Tea for Two and a Piece of Cake (10 page)

Yet one part of me feels like I am on a roller coaster travelling at top speed, and there is no way to stop it or get off.

I am trapped, it is my own doing, and I do not know what to do. And the surprising this is that I don’t even know if I want to get off anymore.

Sound of Silence

A
t work, Samir is the perfect boss. Outside work, he is the perfect boyfriend. It is strange how easily we are able to switch between the two modes. Sleeping with someone for five months surely qualifies him as boyfriend, doesn’t it? Twice, I have even slept over at his place, when we have had to work very late. Like he said, it made no sense to go all the way home by train, when I had to rush back to work the very next morning.

Both the times that I stayed over, I simply slept in his bedroom and not the guest room. The last time I was there, I had gone over to the guest bedroom, opened the drawer, and looked for the earrings. But they were gone.

I say nothing about it for nearly two weeks.

When I cannot hold it inside me anymore, I decide to ask him about it. The opportunity to do so comes the very next day, while having lunch at a small bistro near the office.

‘Oh! How in the world did you even know about those earrings? You really are a witch!’ he says. He sounds surprised that I brought it up.

‘Remember when I hurt my leg and stayed over? I had found them then, but did not know you well enough to ask you about it.’

‘And you think you know me well now?’ he asks amusedly, eyes twinkling

‘I know you well in bed at least, Mr Sharma. I know your appointments and what you do and where you go and who you meet. I even know what kind of underwear you prefer. Now stop changing the topic and tell me about the earrings.’

‘They are Jeena’s. She called and asked for them. Apparently they are her favourite pair.’

‘You never told me.’ It comes out accusingly. If jealousy is a hand grenade, he has just bitten the plug. I am ready to explode with it. And God, it hurts too. How could he not tell me that he had met her?

‘There was nothing to tell. It is a closed chapter, Nisha. It is over. I have moved on.’

But I am not satisfied and want to know more.

‘So where did you meet her? Did she come to your place?’ I prod.

‘Eh? Hell no! I did not want to see her. She is the one who called me and told me to look for them in the first place. I found them, put them in an envelope, and gave it to the receptionist, from whom she collected them herself.’

I feel so relieved and so stupidly happy to hear this. A slow grin spreads over my face. Then I lean across over the table and kiss him on his cheek, right where his dimple appears when he smiles. I adore him for the fact that he chose not to meet Jeena.

‘I absolutely and totally love you Samir,’ I say, surprising myself. It is the very first time I have confessed it to him.

‘Oh Nisha, I love you too,’ he says somewhat abashedly. And he smiles. I could have been knocked over with a feather that moment.

I want to cuddle him, hold him in my arms, and never let him go. He is almost shy. It is the first time I see this side of Samir. He looks so boyish and so vulnerable, not like the successful, savvy businessman that he is. My heart turns into squashed pulp looking at his shy smile and the dimple on his cheek. His face is radiating happiness. I want to kiss him again, but we have already created a small scene when I stood up and leaned over to kiss him. This is a quiet place and the regulars at the bistro, mostly the retired older folks, had turned to look when they heard me pushing back my chair. We must have shocked them with our PDA.

It is a month later at a very exotic resort in Kerala where Samir finally pops the question. We have finished a twoday conference at Kochi, and Samir and I have both taken a day off. We have driven from Kochi to this amazing place called Munnar. Nestled among tea plantations is a lovely private bungalow which Samir has rented for our stay. It is a scene straight out of a movie, and all I can do is gasp in pleasure as we drive to the destination. When the bungalow finally comes into view, with mist all around, the cold mountain air, the tall,
deciduous trees—it seems almost straight out of a picture postcard scene.

We check into our room and I am delighted with the quaint way in which it has been done up, with antique furniture all around. We make love and he chooses the apt moment to ask.

‘Nisha, my one and only love, will you be my wife?’ he says.

I laugh in delight.

‘What took you so long to ask?’ I reply.

‘Well, I had to see how good you were in bed first, and it took me this long to assess you. I am marrying you only for the sex, you know,’ he says with a straight face. I pommel his head with a pillow and he quickly ducks under another pillow and roars with laughter.

At that moment, I know that I mean the world to him. I know he truly loves me. I know he needs me as much as I need him. I cannot believe how lucky I have been. What a turn my life has taken. Who would have thought that it would change so drastically in five months time, when I first accepted the job offer at Magellan? My cup of joy is overflowing, and I want to stand in the mountains and shout out to the world that I am getting married to the person who means the world to me.

‘By the way, my family doesn’t know it yet,’ he says.

‘Would your mother not want you to have an arranged marriage with a slim, rich girl who matches your family background?’ I ask.

