by Vikram Bhatt
He knew me too well.
‘I think this has been a complete waste of time!’ I concluded regardless.
‘Mr Weston, please inform Pearl and Grey that we would like to pass their pitch over and look elsewhere.’
Mr Weston nodded and I walked out of the room.
I strode purposefully towards my office, a five-minute walk from the conference room. With every step I took, I waited for the elation to hit me, the joy of hurting Veer.
It never came.
I sat alone in my office staring at my reflection on the glass table. I felt an emptiness that I had never felt before.
I was so full of absolutely nothing.
VEER
Friday afternoon
Not many frequented the pub on King’s Road where Shazia and I sat in eerie silence. Beer was never my drink of choice, and drinking in the afternoon had always been against my principles. Who was I kidding? I had no such principles! I was on my second Jack Daniels, and Shazia was living dangerously with gin and tonic.
The pitch with the Indian Food Company had been a total disaster, not to my surprise, but to Shazia’s horror. We had yet to call Jim Jonas and give him the bad news. He had called Shazia four times in the past hour already, calls that she had obviously avoided. The man was persistent—I had to give him that.
On the bright side, the week couldn’t get any worse. Perhaps I should be looking at this afternoon binge as a celebration, instead of mourning in a watering hole.
Talking about holes, my thoughts ran back to the masterful one that I had dug for myself.
Kavita came by on Tuesday afternoon and cleaned the apartment of all her stuff. I got back home in the evening to find a note on the dining table that read, ‘I have left the house keys with Portia on the second floor.’ That was it. The logistics of an emotional parting can be more cut and dried than most cut and dried matters, for the fear of letting any kind of emotion bleed into the goings-on, perhaps.
I had the apartment to myself for the first time in a long while. I looked at the glowing lights of Harrods in the distance and imagined the winter fashion out in full force. It was getting cold—in more ways than one.
I played some Tchaikovsky, had a drink and played some more Tchaikovsky. I couldn’t stop myself from thinking of Mira.
Kavita was right. I was a jerk. She had left me after a two-year relationship and all I could do was think of Mira. The empty rooms, the cleaned-out shelves, the lone toothbrush, a bedside table missing its books and its cell phone charger, her perfume which still lingered on the pillow—nothing made a difference to me. Did love work on some kind of morbid rule where the person with a broken heart went out and broke other hearts mercilessly? Or was it that the broken-hearted one had only broken pieces to give? It was only logical—when you are reduced to a pale version of your real self, your love too pales as a consequence.
I slept on the couch that night. Something bothered me about sleeping in the bedroom. I don’t know whether it was Kavita’s absence or my nagging feeling of hitting rock bottom emotionally.
I did have a chat with myself though. We had less than two days to make a pitch. Buck up, Veer! That was the only thing I allowed myself to think.
I called Shazia early the next day and told her that I would like to work from home.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked. I told her I was. She asked me if Kavita was home and I told her she had left me.
Two hours later, Shazia rang my doorbell, bringing coffee and hot breakfast. What would I do without a friend like her?
She told me I looked like shit. I agreed. She asked me if I had been upset all that week because I had seen the break-up with Kavita coming. I saw a clean excuse for my erratic behaviour over the last three days and instantly grabbed at it as a reason for my instability.
How could I ever tell her that the lady we were supposed to pitch an advertising concept to had kicked me in the groin, so to speak, by her re-emergence in my life? Two coffees later, I was burning up the Internet and knew everything that we were supposed to know about the Indian Food Company. Shazia sat across the room and got a hold on her marketing pitch.
It began to rain outside and a cold wind blew in. I looked out of the window and a strange thought crossed my mind. Was Mira looking out of the window at the rain too? Then another thought: Was I out of my hole-digging mind?
By Thursday morning, I had broken the back of the concept, and by evening, Jim Jonas was an ecstatic man.
Friday morning was another story.
