‘Maybe he was guilt-ridden, even shamefaced. Or he thought that connecting with you at that point would ruin your friendship with Meena. It’s possible that he thought Meena hadn’t told you about them and… he didn’t want to tell on her or didn’t want to rock that boat…’
I knew all of what Chhaya was telling me was a possibility.
‘He faltered, he let you down, but it was an honest mistake,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure if I can say that of our one-time friend.’
What Chhaya left unsaid was playing on my mind.Why was Andrew back in Bengaluru?
There was a tentativeness about Andrew 2.0, an air of ambiguity. It had replaced the calm, the certitude of his youth. I’m not sure, though, if Andrew was ever really young; he was born old. This air of disquiet just couldn’t be the result of an affair or even a series of transgressions. It’s like he was not sure about something. He was anxious, searching, looking, reaching… There was also anger. It resonated in his tone, his fidgety body language. Atypical.
Did he know Meena was also in Bengaluru? Was that the reason?
‘You were lost to him, but had he reached out to you then, he would’ve had to come clean, or at least that’s what he’d expect of himself, and that would’ve ruined the friendship you have with Meena. Maybe in his own weird, convoluted way, he put you above him.’
‘Maybe it was his ego. He didn’t want to come crawling back; he didn’t want to apologize,’ I said, picking up the last of the stuffed mushrooms.
For a while after my mother passed away, I couldn’t relate or associate with anything or anyone she had approved of; it may not have been every single thing or person, but there were some things (like a comb the two of us shared, like TV shows that sometimes kept me away from her, like Andrew, whom she approved of) I needed space from, to let the biggest loss of my life weigh me down. And then accept it.
‘This is what I think,’ Chhaya said, not for the first time that evening. She was considering a french fry, which she held between her ring and index fingers. ‘Andrew didn’t get back to you only because he didn’t have a face to come back to you with. What could he tell you? Sorry, babe, while you were mourning your mother, I was fucking your best friend? From what I can tell of this man, he wanted to tell you, he understood the importance of being honest, but he didn’t have the guts, at first.’
I shrugged. I was empty, I was excited. I’m a walking, talking contradiction.
Chhaya had moved forward in her seat. ‘It’s an awkward situation, but he’s trying; he’s reaching out to you.’
‘I feel about as welcome as a fart in a spacesuit.’
Chhaya laughed.
I pulled out my phone and went to Instagram and opened Pooja Patil’s page. A planet of looks and likes. Andrew’s picture, the bare-chested one, had 40,431 likes.
I passed the phone to Chhaya, saying, ‘Little Miss Polka Dots.’
‘Get out!’ I think she was screaming. She was out of her chair. ‘You can’t be serious?’
Chhaya was in polka dots, too; hers was a knee-length dress in red and white.
‘My undergarments too!’
We just couldn’t stop. We had turned this sophisticated set-up, where you might hear the folks in the next booth but didn’t necessarily see them, into a market square, cracking tawdry jokes.
‘And this when he looks like a million ball-locks!’ She let it drag.
‘Mr and Mrs Polka Dots,’ I said.
After every stupid line that escaped our lips, we took another sip from our quickly disappearing stock.
‘Who is this person anyway?’ she asked.
I explained the business of fashion blogging to my friend, describing how these bloggers influenced the agile dynamics of the industry.
‘What does she hope to achieve with this pic?’ Chhaya asked, waving my phone, before adding, ‘As good as he looks.’
I was feeling light – the polka-dot effect. ‘This blog is about the various types of cotton fabrics in the market. She’s extolling modal here, saying it’s eco-friendly.’
‘I’d say she’s more enthusiastic about the model.’
‘Savage!’
‘But why would he fall for something like that?’
