THE ONE YOU CANNOT HAVE (18 page)

But deep down I am just as terrified as him. I fervently hope that my father-in-law is going to be okay. I tell my mother-in-law not to worry and that Rishabh is on his way in my best ‘all-is-well’ voice. Then I sit down on the waiting chair with her, outside the emergency room, and close my eyes and pray silently.

By the time Rishabh arrives, the doctor has already told me that my father-in-law is fine and the wound on his head was just external and he has fully recovered his consciousness. The doctor says that the fainting was most likely caused because of a combination of diabetes and severe dehydration. But he says that he wants to rule out the possibility of a cardiac syncope and so it is better to keep him under observation for twenty-four hours and do a few tests to rule out the possibility. He will be shifted to a private room from the emergency and Rishabh and I complete the formalities. We are informed by the hospital staff that ‘one attendant is allowed to stay with the patient’. Rishabh says that he will stay overnight in the hospital and his mother insists that she will. They have an argument over that and in the end my mother-in-law wins.

So Rishabh and I drive back together. He is quiet the entire duration of the drive. I try to assure him that his father will be fine.

‘Yeah, like you are the doctor and you know better than them. And frankly all this wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t decided to drag them all over Mumbai. They aren’t used to it,’ he snaps at me.

I cannot believe he just said that. Tears sting my eyes at his tone. He
is being so darn unfair now. When I texted him that I was taking his parents out he seemed happy. But now he is implying that his father fainting is somehow my fault? This is ridiculous. But I am too emotionally exhausted to fight. I have been through this entire episode of hospital, emergency and riding in the ambulance. All I want is to get home and collapse. So I do not retort or reply to him. I just keep quiet and stare out of the window. A few moments later he realises I am hurt and says, ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I am just very stressed.’

I still don’t bother to reply back. If anyone is stressed it should be me. I have bent over backwards and made an effort to be nice to his parents. I have even taken time off from work and gone all around Mumbai for them. I have done my best and I am tired now.

I turn up the music in the car and we complete the rest of the journey in silence. Rishabh has to introspect and figure out whatever it is about me that is bothering him. I have now given it all that I can. It is up to him now to decide whether he wants to keep this cold war going or whether he wants to forget about the past and move on. I am done trying.

After we reach home, Rishabh calls up his mother to check on her. A few tests are scheduled for early the next day and his mother says she is managing fine. There is a cafeteria attached to the hospital, she says, and she will eat there. She assures Rishabh that she will be okay.

I want Rishabh to talk to me. I want to tell him about
Mr Adani and how helpful he was. But that would mean bringing up Aman’s name again. I contemplate lying and leaving out the part where Aman was involved. But then I remember that Rishabh might have read the mails in which Aman and I discussed Mr Adani, so I don’t bother.

The day’s events have caught up with me now. I ask Rishabh if he will have anything to drink and when he refuses, I pour myself a large glass of wine. Wine always relaxes me and today I need it. My nerves are taut.

I sit on the balcony sipping my wine and look at the city lights and headlights of the traffic zooming by. They look like co-ordinated fireflies, moving in a line. By the time I finish my wine, I feel light-headed and relaxed. All the stress and hurt has vanished. Rishabh hasn’t budged from in front of the television nor has he spoken a word to me. I am in no mood to make an effort at a conversation with him either. I have been trying to talk to him for so many days, but this husband of mine seems to have turned into a stone wall.

I fix a quick meal of some readymade
rotis
which just have to be heated on a pan and served. There is some vegetable left over from the previous day that my mother-in-law had cooked. We eat our meal in silence and then Rishabh goes back to the television. I so wish he would switch off the damn thing and at least thank me for reaching his dad to the hospital on time. I wish he would just put his arms around me like the old times. I wish he would joke and laugh.

But I know these are simply empty wishes. The time when we used to joke and laugh, like a normal couple, now seems so far away.

