Brown, I want to read Bhumika’s notes. Thanks in advance.
I read my 10-word email admiringly, revelling in its precision, before hitting the send button. I was so absorbed in my genius that I hadn’t considered what Andrew’s reaction might be. Two minutes later, I got a reply, and shortly after, a WhatsApp notification.
Check your WhatsApp, Myra, was the reply.
I opened my phone and saved the images of the notes he had sent me.
I read them carefully, one by one. I read them again; it was quite an exercise.
I only had one question to ask Andrew. What were the similarities in Bhumika Velu and Catherine Brown’s life stories?
He needed to put that down on paper. Black ink on white paper.
I closed my eyes and rested my hand on my knuckles.
Ravi and Andrew, cousins? If there was another in that blend, I’d marry that one maybe. Those with the bashful backstories.
Karnataka’s former chief minister and his biological grandson, a crack-shot political analyst, who was perhaps the only one betting that Hari Rao would pull off this ambitious gambit.
The more I looked at the two men, the more I could see the physical resemblance. It’s not obvious. They had narrow foreheads and stubby fingers. It was the gait, the upright fashion in which they carried themselves. Shoulders square, back straight, an animal-like edge to their stride.
Ravi was nothing like his grandfather, not even in manner. I sighed. I didn’t want to, but I was arriving at a decision. We couldn’t continue.
I could taste the tears.
I wish I had restricted our relationship to a friendship. That was how it began. It should’ve stayed that way. An easy alliance, a seamless coalition, neither making demands on the other. I should’ve paused, dwelt on the emotions and seen it for what it was instead of just coasting. It was my call to make.
Our first kiss should’ve alerted me. Vanilla had more to it.
Ravi had initiated it when he dropped me back from an evening out. We had gone out for drinks with a few of his friends, and I was a little high by the time we were done. Ravi had stopped at a Patiala peg, maybe because I was on a free run. He parked his car and followed me into my apartment complex. We were in the elevator, an old, rattling booth, when his lips met mine full. I leaned against the controls for support. My hand or back hit the pause button, suspending us somewhere between floors. I was so chuffed that it was me who had stalled this cubicle that I wanted to explain it to the man who was all over me. Whatever came out of my mouth sounded like moans and groans. Suitably encouraged, Ravi’s hands were on my waist, stroking it. It was a long kiss. Too long.
So delighted was Ravi by my reaction that it became a reference point for him. To me, it was an invitation I hadn’t expected or accepted. I may have been present, but I wasn’t a participant.
All that I didn’t verbalize. When you express it, you wrestle with the words, and in doing so, deal with it, even if only at a surface level.
It wasn’t because I didn’t want to be alone. I’m an only child. Alone is me.
Another first followed, not long after. This one was a gift.
He’d got me a pair of gold earrings for my birthday. To say I was stunned was putting it mildly.
What was this? Our 25th wedding anniversary?
I put away the gift somewhere safe, I presume, and forgot all about it. How else could I have lived with it? I have no recollection of what it looks like, except for thinking that it was too big and ornate for me. In subsequent years, I got more of the yellow metal. I accepted it, even if it annoyed me. I wasn’t even wearing the stuff. Couldn’t he tell? Unless he was asking his PA to buy me gifts.
I finally told him I’d prefer a book or a library or his Netflix password.
Last year, he gave me a watch, I only take it off when I shower or sleep. I love it, but I never told him that. I didn’t need to. Which, in a way, was us: we never exchanged a rude word, we didn’t try to control or attempt to change the other.
I could see Andrew move across the editorial floor from my perch. My chin was resting on my right hand, and my eyes were following him. Quick, light steps. He was carrying some pages; maybe he was checking the edition. Wasn’t it too early for that?
When I spoke to Chhaya a couple of days ago about my feelings for Ravi, the lack of chemistry given that we were almost engaged, she asked, ‘What if Andrew hadn’t returned?’
The only reason Ravi was in my life was because Andrew had exited it. And it was because of him that I had refused to look at my relationship with Ravi. Andrew was alwaysaround – in a coffee cup, an inkless pen – even when we were living on different continents.
Chhaya and I had walked to our usual table at Perky Grace after picking up our steaming beverages when she posed the question. I almost poured the coffee on myself.
‘Maybe I’d have made this relationship work, continued to live in this disconnected fashion.’ I had practice.
