Not an actor (too much hard work)
Not younger than me (wouldn’t be mature enough to ‘handle’ me)
Not a rigid person with inflexible opinions
Not someone with a big ego
Not possessive or jealous
Not inclined to drama such as slamming doors and kicking furniture
Not someone who has never lived, studied or worked abroad, preferably in England
And not someone with very large feet (that’s just always been a personal phobia of mine)
This list didn’t include obvious stumbling blocks such as no sense of humour, propensity towards violence, an inability to respect women or cruelty to animals.
Life, as John Lennon famously sang in ‘Beautiful Boy’, is what happens when you’re busy making other plans. It was the spring of 2008 and I had signed a film called Dhoondte Reh Jaaoge opposite a young and talented actor. The director wanted us to meet at the Taj Lands End in Bandra for a script reading. They were already seated at the table in the coffee shop when I got there. The director and a well-built boy in straight-fit jeans, a half-sleeved white shirt that barely contained his straining biceps, boots and a belt with a horseshoe bronze buckle. His eyes were hidden behind heavily tinted sunglasses and his hair was a dark mop of unruly curls. My first impression: This boy must live in the gym. What will we talk about on set apart from protein shakes?! It was an opinion that survived well into the shooting of the film because over the course of the Mumbai schedule Kunal must have spoken a total of fifteen words to me.
Made for each other
Far from exchanging numbers, we seemed to steer clear of each other except for when we were in position for a two shot and there was an issue with lighting or camera. Below are two of the longest conversations we had during those two months:
Me: So what do you like to do in your spare time?
Kunal: Not a lot. I like to watch films.
Me: Do you go out a lot?
Kunal: No. I like to watch films alone.
End of conversation.
The second took place when I was writing something on my laptop on set:
Kunal: What are you writing?
Me: An article for my college, for the Oxford Magazine.
End of conversation.
The next day I noticed Kunal had brought a book and was reading intently on set, which was a first. When he was called for a close-up I picked up the thick black leather-bound volume to see what it was. The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists. There was no conversation between us that day.
I believe there was a force greater than us that wanted us to be together because if the film had not had an outdoor schedule in Malaysia, and if it had not been immediately followed by us having to shoot together in Delhi for another film called 99, there was no chance of us even forging a friendship, forget embarking on a relationship. We were as different as chalk and cheese, although that idiom doesn’t really hold because it implies that I had gotten to know a little bit about who Kunal was. A more apt food product than cheese would be an onion—certainly not in terms of scent or appearance—but in terms of how many layers you have to slowly peel away before you get to his core.
One evening in Langkawi, over eleven games of pool and at least as many cocktails, we got talking and I realized he wasn’t dull or indifferent; he was restrained and shy. He wasn’t one to be immediately familiar with people; he kept his distance, reserved his attachment and took his time. We stayed up till 6 a.m., talking. He told me stories about growing up in Srinagar, about the exodus, about moving to Mumbai and learning to adjust to a new life, about being a child actor, about his dreams and hopes. I found him fascinating. A life totally different from mine had shaped a person totally different from me. I felt admiration and respect for him. And I was intrigued. I wanted to know him more.
During the course of filming 99 I did get to know him more. And the more I learnt, the more I liked. It didn’t hurt that he had these beautiful brown eyes which would dance with equal parts of mischief and innocence, and a lazy lopsided smile that would make me wobbly in the knees—and he used them to full advantage. I haven’t read The Game, but I can’t imagine one can learn to flirt from a book—all he had to do was pin me down with those eyes and my intellectual prowess would be reduced to incoherent babble.
And he was funny. He narrated stories that would leave me doubled over in laughter; he would say and do things that were so uninhibited and entertaining, I couldn’t imagine I had once thought him shy. And yet I was acutely aware he was an actor some years younger than me, someone who had not spent much time abroad, and one who was a self-described black-and-white sort of person with zero tolerance for grey. But he did have the most perfectly proportionate feet.
Ours was a courtship dance of nine months with my brain telling me he didn’t check all the boxes but my heart rejoicing every time I was in his company.
Ultimately the heart wants what it wants and, in matters of love, you must allow the heart to win. Why Kunal? It wasn’t that he was the perfect guy—there’s no such thing. The benefit of having had other relationships is that you have the opportunity to comprehend the truth that everyone, even the most initially thrilling prospect, falls short of perfection up close. The more time you spend together the more apparent it is that we are all flawed, we are all broken. It remains to be seen if our broken pieces fit together or if the jagged edges cut too deep.
It will be nine years in June from that evening in Langkawi when our relationship began, as a conversation, one we struggled with at first but have not wanted to close since. A nine-year conversation which we are committed to sustain in perpetuity.
In January of 2015 we decided to solemnize our relationship in an intimate civil marriage at home. To be honest, in our view, the ceremony was superfluous— Kunal and I had already made our promises to each other and truly felt the involvement of the government would not give our bond more sanctity. But it mattered to our families and as it was irrelevant to us—we could just as easily get married as not get married—we decided we might as well get married.