So I go back to the guest room (which is now our bedroom) and switch on my laptop. I am in a daze, the wine having hit me. I now want to get to the root of all my problems. I want to know what the hell Rishabh has read in my mails that has caused him to be so hostile to me. I want to know how long it has been since Aman and I exchanged a mail. Then I want to confront Rishabh with all of this. I want to shake him up and tell him to stop behaving like this.

I log into my mail account and type ‘Aman’ in the search box.

There
are
thousands. God—seeing them all together like this has taken even me by surprise, even though I
knew
. I can now imagine what a massive shock it must have been to Rishabh. The last one was exchanged about three months before I got married. I open a mail which he has written asking me to change my mind. It begs me to come back. It declares his undying love for me. He says he will do anything that I ask of him and not to walk away. He says he will be shattered without me. Each word in that mail still feels like a stab in my heart. Before I realise it tears are flowing down my face and I am sobbing.

I read the mail before that, and the one before and the one before. They are all identical. Aman has begged me to stay and that things will be fine. That he is still waiting for me. I remember how I used to not read any of his mails.

I remember how I used to open them and then log out of my account as I couldn’t bear to read whatever it is that he had to say. I simply did not want to know. I had stopped reading his mails when I had decided to break up with him. I used to merely skim through them and not read the contents as it was hard for me. My parents had been so happy that I had agreed to let go of Aman and marry Rishabh. My mother was still under medical supervision. The endless rounds of hospitals and check-ups had left us all weary and battered. I couldn’t have pulled another shocker on them saying that I want to go back to Aman. So, as hard as it had been, I had felt that this was for the best. The wedding dates had been finalised and I didn’t have the courage to tell my parents that I cannot go ahead. The best way forward was to not acknowledge Aman’s mails. Just like how I had not answered his phone calls. I wince now at the memories. I had felt guilty about doing this to Aman and I had hoped and prayed he would move on.

But now when I read his mails, I realise that it is me, who hasn’t moved on. Even after nearly two years of marriage, I crave for Aman. I have tried hard to get over him.

And I have failed.

I wonder how he is now. In his final mail he has said that if he can’t have me as his life-partner, he definitely wants a friendship for life. He says no matter what happens he will be there for me and for him, our relationship is for a lifetime.

And today, after a gap of more than two years, I read his words over and over. They seem to be leaping out at me now, taunting me, prodding me, pushing me, questioning me, begging me. They seem to have a strange power of their own.

Finally I cannot resist it anymore.

I
have
to write to Aman. I just have to contact him again.

So I compose a new message and I begin to type.

Chapte
r
22

Aman

Work has been all consuming, crazy, hectic in a world-will-end-if-I-don’t-do-this-now way. I have hardly any time even for a meal. Earlier I would eat leisurely (okay, somewhat leisurely) at the company cafeteria located on the top floor. But these days I don’t even realise when the lunch hour comes and goes. Often, when I look up from work, it is already three-thirty pm and I hurriedly order a sandwich because my stomach feels empty and hollow. I have never been this involved in work. I thoroughly enjoy the challenge even though it is gruelling. It is a field completely new to us and we cannot afford to make any mistakes. The days mostly begin with meetings and the updates and what is expected is laid out by Vikram. It is more like a commando-drill brief and work then proceeds on a war-footing.

In fact, it has been so darn hectic that when the car dealer called me and told me that my car had arrived, I had told him to deliver it to my office address. He had been so surprised. He said that usually people come to the showroom and take delivery. They also do a small
puja
and there is a formal ceremony of ‘handing over the keys’. I had asked him if it was a problem to deliver and he had hastily assured me that it wasn’t and of course they would do what I preferred. The sales-in-charge had driven the car to my office and I had instructed the security to let him in. Then I had asked him to park it and bring the keys up. Later, long past midnight, when I was finally ready to leave, I had gone downstairs to the basement and seen that they had decorated the car with a huge bow and a ribbon around it—gift-wrapped it for me. No wonder the sales guy had been so surprised when I had not even come downstairs to see it. In most people’s lives taking delivery of their first car is a big moment. I guess it was in mine too, but I had been too busy to notice.