Mr Weston greeted us in the familiar polished manner and guided Shazia and me to a second conference room in the Indian Food Company office. This office was the new one at the Canary Wharf. This was expensive real estate. The inside was all steel and glass, with a touch of turquoise blue. I could see that Mira had a fair say in the decor which was soft and welcoming in contrast to the exterior.
Shazia had brought along a junior team. They were seated in the conference room before us. They smiled and waved, and we nodded. We accepted Mr Weston’s offer for tea and sat down to wait for the meeting to begin.
As the minutes ticked by and Mira had still to show up, I began to understand what was going on. Mira was never late. It was not like her to keep people waiting, and if she was doing that, then this was over before it had begun. This was a power game. She just wanted to humiliate me. That was what this was about!
When she finally walked into the meeting, any doubts that I may have harboured were instantly dispelled. She had dressed to kill, the fragrance, Chance by Coco Chanel, a dead giveaway. It was ‘our fragrance’. I’d loved it on her. What had once been the signature of our love was now a weapon of hate. Ironical. She had not forgiven or forgotten.
I gave my best pitch. I knew everyone loved it. I knew she would run it down. She did. The rest was just words that carried her plan through.
We were back at the pub, back to drinking in silence.
‘Stop messing around with me, V. I haven’t come to town on a turnip truck!’ Shazia pulled me out of my abysmal thoughts with her sudden outburst. ‘I know this is personal with the Varma woman and you. No one in her right mind would toss a pitch like the one we made out of the window. You at the club that day behaving all zombie-like, then Kavita walking out . . . and today at the Indian Food Company office . . . What’s going on?’
Shazia had caught on and I was done with lying. Hell, I was done with it all.
‘Shazia, I am too damn drunk and too damn heartbroken to talk about this right now. Pick up the tab. I am out of here!’ I wobbled up to the standing posture and began to drunk-walk out of the pub.
Shazia called out to me, ‘Don’t run from me, V, tell me!’
I smiled, ‘What can cause such hate, Shazia, but love gone wrong?’
She stood nonplussed for a moment, and then it hit her. Walking up to me, she held my hand and sat me down, roughly, on the soft leather. ‘You, my friend, V . . . you are not going anywhere till I get the entire story from you. No matter how many Jack Daniels that takes!’ she told me in a voice that relayed that there would be no argument on the matter.
I looked at her blankly. Where should I begin?
MUMBAI
EIGHT YEARS AGO
MIRA
Friday evening
‘Akshay, it’s me!’ I tried not to slur as I unsteadily held the phone to my ear. The world seemed to heave and sway around me.
Natasha was laughing hysterically for reasons best known to the tree she was having a conversation with. Ruhi was on the other side of the same tree, puking her guts out. The tree had my sympathies; it was really being put through a lot. I wondered if trees had the sense of smell. How disgusting if they did. Imagine being puked on!
I was in the driver’s seat, parked on the side of the road, seat belt still clipped and the hazard lights blinking, proud that I had decided not to drive in my drunken state.
‘Where are you?’ Akshay sounded petrified.
Akshay was my br
other, my hero, my superstar, my shoulder to cry on and, at times like this, my saviour. We were a year apart, he the older one and quite clearly the young achiever—academic topper, school captain, on the debate team, the cricket team, and every other team. I was happy to be his pampered baby sister. Mom and Dad had latched their dreams on to him, and this allowed me to dwell in the beautiful, pink bubble that I had made for myself.
‘I’ve had too much to drink and I’m parked near a tree on Carter Road,’ I told him, trying hard to be intelligible. I was expecting to be applauded for my responsible behaviour; sadly, no applause came my way.
‘Mira, what kind of an address is a tree on Carter Road? Look around. Where are you?’ He was sounding apprehensive and exasperated, a natural reaction I suppose, considering it was past 2 a.m. and he would have preferred to be fast asleep instead of being up, worrying about his kid sister.