And so in the presence of thirty of our immediate family members we exchanged vows and signed a piece of paper declaring us to be husband and wife.
I am fully aware that marriage is not the only legitimate relationship out there; some go so far as to say that perhaps a partnership of any kind is outdated. A friend of mine insists that the successful relationship paradigm of the future is in fact same-sex non-sexual cohabitation. His most enduring bond has been with his flatmate of six years. They provide for each other in terms of domestic support and personal care, one cooking elaborate meals, the other collating the newest episodes of Planet Earth to binge watch. They have some mutual friends and interests and, of course, their own on and off romantic partners, but often holiday apart and don’t seem to have any huge expectations from each other. One cannot deny that they seem truly blissful and complication free.
Don’t marry the one you can live with, marry the one you can’t live without
It made me realize that companionship—whether in the form of a husband, a lover, a dog, cat or mongoose, a best friend—is what we all really seek and what we all deserve. I’m all for space, for seclusion and isolation, but not as a way of life.
Marriage is not necessary, but love . . . I would say love is worth the pursuit. Some find it. Those who have less luck keep looking, either whilst determinedly single or while in relationships with those less than ideal. Occasionally they settle for less. If there is one thing that I have learnt that I could impart to those of you who are looking—actively or passively: Don’t settle. I know it’s sometimes scary being single, especially for those of us who are past the thirty-five-year mark. I know it feels like the later it gets the harder it is to find someone, or at least someone normal, without enough baggage to fill all the lockers at Victoria Terminus. (Are there lockers at VT station? I have never actually been inside!)
And let�
�s not talk about the pressure from family and friends who accuse you of being too picky, too set in your ways—So what if Aditya never remembers your birthday, some boys just aren’t good with dates. He doesn’t believe you will get that promotion? He’s just a realist and doesn’t mince his words. Suren only has time for you after 10 p.m.? Perhaps he’s just swamped with work, don’t nag him! He called you names last night and threw the remote at you? You must have done something to push him over the edge. And the remote didn’t actually hit you, right?!
At the end of the day Aditya and Suren are living, breathing men who are willing to marry you. And if you are in your mid to late thirties then you will be constantly reminded of the inevitable passage of time and all the biological decay it brings! Why is it that men produce sperm throughout their lives but we women are born with a finite number of eggs and by the time we are thirty we have lost 90 per cent of them!!
It’s enough to scare anyone into a bad marriage! Tick tock boom!
If you haven’t already thrown this book across the room and rushed out the door to propose to your Aditya/Suren, I would like to say that, though it may seem like it, it is NOT more important to be in a relationship than to be in a good relationship. With someone who deserves and respects you. With someone who celebrates your achievements, makes an effort with your family, puts you first and tells you at least once a day that they love you. Sure, it’s a gamble and there’s always the risk that you may not find true love, but when you do, you will find it was worth the wait.
My friend Juhi Pande wrote in the epilogue of her book Things Your Mother Never Told You About Love:
Aim for love. Always aim for love. Let the rest be noise.
Because the truth of the matter is that for everything else, there are noise-cancelling headphones.
9
Worth the Weight
19 March 2017
So I have some news. I can’t tell you now, but I can tell the future you because this book will only be released at the end of the year and by that time you’ll know already. But for the moment it’s our secret.
I’m pregnant!!
Ten weeks and six days to be precise. Another eight days before we can start telling people.
It’s the most difficult secret to keep. Especially from anyone who knows me even a little bit. How do I explain the fact that when until now every meal was incomplete without dessert, even the sight of chocolate makes me turn green? Or that for someone whose daily exercise—be it badminton, yoga or the gym—was sacred, I now often don’t have the energy to lift my head off the pillow.
Luckily I’m not a smoker or a big drinker so those omissions in my diet will not be noticed but the absence of diet sodas which have pretty much been a staple are sure to raise an eyebrow or two. Oh, and the morning sickness—which, by the way, is not restricted to the morning, but much like the pesky neighbour who doesn’t respect boundaries turns up at any moment of the day or night, and lingers. It has been my constant companion for the past three weeks. I have never been on a cruise but I imagine this is what it would feel like—a sustained swell, a continuous churning, a relentless retching. Let’s just say it is difficult to disguise.
The other day I ran out of a meeting with the director of a short film I’m doing because the scent of his aftershave made my mouth fill up with water and I had to find a toilet bowl to spit into for ten whole minutes. I have been advised to minimize travel and have had to cancel events two or three weeks in advance with the feeble excuse of illness. What illness that doesn’t require hospitalization would afflict you for three weeks!?
