Let’s Have Coffee
Parul A. Mittal is the author of the national bestseller, Heartbreaks & Dreams! The Girls @ IIT. Her second book, Arranged Love, captured the hearts of Indian youth.
Born and brought up in Delhi, Parul did her schooling at Lady Irwin School, New Delhi, and Navrachna School, Baroda. She did her BTech in Electrical Engineering from IIT Delhi in 1995, followed by Masters in Computer Science from UMich, Ann Arbor. The author has worked for various corporates—Hughes, IBM Research, Nextag and Yatra—for over thirteen years. She co-founded an online parenting website called RivoKids. At present, Parul is running recreational Math camps for kids and trying to find her ‘FLOW’.
She is married to Alok Mittal and has two amazing daughters, Smiti and Muskaan. Apart from reading and writing fiction, the author loves listening to old Hindi music, playing board games, painting, trekking, and lawn tennis. Parul is based in Gurugram and you can read more about her at www.parulmittal.com or join her Facebook fan page: www.facebook.com/parulmittalbooks or email her at [email protected]
Let’s Have Coffee
Parul A. Mittal
Published by
Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd 2017
7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj
New Delhi 110002
Copyright © Parul A. Mittal 2017
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-81-291-XXXX-X
First impression 2017
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.
This book is dedicated to my teenage daughters,
Smiti and Muskaan, who mean the world to me.
Contents
Prologue
The Ex Connection
Love Is Overrated
Coffee or Wine
A Public Proposal
Tying a Knot
A New Boyfriend
Stroke of Luck – Part 1
Stroke of Luck – Part 2
The Surprisee and To-Be-Surprised
Tsunami
Bad Boyfriend, Good Friend
Fake Marriage
Naked Encounter
Kiss Him, Kiss Him Not
Jab We Met
Reality Show: Week 1
Reality Show: Week 2
Reality Show: Week 3
Reality Show: Week 4
Reality Show: Week 5
Reality Show: Week 6
Back to Square One
Be My Nothing
Let’s Have Coffee
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Hi, I am Meha. I am twenty-nine and weigh seventy-two kilos. I have recently won the award for the year’s Best Wedding Planner. You may ask whether I am married or not. The answer is no, not yet. But I have a boyfriend, who is rather irresistible like this double-chocolate crème Frappuccino I am having at this moment.
If you are thinking that a single girl my weight ought to know better than to get carried away by the temptations of a calorie-loaded drink, then let me tell you something—I am a woman of this age and I don’t worry that my boyfriend will stop loving me if I get any heavier. I exercise regularly, so that I don’t crush the poor guy, as I prefer to be on the top. I won’t deny that I used to be insecure once—about my looks, about not being as smart as my sister, and hell yes, even about why someone would love me. It has caused me a lot of grief and heartache. In fact, I was so consumed by my mind’s chatter that not once but twice, I allowed love to slip away from me.
I was lost and confused. I was looking for a ‘forever-wala’ love, in a world where relationships can be as brief as the messages we send to each other on the inadequate devices—where we are spoiled for choices whether it’s the screensaver on our phone or the flavours of condom—where we want our partner to look like a model from an advertisement—where everything we do is for short-term gains and instant gratification, without emotional connect or meaning—where we jump to quick assumptions driven by our insecurities that are built on the foundation of a desirable life sold to us—where reality and the virtual world are often confused—where quick fame and attraction often replace enduring appreciation and respect.
It’s kind of befitting that in this fast-paced, inauthentic online world, it took me an online reality show to finally understand the true meaning of love and to get answers to some of the basic questions a girl asks herself, like I’m-still-trying-to-figure-out-this-whole-life. Beneath all this superficial flirting and drunken texts, what is love that all those movies and books talk about? How do you know when you have found it? Is a relationship nothing more than an intimate cup of coffee shared with an attractive stranger? People say that everything will be alright, but will it ever be? After all, life doesn’t provide with an online exchange policy. You can’t ask for a new one with different features or exchange a defective one. So how do you know life will work out for you? How do you know that you aren’t one of those cheap Chinese toys? How do you know that you won’t end up broken, even if you don’t belong to one of those big, millionaire families? Life doesn’t come with a manual. There is no repair shop, no way to order a new battery, no way to fix a broken screen. The question that I often ask to myself is how to get through all of this?
The Ex Connection
‘Oh my God! Oh my God! A designer beach-wedding in Goa!’
Tanu Di’s excitement spills over the phone and adds to my delight of sharing the good news with her.
‘Finally, you get to rock Goa, huh?’
‘I know! Unimaginable, right? Like a chocolate truffle cake with zero calories!’
‘If it was Papa, he would have said, “Goa choro, Har Ki Pauri chalte hain”,’ Didi says and we both burst into laughter.
I often wanted to go to Goa, but Dad would always say, ‘Paani mein jaana hai to Har Ki Pauri chalte hain.’ All our family vacations were to religious places. Hence, we used to end up at either Haridwar, which we had visited umpteen numbers of times, or at a beach in Odisha, near Jagannath Temple, or at a beach in Chennai, on the way to Meenakshi Temple—but never Goa. Dad only spent money on God.
