‘How come you were around my office today?’ I asked lamely. I wanted to get off the topic of Andrew.
‘I wasn’t really around. I wanted to meet you today. I got ready early, and that’s when I started calling you.’
Ravi met me for coffee once a week. We usually met in the first half of the week, when I was breathing a little easier. And it was always at the start of my working day.
Our time together was pleasant. Ravi wasn’t much of a talker, but he had a measured opinion about most things. He was equally adept at losing himself in thought, and we would drift into our own worlds. A parallel space.
It was one of those times when we were drifting, some six months ago, at this luxury hotel, sitting in this exact same spot, that he had proposed.
He drummed his fingers on the table and asked, ‘How about we get married?’ It was asked in much the same tone he used to ask me if I wanted another coffee.
I hadn’t thought about marriage, even though he had been hinting for a while.
‘Of course,’ I said, not knowing what the hell I was saying, except that I knew that I didn’t want to break thislovely man’s heart. ‘But we should talk about it another time. You know, give it a real thought.’
‘Of course,’ he said. His smile didn’t dim.
‘You should come home,’ I told him.
‘I would love that,’ he said, his eyes brightening.
He gave me the ring anyway. A second ring I couldn’t wear. Hopelessly loose.
Looking at his mauve shirt, full-sleeved and of superior weave, and his perfectly fit form, I realized that Ravi didn’t complete me. He balanced me. She of the boyfriend jeans and thigh-length shackets. He was the perfect antidote to the whirlpool of emotions churning inside me. The grieving daughter, the slighted girlfriend. The woman who wanted to be.
All that he is. All that I’m not. An equation that balanced. How I longed to be a mathematical sum.
Chapter 5
The wind-blown look was working for Chhaya Mehta. Her kurta and dhoti pants billowed with a passing drift, which had dislodged her dupatta. Her hair was an unquiet wave.
My eyes shifted to my wrist; she was late again.
Chhaya laughed, unfazed by my subtle attempts to guilt trip her.
I hadn’t seen my friend in a while. I was out of town for a week, chasing a story. When I returned, she was busy, sucked in by family and work. Each time we decided to meet, Chhaya would ring at the last hour to call it off. She was dealing with one kind of emergency or another. We hadn’t communicated much in the last three weeks, outside of the odd text.
Over the years, Chhaya and I had fashioned a little tradition. Every Wednesday, we met for breakfast at Perky Grace. We’d been doing this for five years. We met otherwise, too, if life permitted, but that midweek outing was our time.
The scheduled hour was 9 a.m., but invariably, I reached a few minutes earlier and she came in humming her favourite tune of the time at least 20 minutes late.
We would order one plate of English breakfast and an egg puff. There was no need to go through the menu; it was always the same pick. We’d peck at the food while downing a few rounds of hot beverages, pretending we were lactose-intolerant after the first. The generous tip we left behind was for the brewmaster, who knew just how to wake a girl up. A strong cappuccino.
I usually drove down from the gym, where I showered and changed into office wear. Home was just two kilometres away, but it wasn’t an option. Weekday traffic. I arrived balancing two big bags, laptop in one and Eves Essentials in the other. I’m not comfortable leaving valuables in the car, unless I’ve dunked them in the boot when no one was watching. Stealing from cars is like slicing bread, it’s all in the technique. Not surprising then that weights are an all-day feature for me.
Chhaya would park at her office, located two buildings from Morning Herald Towers, and walk over with no more than a clutch, which she promptly placed next to my voluminous tote. ‘You and me,’ she’d say with a laugh. The sum of our differences.
Chhaya only carried a big handbag on night outs. All she needed in the day were a few relevant cards, a lipstick and some change to tip the parking attendant, besides her phone and car keys. But on a social outing, she carried her whole house. A shawl, a vanity kit, a book to read (no idea why she packed that in because she was always the last to arrive), an extra pair of ballet flats in case her stilettos (that cost as much as my second-hand car) gave way.
Chhaya headed her family’s business empire, Mehta’s Limited (ML), which she sometimes called ‘unlimited’. It included cinema halls in upmarket malls in Delhi, Mumbai, Kolkata, Pune and Bengaluru and a chain of 30-oddeateries that dotted highways in the southern half of India. Mehta Express had corrupted taste buds with their wallet-friendly north Indian pickings that attracted all sections of society. ML also owned petrol bunks and 24x7 medical stores in four metros.
Chhaya and I go back 14 years, when the Mehtas shifted to Bengaluru. Our paths crossed in high school, but it took a while for our friendship to warm up. Back then, I had a friend, and she had several pals. I would’ve liked to be popular, but I was the basic model student. Chhaya and I moved in the same circles but in different directions.
I remember Chhaya’s first day at Bangalore Scottish; she made a striking entry. She was the only new entrant to Class IX that year, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Most of the students were engaged in an eager exchange of opening-day pleasantries when the teacher’s voice rose above the rest, calling for silence. She made the introduction soon after, telling the room of 30 teenagers that Chhaya Mehta would join our section.
‘Wow!’ a random voice from the back rows exclaimed. It might’ve been mine.
She was tall, having grown most of her 5’10” by then. My height made me awkward, hers gave her aTeen Vogueair. Her wavy brown hair was tied in a loose braid. I preferred the green of her eyes to the shade of her tunic, which was different from the rest of the class because she had gone with a lighter weave.