‘There is a building here; it says . . .’ I was straining to read the damn name etched on a post, and with my blurred vision it was like trying to read a text message on a rollercoaster. ‘It says “Out”!’ I finished triumphantly, feeling really bright.
Akshay laughed despite his irritation, ‘That’s the gate, stupid, not the name of the building.’
He was right; a wave of stupidity washed over me.
‘Hang on, wherever you are. I will find you. Don’t drive. I’m coming to get you,’ instructed Akshay, trying to sound authoritative and cautious at the same time.
I promised to obey.
Ten minutes later, Natasha’s hysterical laugh had petered into a giggle. Ruhi had quit throwing up and her retching was now bearable. The tree, I suppose, was much relieved.
A while later, Akshay pulled up—in his brand new Mercedes. It was hilarious watching Natasha and Ruhi trying their hardest to be ladylike to impress him. All they could manage between them were failed attempts at giggling and retching that cut no ice with him. Ouch!
Akshay was the handsome, popular one—tall and athletic, with his hair falling carelessly over his forehead and his to-die-for boyish looks—which made all the girls act silly around him. I had no idea why so many girls wanted to be my friends in high school till one day it dawned on me that I was their chosen route to Akshay.
My brother had brought our chauffeur along. The poor man, woken hurriedly from a deep slumber because of a bunch of drunken kids, dropped Nats and Ruhi home in the car I had been driving, while Akshay took me home in his swanky ride.
Akshay was the only person in Mumbai who stopped at a traffic light at 2 a.m. As we waited for the light to turn green, he looked at me disapprovingly, ‘What are you doing, Mira? You are not in college any more. For God’s sake, grow up and take charge of your life!’
I laughed out loud and fell on him like I was suddenly missing a couple of vertebrae. He pushed me right back, disgusted. I giggled some more.
‘Come on, Akshay, don’t be so sanctimonolious!’ I pouted a bit for effect as he put the car into drive.
‘I don’t even know what the hell that means. Sanctimonolious?’ he said rolling his eyes, giving up on having any kind of sane conversation with me. We drove the rest of the way home in silence, only fighting mutely over the volume of the car stereo.
It was late afternoon when I woke up to the world. I had a bad hangover. My head was pounding as if Phil Collins had chosen it as the venue for practising his drumming routine. My mouth felt like someone had scrubbed it with sandpaper. The cell phone had to be checked first, and just this once, it turned out to be a good idea.
The little envelope icon on the top left of the screen blinked away, signalling me to read the contents with some urgency. It turned out to be a message from Rohit.
Great chat last night! Have booked a table for two at Café Solenzo. Pick you up at 8?
Great chat? I had a date tonight? I felt the beginnings of a panic attack. I had no memory of having spoken to Rohit or agreeing to a date! Rohit had been a friend since college—nice, but in my opinion, too nice, almost antiseptic nice. In short, not my type at all!
I needed to speak to Nats! Now!
She answered the phone after what felt like ages, and spoke in an even slower drawl.
‘What happened last night?’ I asked.
Natasha took a few seconds to respond. Perhaps she was equally hung-over, or just trying to figure out which part of ‘what happened last night’ I was referring to.
‘We got crazy drunk, I remember that . . . It was a rocking party and Arjun was a great host . . . Nivedita looked like a cow . . . And I think Ruhi was throwing up. Hey! I think I saw your brother in my dream too!’ Natasha started to sound excited, but I cut her off. I had other things to worry about. ‘Tell me about Rohit. Was I talking to him last night? Did you see me talking to him?’ I asked, my fingers crossed, hoping this was all a big mistake.
‘Oh! Hell, yeah!’ Natasha was even more excited now. ‘You guys were chatting for like really long. You gave him your phone number . . . and I think you said something like see you tomorrow . . . if I remember correctly.’
‘Oh God! What have I done?’
‘What have you done?’ Natasha seemed about to laugh again, and I did not think I could take any more of her giggling right then.
‘We are going on a date today, apparently, but the horrific thing is that I have no memory of agreeing to go out with Rohit!’ I was beginning to panic again.