Now, I have made it to Goa on my own and I am super thrilled. I look longingly at the ocean. I have been dying to go out and have some fun, but it’s been so busy that I haven’t even got a chance to dip my toes in the water. Some firang girls walk towards the golden sand from the hotel lawns in their sexy bikinis. I surely can’t carry a bikini, but I do want to try out the new halter-neck top and beach shorts that I had bought online.
‘I know it’s a beach. But, please be careful. Don’t go around exposing your boobs,’ Didi warns me in her elder-sisterly voice, almost reading my mind. I don’t know how she does this. That is read my mind. It got worse since she became a mother.
‘There is a species called “sleazy men” that is widely found lurking on Indian beaches,’ she says in a partly joking and partly warning tone.
‘Didi, stop being a mom.’
I can hear three-year-old Rhea in the background, ‘Mummy who are you talking to?’
Perfect! Now Tanu Di will have to invent a story so that Rhea doesn’t go around announcing, ‘My masi has boobs,’ to every person she meets in the park. I smile at the thought.
After disconnecting the call, I realize that I have been standing out in the sun for too long. I am feeling a bit dizzy and my throat is parched. I look around for a waiter to get me some water. Instead, I spot a creepy uncle, standing at a distance, staring wistfully at the bikini-clad girls on the beach. Ugh! Didi was right. I quickly pull my chunni over my breasts, and walk towards a shade. A waiter passes me, carrying six Sangria glasses. Topped with fresh orange slices, apple pieces and a lime slice on the rim, the cocktail looks divine. I know that I am not supposed to drink alcohol until the wedding, but I guess one glass of Sangria doesn’t count.
As the cool, tingling taste of wine and fruit touches my throat, I can feel happiness in the air. I love weddings. I have loved them ever since I was a little girl. I remember watching the baraat procession pass through the narrow lane, from the balcony of my two-room set house in south Delhi. The bridegroom is sitting like a king on a horse, grandly led by men in white and red uniform, playing popular, cheeky wedding songs on their golden trumpets. The bright lights and the general hubbub of the baraat added glitter to my plain ‘school-home-playground-dinner-sleep’ life. I knew that I wanted a huge wedding, since I was a ten year old. A wedding that is larger than life. A wedding like this—set in a luxurious hotel in Goa, on the sea-facing lawns. Truly, this is the way to get married.
My heart swells with pride as I look around the tastefully decorated venue. Fine cane chairs with white cushions are laid around circular tables, which are draped with lime-green linen. Vintage heart wreaths made with brown twigs and decorated with a delicate cluster of light pink roses and small white flowers hang behind every cane chair. The centrepiece of each table is a glass mason jar, holding a bouquet of pink roses. I, especially, love the freshly cut lime pieces that are used to fill the jars. They make me feel fresh and alive. I am sure that Deepak will love them.
I turn and steal a glance at Deepak’s young, handsome face. In a pastel olive-green designer sherwani, he is talking to some relatives, a little distance away. My heart skips a beat as he catches me looking at him. He gives me a knowing smile. A smile that I had fallen in love with, on a bright Sunday morning, four years ago. My mind drifts back to the past.
It was a cool, crisp Sunday morning. Winter had just begun in Delhi and it was the perfect time to laze around and bask in the sun. I was sitting on a reclining cane chair, on the small balcony, deeply engrossed in a romantic novel. Deepak had entered the house, smartly dressed in foreign labels. He took out a pack of the finest chocolates and offered me some. On principle, I never refuse chocolates. On top of that, they looked divine. Without asking who he was, I took one, put it in my mouth and ate it a little quickly. He smiled and offered me another chocolate and I took it. It was sheer indulgence to eat a second piece of chocolate, when your weighing machine has been constantly complaining of an overload. In addition, it was totally criminal to gobble up an expensive chocolate, as if it was Dairy Milk. This time I was more patient and savoured it slowly. As the fine chocolate melted in my mouth filling my senses with its bittersweet taste, I closed my eyes and moaned in ecstasy. When I opened my eyes, I found him still standing there and smiling at me—a smile with which I instantly fell in love.
Deepak turned out to be the elder brother of my best friend’s boyfriend. Freshly graduated from the University of Oxford, he had come to visit his brother, on whose balcony I was lounging. My childhood best friend, Anusha, and I both lived in the omnipresent, cream-coloured government flats near Sarojini Nagar market in Delhi. I was studying English Literature at Lady Shri Ram College and Anusha was studying Home Science at Kamala Nehru College. Her boyfriend was pursuing B.Com from a private coaching centre. He used to study with us at school. They had been in love ever since I learned to spell the word. He was from a rich, business family and lived in a beautiful, little house in Gulmohar Park, which we would visit quite often, especially during weekends. Since Anusha and I lived close by, our parents rarely questioned our absence from our flat. Anusha used to spend time with her boyfriend while I used to sit in his balcony, read a book and listen to the birds chirping on nearby trees. Also, there were occasional bribes from him to be mum about their secret affair—a romantic book, a movie ticket, or an imported, expensive pair of earrings. Of course, I used to tell my mother that the earrings were cheap, roadside purchases.