The car sure feels good and I feel on top of the world driving it.

It is during one of the morning meetings that my mother calls. I put the phone on silent and I mean to call her back. But I remember that she called only after two days. I feel terribly guilty as I look at my phone (which is always on silent these days) and see two missed calls from her. What if it was an emergency? What if she had been calling me for something urgent? I decide that though this pace of work is excellent for me career-wise, I should make time for my mother. I call her back immediately. After I have dialled her number I realise it is already ten pm and she must be fast asleep. But before I can hang up, she answers and she sounds like I have woken her up from sleep.

‘Ma, I am so sorry, work has been hectic,’ I say as soon as I hear her voice. Then I ask her if she had been asleep and I apologise for waking her up.

‘
Arey
no, it is okay
beta
. You can call me anytime, you know that,’ she says graciously.

This is the thing about motherhood—the unconditional love and acceptance, even though I have barely had time for her. (I haven’t even had time for myself). When I hear her voice I realise how much I miss her. I decide then and there that I will fly her down to Bangalore. After all, she hasn’t even seen my new place.

‘How are you? Are you taking care of yourself? How is your new place?’ she asks.

‘The new place is nice, but it has been so hectic that I hardly get time for myself these days,’ I say.

‘That’s good,
beta
. Hard work never killed anyone,’ replies my mother. She has worked hard all her life and doesn’t know any other way to be.

‘Ma, you should come and visit me. For the next fifteen days, things will be crazy. That is when it all finally takes off. After that, I will have some breathing time.’

‘I am coming tomorrow. I had called to tell you that,’ she says and I can picture her smiling.

‘What?! Tomorrow? Oh my God. Why didn’t you tell me? Are your tickets booked?’ I ask totally taken by surprise.

‘I did try to tell you,’ she says and now she is laughing, delighted at my astonishment. ‘I am one of the few who got selected for this course in Bangalore on organic terrace-garden farming at the Agricultural College there,’ she says.

‘Oh, Ma, That is wonderful news indeed! But how did all this happen?’ I ask.

‘There was an advertisement in the newspaper some months back from the local horticultural association here, asking for applications as they want to encourage organic farming. When I called them up and expressed my interest, they came over and had a look at my garden. When they saw it they were convinced and nominated me for the course. Once I complete this course, they will provide me with all the material needed to start an organic terrace garden, all the supplies, fertilisers, soil and all that. Later, they will buy my produce too. It is an excellent scheme for those interested,’ she says.

I am very happy for my mother.

‘That is fantastic, Ma. I am so proud of you. And, Ma, you will like my new place,’ I say.

Now that I know she is arriving so soon, I am happy and excited. It would be wonderful to have her over.

‘And I am happy about it too but I won’t be staying with you. It is a two-week residential course and I will stay at their campus. It is far-off from the city,’ she says.

‘Oh, but I guess weekends will be off?’ I ask hopefully. It will be wonderful to have her around.

‘Yes, I will see you on the weekends. In any case you will be busy on weekdays so it all works out perfectly, doesn’t it?’ she says and of course she is right as usual.

I ask her how she will commute from the airport to the college and she replies that they have made all the arrangements. With a chuckle, she reminds me that when I was in college that was a question she would ask me, and now it’s the other way round.

‘Yeah, Ma, what to do? You and I, we are together and we have to watch out for each other,’ I say repeating her phrase which she used to tell me in my growing up years. She used to say it in Hindi, in a sing-song voice, and I do the same now.

She laughs and I feel happy to hear the sound of her laughter. It’s funny how even though I am all grown up I am so childishly excited at the prospect of having my mother over. I am also glad that she is doing this course. My mother has kept herself busy after her retirement. She is an example for retired folks on how to live a productive life.