‘What if you were the one who asked him out on a date and don’t even remember it now?’ Natasha put forth an even more terrifying proposition with an accompanying titter.
‘I couldn’t have . . .’ I said tentatively. Yet, I did believe I could have; I’m extremely talented at committing blunders, especially when I’m in an alcohol-induced generous and happy mood.
Natasha and I discussed the pros and cons of every possible situation that could arise from the impending date. And through all this, Phil Collins was going completely wild drumming away in my head.
Natasha and I had to figure this out. This was a very serious situation. After much discussion, coaxing, reasoning, and accepting the importance of being polite, finally, we arrived at the decision that I must go out with Rohit just this once. The fact that he had his days when he could look pretty smashing sealed the deal for the evening. Phil Collins, however, would need a hot shower to calm down.
Mom, Dad and Akshay were in an intense conversation as I laboured out of my bedroom. The sea was clearly visible from our penthouse in one of the high-rises in the western Mumbai suburb of Bandra. The lounge was bathed in the golden light of the sunset, and as Akshay turned around to look at me, his smile reflected the glow.
I didn’t know it then, but this image would remain etched on my mind for life. I have always believed that some images superimpose themselves on the soul for no apparent reason and become a part of our memory for infinity. This was one such moment!
‘Why so much happiness going around?’ I asked my family with a smile.
‘I am extending our food business globally, and our first office will be in Singapore,’ Dad announced with pride and joy.
‘And guess who is going to be the CEO?’ my brother quipped, letting me into the secret of his smile.
I rushed to him and hugged him tight. Akshay had worked really hard for this and he deserved the opportunity Dad was giving him. Hugging and laughing was the done thing in our family. Soon, we were all embracing each other and life in particular.
Akshay was like my father in many ways—he had inherited his good looks and his drive. Mom and I were a team—petite and delicate, the naughty ones. But on this day, we were all just like each other, and happy for each other.
The golden evening had left its sparkle on me, and suddenly the date with Rohit did not seem like such a disaster after all. When he arrived to pick me up, he looked dapper in a white shirt and blue jeans. The boots were a bit iffy, but his handsome face and a great choice of cologne put him in the not-such-a-bad-idea category.
I could s
ee he couldn’t take his eyes off me. The deep blue satin top, with a belt cinched around my tiny waist, made it an uphill task for any hapless admirer. I’d teamed the satin top with a pair of black jeans and a pair of shimmery black heels to finish the look for the evening.
Rohit was courteous and made polite conversation all the way to the restaurant. I nodded at the right moments, and giggled at other inappropriate moments. Truth be told, I was famished, and could chomp on anything served to me like a drunk Viking returning ravenous from a long voyage. The image made me grin, and I wondered how fast the courteous gent would run should he see me chomping on my food with such savagery.
He seemed undecided about putting his arm around my waist while escorting me into the restaurant. I saw his arm rise and fall twice before he perished the thought and settled for holding the door open for me. Perfect manners!
As my eyes swept the semi-dark room, I noticed a guy sitting at a table by the window. He didn’t seem too entranced by the girl sitting opposite him. The blue neon light from an advertising hoarding had lit his face making him look like an angel from a Michelangelo painting. I had no idea why my heart skipped a beat when my eyes fell on him.
My treacherous heart seemed to know the reason my mind couldn’t fathom, because as we passed by him to our table, it slipped completely out of my control and stealthily settled somewhere close to his heart.
VEER
Saturday evening
‘The toy for the grown boy!’
Prady grinned at everyone in the room as he declared his chosen copy. I couldn’t believe he had just said that and quickly looked away before I burst out laughing. The others were not so generous and some fell off their chairs laughing.
Prady, Pradeep Majumdar, was two years my senior at Pearl and Grey Advertising. On a good day he could conjure up the most brilliant copy out of thin air; on other days he could be absolutely off the mark and end up as the comedian of the creative meeting.