to her brief and possibly lose a well-paying job.

  Vina tried to distract Sagarika by suggesting that they go for a walk. But all that was in vain. Nothing could distract Sagarika.

  The quest to find her password became a much larger question than logging on to Facebook. The password was the key to the life she had been forced to leave behind. Sagarika wanted to reclaim it all – she wanted to look at her photos and see the photos of people who were intrinsic to her life. She wanted to feel alive once again.

  Sagarika struggled to crack the password all afternoon and didn’t stop till late evening. Her mind was trapped in a labyrinth with no way to get out. She paced across her balcony time and again, trying to jog her memory and unearth the faintest trickle that could help her guess the password to her account.

  At around 9 p.m. Vina came in with a cup of warm milk, Sagarika’s bedtime ritual.

  ‘Madamji, you’ve had a long day. Here, drink this. I’ve put very less cheeni in this. Please drink this, and go to sleep,’ she said.

  Sagarika stopped in her tracks the moment she heard the word ‘cheeni’. If this word disturbs me so much, it must mean something. Could it be … please, God … let it be the password…

  She placed the cup of milk on the bedside table. Next to it was her laptop and the Facebook window open in a web browser. The username was already there and she quickly typed ‘cheeni’ in the password text field. She clicked on the login button.

  What she saw next changed everything she had known so far.

  19

  I have been to so many countries. So many places.

  I used to paint. I am an artist. I also clicked photos of people. Children, women, old men…

  As her profile page loaded, Sagarika’s excitement grew. It felt like seeing a movie reel play out, the movie of her life, and she was its most enthusiastic viewer. Though Rishab had shown her some of her old pictures when she was at the hospital, she had been too agitated and emotional about her condition to pay any attention. She felt as though she was looking at herself for the first time.

  There was a knock on her door.

  ‘Madamji.’ It was Vina.

  ‘Madamji, sirji is trying to call you. Please call him back.’

  It was half past ten. Sagarika immediately dialled his number.

  ‘Why aren’t you picking up?’

  ‘Huh … I…’ she said, fumbling, thinking of an excuse.

  ‘What … were you sleeping? It’s only 10.30 p.m.,’ he said, sounding irritated. ‘Anyway, there’s a bit of a crisis at work. Looks like I’ll have to be here all night. So don’t wait for me. I’ll see you in the morning.’ He hung up before Sagarika could say anything.

  Ecstatic to learn that she would be alone for the night, Sagarika tucked herself under the warm electric quilt and decided to explore her profile as much as she could.

  The first thing she did was check out her own photos. Before the bomb blasts, Sagarika had a tall, strong body with a broad frame and wild curls that fell just below her shoulders. Her eyes were large, almond shaped and when she smiled, her eyes seemed to burst with joy. There were so many photos of her – alone, in a group, with few other women, men – and they were at various locations: near the sea, at hill stations, in crowded streets.

  I’ve travelled to so many places. So many cities across the world.

  She went through each photo album – London, Vienna, Prague, Iceland, New York. Sagarika was mesmerized. She looked gorgeous and totally in love with her life.

  I look so happy and confident.

  Then she thought of the face she saw in the mirror when she woke up every morning. She now had a bony face with eyes that were scared, pensive and sullen. As for her hair, she hated the close crop. It had grown beyond her neck but was still far away from the wild flowing mane that she had earlier.

  When will I look like that again?

  She turned her attention to her posts on her timeline from the year 2006, months before the accident. They intrigued her.

  Destiny isn’t a matter of chance; it’s a matter of choice. Hopefully this time I’ll choose wisely.

  Then another one:

  One’s real life is often the life that one doesn’t lead – Oscar Wilde.

  There were many others. Lines that spewed profound philosophy through their apparent simplicity. Sagarika knew that they were lines by great thinkers and writers of yore, but what got her thinking was the reason why she had posted them.

  Then she saw the last post on 11 July 2006, the day of the accident.

  Life has its reason of which reason knows nothing at all. Life! I’m ready to fly and see where it takes me … I’m on my way.

  What did this mean? Where would life take her? What had she decided to do? Sagarika had no answers to these questions and the mystery only grew.

  The day the accident happened … What was I thinking? What does this mean: ‘I’m ready to fly … I’m on my way’?

  It was well past midnight – the clock said 1.30 a.m. Rishab wasn’t home yet but he could return anytime. Sagarika switched off the light and slipped under the quilt, thinking about her photo albums, status updates and the life she had left behind. Suddenly, she had a brainwave: why didn’t she spot any pictures of Deepa in her Facebook photo albums?

  20

  The next morning Sagarika woke up with the same thought that she had gone to bed with.

  Why isn’t there a single photo of Deepa and me? She hasn’t even commented on any of my posts. Strange.

  ‘What is my beautiful wife thinking about? And why the frown?’

  Rishab came into the bedroom and placed his index finger between her brows and kissed the tip of her nose. He had come home in the wee hours and slept in the study. Looking at the way he was dressed, Sagarika realized he would leave for work shortly.

  ‘How is Deepa? She hasn’t called in a while,’ Sagarika asked him.

  ‘How do I know? Must be busy or something. Call her if you feel like chatting.’

  The two of them had breakfast together. Rishab spoke animatedly about his latest project at work and the exciting opportunities ahead if things went as planned.

  Sagarika was relieved to see him in a cheerful mood, but she couldn’t wait for him to leave so that she could get back to her Facebook profile.

  ‘So what do you do all day?’ Rishab asked, slicing the hard-boiled egg white into four neat quarters.

  ‘Nothin
g,’ Sagarika said. ‘I go for a walk in the lawns. Tend to the plants. Mostly, I just sleep. The medication makes me feel quite drowsy.’ She was surprised how easily she could lie.

  ‘Hmm. This phase will last for a few more weeks. Once you’re off medication, things will get much better, trust me,’ Rishab said, getting up from his chair, wiping his hands on a napkin. He grabbed his coat and his laptop bag and kissed Sagarika on her cheeks.

  ‘You be a good girl, okay? See you in the evening!’

  Sagarika couldn’t fathom if the ‘be a good girl’ comment was a casual remark or a veiled threat. She brushed aside the thought – maybe she was thinking too much, she told herself. As soon as Rishab left, Sagarika sat down with her laptop and logged in. She wanted to check something that was bothering her. She clicked on her friends, list to see if Deepa was on it.

  It took her a few minutes to scroll down the list of 467 friends.

  Deepa wasn’t there in the list.

  She was so puzzled by this that she didn’t realize a message awaited her in her Facebook Inbox. It had arrived the previous night, just a second before she had logged out. She saw the name of the sender: Akash Batra.

  She clicked on the message and a long list of old messages appeared. The person had sent her more than fifty messages in the past year!

  The previous night she received two messages from him:

  Sagarika! Is that you?

  Where have you been for so long?

  Then she began reading the earlier messages.

  Cheeni, where are you?

  Y aren’t u calling or replying

  Cheeni, r u ok

  Cheeni…enuf is enuf…plz call me the moment u see this.

  The moment Sagarika read the word ‘Cheeni’, she forgot about Deepa and her absence from her Facebook friends list.

  This man calls me Cheeni!

  Immediately, she clicked on his name and landed on his profile page. When she saw his profile photo, she gasped. His face instantly triggered a memory that had been concealed for too long.