I decide to have a beer and sit in the balcony for a while. The balcony is fairly large and I like lying on the large wooden swing and gazing at the stars. Some days I fall asleep here and awake around midnght and stumble to my bedroom.

Today, just as I am settling down, my phone buzzes and I check it. It is a text message from Anjali.

Hey—not sure if you are getting my instant messages or whether you are avoiding me! All well? Either ways let me know.

I read it and wince.

Poor girl does not deserve this. She is sweet, effervescent and bubbly. I just am not ready for the relationship she wants. I remember reading somewhere that the person who cares less has more power in the relationship. As sad as it is, it is true. Right now, I care less. So I have more power. I don’t want to hurt her. Yet, I don’t want to lead her on. In my last relationship, I have been burnt so badly that I still hurt. I think a part of me still aches for Shruti. I do not want to get
that
involved with a woman anymore, and Anjali is breaking down my defences and my excuses.

I don’t know if avoiding Anjali is cowardly or insensitive of me. Probably it is both. I am hiding from her and it isn’t right. Yet I continue to do it. She has stopped instant-messaging or mailing now. I do not know whether to be relieved or whether to feel ashamed. One part of me does feel relieved that the flood of messages has stopped and yet the other kind of misses it. I know I owe her some kind of explanation. Besides, she does have a right to know.

So I pick up the phone and call her.

She sounds surprised and so very happy to hear from me that I feel like an asshole to have called.

‘Hey, How have you been?’ I say.

‘Hey! Aman! I am good. How
are
you?’

There is so much happiness in her voice—she hasn’t even asked where I have been all these days. There is no accusatory tone at all. And, for some strange reason, her happy tone makes me feel awkward. It makes me want to grovel and explain why I suddenly went quiet, even though she hasn’t asked.

‘I am so sorry to have dropped out of the radar like that,’ I begin.

‘Hey, that’s okay. I know you are a busy guy,’ she says simply.

‘Still, I should have replied to your messages. The thing is, it has been hectic,’ I say and that is of course true.

‘That’s fine, I have been busy myself,’ she says.

‘Oh. Okay. What have you been busy with?’ I ask. Somehow her being busy with her own life hadn’t even occurred to me and now I want to know the details.

‘Well, this and that. Meeting some people, hanging out with my friends, writing my pieces,’ she says.

‘Oooh! And who have you been meeting? Anyone interesting?’ I ask.

‘We’re doing this feature where we’re shooting some nice-looking guys who support animals. So the shoot is happening where all these guys pose holding a cute puppy. All the women in my office are going ga-ga over the idea and the shoot is so much fun. Jeena has put a strict cap though on the number of women who can go to the location,’ she says.

‘Interesting. Who are these guys?’ I ask.

What I want to ask is if any of the guys have been hitting on her. It’s funny, how a moment ago I didn’t want to be involved with her and now that she is mentioning some guys I want to know details.

‘Oh some model types. Mostly dumb if you ask me. I prefer brain over brawn. These guys can’t even hold a conversation. Such narcissists and a self-obsessed bunch they are,’ she says.

I smile. This is why I like her so much. She makes me feel so good.

She asks me what is new and I tell her about my mother’s visit. She is happy to hear about it. She asks me details about my work and I find myself talking to her and telling her in detail all that I have been doing. I had forgotten how easy Anjali is to talk to and now it is all coming back. She asks me how my house is and whether I have settled down and whether I got the delivery of my car.

I tell her that I have and she asks me how it is and when would I give her a ride in my new car.

And I find myself saying, ‘Now, if you are game?’

I don’t know why I say it.

‘Oh Aman, that will be lovely!’ she says.

And before I realise what I am doing, I find myself loading the car with a portable drinks’ case and folding chairs (all a part of the set I picked up in the UK, which I haven’t used up to now) and am driving to Anjali’s place.