Of course by the time this book comes out the future me and the future you will already know how this turns out. But for the moment I’m at sea and I have the sickness to prove it. We’ve told our immediate families and some of our closest friends—the general advice is not to shout the news from the terrace tops because the first twelve weeks carry the most risk of miscarriage but it would be so difficult to pretend, to go on as normal if the worst were to happen. I think the truth hasn’t sunk in as yet for me. There isn’t much to see on the outside save the odd zit on my jawline but I am feeling all sorts of things of which fatigue, nausea and indigestion are just some of the more glamorous ones! Today I thought about going for a walk and sat on the bed to tie my shoelaces. I woke up an hour later. Last night I burst into tears because I couldn’t decide what to watch on Netflix.
I had intended to spend the month of March writing my chapter on working in films, or falling in love but I can’t seem to think about anything else and so I figured I might as well write about this. I am thrilled. I think that’s how I knew I wanted to be a mother. Kunal and I had discussed parenthood, of course, but I hadn’t really experienced any maternal yearnings and he was in no rush to be a father. So we were in an ambivalent state of not actively planning but also not not-planning. There was pressure; not so much from immediate family—both Kunal’s and mine have thankfully always been very liberal and non-conforming in their views—but from others, especially after Kareena and Bhai announced their pregnancy. The media has asked me when I am giving them ‘good news’. Random people in lifts have asked me meaningfully how long I have been married. Friends of friends at parties have whispered conspiratorially in my ear about how having a child strengthens a marriage.
The best response I have found is to flick your hair and laugh in their faces while quoting one of the zillion reasons not to add to a burgeoning world population—vomit, poop, stretch marks, cankles and the fact that eventually snuggly cuddly babies ultimately turn into hormonally deranged, obnoxious, know-it-all teenagers.
So when I discovered I was pregnant I wasn’t prepared for the involuntary leap of joy my heart took. It was 6 a.m. on 31 January, a time more night than day for me when my senses are as dull as lead. I was only a day late but I am usually as regular as a coffee drinker, if you know what I mean, and so I decided to pee on a stick. As I waited in the bathroom for the pink line or lines to form I caught my reflection in the mirror and held my own gaze. My heart was thudding so loudly in my chest I thought it would wake Kunal who was sleeping in the bedroom some feet away.
There were advantages to either outcome. We loved our life: the freedom to travel at a moment’s notice and for any length of time, the intimacy of it just being the two of us at home, the absence of any dependants we had to be responsible for. But if we were going to have a child it should be now. At thirty-eight my gynaecologist had told me about the physical and emotional toll pregnancy takes on an older mother-to-be. The complications and risks that rise exponentially with age. If we delayed too long we ran the risk of things not happening naturally. Whilst there were options down the line like adoption which we were very open to exploring, the question I asked myself in the mirror was, ‘Are you ready to be a mother now?’
My question was left hanging unanswered in the air between myself and my reflection. I brought the stick up into my eyeline and there it was. Two pink lines—not faint or shy but bold and unabashed like the legs on a flamingo. I was pregnant. There have been moments in the past when I have been confronted with big news and my reaction has always been consistent. I shut down. Like the time I read on the news ticker at the bottom of the television screen that Bhai had been taken to hospital after an accident. I was sitting at home with friends but they had not noticed the scrolling text across the screen. I continued to sit there unable to move or talk for ten whole minutes until my mother called me on my mobile phone to tell me what I already knew. It was only then that I was jolted into action. Much the same thing happened here. I wrapped the stick in thick reams of toilet paper, hid it in the back of my bedside drawer and went back to sleep. I had read enough to know that a false positive on these things was rare but I think it was too much to process, especially at 6 a.m.
When I woke up a few hours later Kunal was already in the shower. I thought about telling him but then decided I wanted to be absolutely sure first, and so I texted our regular pathology gu
y Santosh to come home to take a blood sample to test for hCG, the pregnancy hormone. Naturally, when he turned up at 11 a.m. I had to explain his presence to Kunal, which I did rather clumsily, mumbling something about feeling depressed and wanting to check my vitamin D levels. Before he could quiz me further about the sudden onset of this ‘depression’ I gathered my clothes and locked myself in the bathroom under the pretence of washing my hair for the next twenty minutes.
When I came out he was watching ‘best crazy street fights’ on YouTube and didn’t even notice that my hair was as dry as a bone. We went about our normal routines, including attending an important meeting in Lower Parel with a celebrated director for a film we are co-producing. Although I made all the right noises my mind was on the clock because Santosh had promised to email me the report by 4 p.m. At 4.45 p.m. we were midway through recording some sound bites for a charity fundraiser in support of stray dogs in Mumbai when my phone buzzed. The report had come. I scrolled impatiently through rows of numbers. An hCG level of less than 5 mlIU/ml is considered negative for pregnancy and anything above 25 mlIU/ml is considered positive. And there it was in boldface—hCG 485 mlIU/ml. With video cameras still trained on me as they changed magnification for a close-up, I texted Santosh with trembling fingers.
The Perils of Being Moderately Famous Page 11