Deepak stayed with his brother for only a week. In that one week, he got to know me better than my Google search history. I told him things I hadn’t told anyone else—like how I had broken up with my boyfriend because he had called me fat. Deepak helped me get over the heartbreak with his light banter and Oxford anecdotes. We discussed our favourite movies, our favourite books and our views on love, friendship and sex. He didn’t try to flirt with me. Yet, I fell for him. I was merely eighteen. He was twenty-two. He had seemed to me like a handsome, rich graduate out of a romantic novel. Mature, aloof, and so much in control of his life.
After he left Delhi, we stayed in touch and after about three months, he came back especially to meet me. He took me out on a romantic, candlelit dinner at the Grand Hyatt. He told me that he really liked me but he had to go back to London to set up an extension of his family business. He said that he didn’t know what his future held, so he didn’t want to keep me hanging. I was touched by his honesty. He had flown to Delhi and had taken me to the new, exquisite five-star hotel, just to tell me that we should part ways. I had been more thrilled than hurt. I loved the attention and importance he was giving to our little, fleeting affair. We kissed passionately. I knew he was breaking up with me, but the setting was perfect and so was he.
I hadn’t been in touch with him ever since. Imagine my surprise when last night I discovered that Deepak was the groom of this wedding. This was the first wedding I was planning while interning with the Dream Wedding Planners Inc. That too at the Grand Hyatt in Goa. I found this to be an amusing coincidence.
Wait a minute!
Did you think I was the one getting married?
Hello! My Dad does grow money plants, but only in our little veranda and not in a Swiss bank. Besides, I am only twenty-two.
Standing inside a quaint, romantic hut, decorated with green satin ribbons, brown vintage laces and bunches of fragrant flowers, I am feeling content that our décor experiment has turned out perfectly. Technically, I am just a trainee who is meant to execute designs created by the design head, but I am also exercising my creative talent by adding my own special touch.
‘Whose idea was to put slices of lemon in the flower vases?’ I get an SMS from my boss. I confess it’s mine. She texts that the groom likes them. I am thrilled that my boss likes my innovative ideas. There is no need for my boss to know that I had insider information on what the groom may like. I just thank her.
I vaguely look at Deepak’s direction and find him staring at me with a quizzical expression. As I didn’t get a chance to talk to him, I have no idea whether he knows that I am present here as his wedding planner. When our eyes meet briefly, I vividly remember our parting kiss at the lobby of Grand Hyatt in Delhi. Perhaps, he too was thinking of that at the moment. He gives me that same old knowing smile. I sheepishly smile back and then look away. I have no feelings for him. No regrets either. Just happy memories of some beautiful moments spent together.
I look at the devastatingly beautiful, tall and slim bride dressed in a light fuchsia lehenga with a deep-neck blouse. Her smile is so captivating that it is hard to look away. You know, how some people have this strong magnetic pull? Like Deepika Padukone. I am certain that every guy in this wedding is secretly ogling at her.
‘
Isn’t she looking gorgeous?’
Lost in my own thoughts, I don’t notice when this good-looking stranger comes and stands next to me. As he speaks to me, he is looking at the bride through the lens of his camera and clicking pictures. I assume that he is speaking to me, as there isn’t anyone around, though he could be using hands-free and talking to someone on the phone. I can’t see his face as it is hidden behind his camera. He is in the perfectly casual attire for a pre-wedding ceremony, at a private beach resort in Goa—khaki pants and a slim-fit, button-down, white, linen shirt with sleeves half-rolled up. I notice these things.
‘Believe me, she looks even sexier in a bikini,’ he says, somewhat smugly, still focused on the bride.
Sexier in a bikini! Wouldn’t anyone with her kind of body…Wait a second! How does he know that and say it with such certainty? Did he see the bride in a bikini at the beach? Oops, I hope he doesn’t go around zooming in on girls in bikinis through his lens. It would be such a waste of a handsome face. While he is glued to his camera, I tilt my head backward to get a better look of him. He doesn’t look like the cheapo type. He seems like a professional photographer, just more elegantly dressed than the usual boy from a photo studio. Perhaps, the bride did a bikini photo shoot as part of her wedding album. Who knows what these rich designer types do? Alternatively, he may just have a good imagination. You’ve got to give a smart bloke like him the benefit of doubt.
Intrigued, I stare at him for a few minutes expecting some answers to pop up. He totally ignores me, as he adjusts his camera lens and clicks different shots. Since he seems disinterested in letting me know further juicy details, I conclude it to be none of my business about how this cool dude knows what the bride looks like in her smalls. If anyone is to worry about this, it should be Deepak. ‘Who cares,’ I shrug and head towards the grand ballroom, where the stage for the sangeet ceremony has to be set up for the evening.
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