‘Why can’t you talk this out with him, Myra?’ Chhaya asked me the evening before I booked my ticket to Mumbai. ‘He knows he has screwed up somewhere; he just doesn’t know where.’
We were seated in a coffee shop, and my friend was gesturing wildly. She had become the champion of the Andrew Brown case. If my father was a step or two behind her, it was because he didn’t know what had gone wrong between us.
‘You are scared to commit. That’s why you’re running away to Mumbai,’ Chhaya accused me.
‘I’m scared that if I stay, I will get reeled in, and before long, I will be running on sensibility instead of sense,’ I said. ‘I’m going to Mumbai because I made a commitment.’
‘It’s not either/or, Myra; it doesn’t need to be. What you and Andrew have is not common. How can someone as smart as you not see that?’
There was a man during Chhaya’s MBA days, an older brother of a batchmate. Her parents objected to the relationship. I don’t know why, but I think it was because he was considered a loser. He didn’t marry, and she hasn’t spoken about him since. More than anyone I knew, Chhaya lived and didn’t. Her laughter boomed, but there was a hollow silence to it if you listened carefully enough.
‘Why don’t you talk to him about it? Bring up the apology?’ We were like birds circling over the same spot; only, there was no weather phenomena to take advantage of.
‘It’s not a question that should be asked. It’s not a question that needs a verbal answer, because if that’s how he felt, I would’ve known even if he didn’t spell it out.’
Apologies are transparent.
‘I don’t know how to say this, Myra. I’m not a writer, and I can’t say it like you do, but I know feelings and emotions. I have a heart, and it was once broken for no one’s fault. All I can tell you is that there’s love and there’s L-O-V-E.’
She was angry, I could see that, but at least she had the grace to smile since she was returning my description of what Andrew and I had once shared.
Chhaya and I were chatting about Ravi over breakfast a few years ago. I had told her I liked what I had with Ravi because it didn’t challenge me emotionally, it was comfortable. I had deducted that neither Ravi nor I had wanted more on that front. My friend wondered aloud if Iwas settling, to which I told her, ‘There’s love, Chhaya, and there’s L-O-V-E.’ She had looked at me kindly, as if I had lost my marbles. I didn’t extend an explanation. I knew she’d figure it out once she allowed herself to digest it.
‘Don’t do this, Myra, please.’
I looked away from Chhaya. My tears rolled into my coffee cup.
‘Okay then, go to Mumbai, honour your fucking commitment,’ she said. ‘I’m not buying your “I’m scared” line. You’re one of the toughest women I know, Myra Rai, and I know some.’
I didn’t want to remind my friend that tough people make titanic sacrifices to not let the cracks show. Chhaya Mehta had excelled in that department.
I missed Andrew more than I missed anything or anyone in Bengaluru. A void I was finding increasingly difficult to fill. I missed our coffees, which I had unfortunately reacquainted myself with; I missed our exchanges, our talks, which were now without the boundaries of family. His. I missed him chauffeuring me around. I loved sitting in his car, his fragrance engulfing me, cushioning me. I missed the brush of our hands, the reassurance I got when our eyes met in a room full of people. I missed his gait, the way he covered the editorial floor with a few lithe steps. It was amatory. I missed the way he works. I missed our strolls on MG Road. I missed the way he pushed me as a writer, forcing me to reach for more. The disdain with which he brushed aside my half-baked ideas without so much as saying a word. His brow shot up.Really, Rai?it asked. He critiqued my work, but he was also my professional armchair. I could rest on him.
I’ve checked my mail any number of times, thinking there would be something, anything, for me. From him.An offer of friendship, a dinner date. An understanding. Continuance. I’ve reached for my phone with a legitimate doubt almost every day. There was so much to ask him, talk to him about, but I didn’t dial or mail or message. That wouldn’t win me a Pulitzer for non-fiction, but it should for resilience.
I had only once asked Chhaya how Andrew was doing, and she had returned my question with one of her own.
‘Why?’
‘Just,’ I had said.
She changed topics.
I’m not sure if I deserved any better.
I think I started running to get away from Andrew, give myself something to do rather than read a piece he had written and let my head and heart wander. Running gave my day the push it sorely needed, but the more I ran and the further I got, the more my mind determinedly raced in the direction of Andrew. I tried listening to music to distract me – Adele, Beyoncé, Justin Timberlake and Taylor Swift. I even threw one of my mother’s favourites in, Kenny Rogers. Nothing worked, so I tried bawdy Bollywood numbers, which appeared to serve the purpose for a while until they sparked my nerves.
Why couldn’t I just forget what happened, bury the hatchet and give it a go? I had run too many miles to add ‘fresh start’.
The image of the destruction I caused at his apartment came before me. The look in his eyes, a plea.
I had gone off my beaten track, and I was somewhere on Malabar Hill, feeling the climb, but I pushed for a bit until I was gasping for the warm morning air. Then, just as I turned to head back, I asked myself for the first time,What if?
What if Andrew never realizes that his affair with Meena destroyed us simply because he can’t see what it has done to us?
What if this obsession with his own world forever blinds him to things beyond his space?
I stopped running. My tears had mixed with my sweat. I was as thoroughly drenched as a Mumbai monsoon day.