We have hardly talked about his mother or brother in these five months and I had almost forgotten they exist. This is the first time I feel somewhat inadequate with
my lower-middle-class upbringing. He has been born with a silver spoon in his mouth and I seem to have clawed my way into his heart. He is classy and I am down to earth. He is sophisticated and I am simple. He knows his wines and cutlery while I prefer to eat with my hands. He knows his caviar from his cheese. To me, they all taste like rubber, which would probably sound like blasphemy in the social circles he moves in. I imagine a scene where his mother accuses me of trapping her son. And then banishes him from her inheritance because he has chosen to marry beneath his status. I imagine his relatives sadly shaking their heads and saying that Samir must be off his senses to have found this plain, lower-middle-class plump girl suitable to be his wife, while he could have had the pick of women.

‘Hey, no Nisha! This is where you are mistaken. My mother and brother are really cool. They will be perfectly okay with whatever I choose to do. But I will definitely have to speak to your dad.’ he says.

‘I am not really close to my dad Samir. You know how it is,’ I say.

‘Yeah I know, but the right thing for me to do is speak to him. Tell me when I can come to your place and meet him.’

I tell him that I will break the news to my father first, and then set up a meeting with him over the weekend.

My father is watching television when I decide to break the news to him.

‘Papa, there is something I have to tell you,’ I say, waiting for him to acknowledge me.

He takes a sip of the buttermilk that he always drinks after his meal and continues watching television.

I clear my throat and wait for him to respond.

He is perhaps hoping that I will vanish like I usually do. But today, I do no such thing. I instead wait patiently, dreaming of Samir.

My mobile buzzes just then and it is a text from Samir.

‘
Have you spoken to him?
’ it reads.

‘
Not yet, in the process.
’ I text back.

‘
Do it soon and call me,
’ comes the quick reply.

‘Papa,’ I say again, and this time he grunts.

I tell him that I have been working closely with my boss for the last five months. I tell him that he is one of the major shareholders in Magellan International. I talk about his educational qualifications and how he is as a person. Then I tell him that he has asked me to marry him and he wants to come and meet my father.

There is absolutely no reaction from my father. He is like stone, sitting there totally impassive, and continuing to sip his buttermilk. I am so angry, I want to knock it over. I want him to say something. I want him to be happy for me. Or express anger. Or any damn expression. Not just sit there like a wall, which is what he has been doing all these past years. What about me? What have I done? Is it my fault that my mother died? I wish and wish my mother was around. At least she would have shared my joy. My dad still continues sitting there.

Finally I ask, ‘Papa, don’t you have anything to say?’

‘What is the guy’s name?’ he asks with great effort, as though saying those words have placed an immense strain on his brain.

‘His name is Samir, Papa,’ I answer dutifully. ‘He wants to meet you,’ I add.

I think even if I told him that the Prime Minister of India was asking for my hand in marriage, it would not have made an iota of difference to him. I am angry now at Samir for insisting that I tell my father. But then, what choice was I left with? Should I have eloped and got married instead? A little voice inside my head screams that even that would not really made a difference to him.

‘Okay, we will meet,’ he says finally.

‘When, Papa? Can I tell him to come this Saturday at four in the evening?’ I ask.

‘Okay,’ he says, as he goes back to sipping his buttermilk and watching television, and I know I have been dismissed.

I barge into my room angrily and call Samir to tell him all that has happened. Samir asks me to keep my cool and be patient. We talk for long about the wedding plans amongst other things. He says that he wants to have a really simple ceremony, maybe an Arya Samaj one, with very limited people. I truly do not have anyone to call. I am not in touch with any of my relatives on my mother’s side, and my dad is a single child himself, having lost his mother when he was five or so. He was raised by his aunt who has passed away, and I don’t think my dad too will have anyone to invite. So I am just happy to go along with anything that Samir suggests.

There are just two days left for Saturday, when Samir will meet my dad. Somehow I am nervous about the meeting. Samir has never come to my home before and the truth is, I am somewhat ashamed of my modest little home. The next two days pass off immersed in work, and as soon as I reach home, I try my best to make the home look a little more presentable.

On Saturday morning, I wake up early and glance at the clock. It is 7.30 a.m. My routine on weekends is to sleep late, but that day I cannot sleep. On weekdays, no matter how early I wake up, I usually find my dad sitting on the balcony, in his easy chair, sipping his tea while reading the paper. But on that particular morning he is missing.

I check the loo and find he isn’t there either. Puzzled, I look in his room and to my surprise, he is still asleep. I wait for an hour more. Then I decide to wake him up with tea. I make tea and walk to his room and keep it beside his bed.

‘Papa, wake up. It’s time for your morning cup of tea,’ I say.

There is no response from him and I repeat myself again. When he again does not respond, my heart starts beating rapidly and I touch his forehead. It is icy cold. I try to feel his breath but I feel nothing, giving rise to my worst fears. I am so afraid that he is dead. I stand there like a dumb fool, not knowing what to do.