Chapter 11
— NiP —
Nilay Patel wanted a lot of things in life. What he wanted most at this point was to get out of this heart issue, unscathed. But, as the woman in his car’s passenger seat stared out of her window in deathly silence, he wanted to make her scowl, smile and then sneer again even more.
“Have you eaten?” He asked.
“No.”
“Lunch?”
“No, I didn’t eat lunch.”
“I am asking, do you want to have lunch?”
“No.”
The Marine Drive signals were long, thank god, and he reached one just as the last one cleared. He braked slowly, having learnt from her to speed and slow down with care. It was surreal how he had driven in the city for two decades and learnt to brake smoothly from her.
“Ok, Doctor, let me ask again — what do you want to eat for lunch?”
She was still gazing out, at the sea. “I am not hungry. Just take me home.”
Take me home. His heart skipped a beat. He quickly breathed to control it.
It was a good skip, but he had spent so much time and energy being mindful of his body’s, especially his heart’s reactions to things, that the physical processes made him momentarily panic sometimes.
It was receding now. Ever since Patan, ever since her, he had started to take it easy.
“Where is Maya?”
As if that jolted her, Ritu sat up and reached for her potli and began texting. The signal turned green and he put the car in drive.
“What are you telling her?”
“To go to Pizza By The Bay without me.”
“She is not eating at the function?”
“No. We had decided to eat pizza and ice cream.”
“You like pizza, right?”
“Hmm.”
She set her phone in her lap and he toggled the indicator to take a U-turn.
“Home is that side.”
“Pizza By The Bay is that side.”
“No, Nilay, no, stop.”
He had taken the turn, but the desperation in her voice made him pull up by the curb of the road. He turned to her, and found her face twisted.
“I don’t want to talk to Maya right now.”
His blood boiled. “Did she do something?”
“No! I just can’t answer any questions… I can’t make up stories anymore. Not… not right now. Please just let’s…”
“Ok. But we need to eat.”
“You haven’t eaten lunch? It’s…” she glanced at his dashboard clock. “Nearing 3.”
“I haven’t.” He had.
“I don’t want to see anybody right now.”
Her voice was small, tears hidden behind that brave octave. Then why did it make him feel warm? Because she didn’t want to see anybody but him? Because she didn’t want to talk to Maya but was here, speaking to him?
“Let’s do this, Doctor — we will pick up pizza and eat it in the car, hidden in some quiet lane. Hmm?”
“Ask them to make it in olive oil, not butter.”
————————————————————
One large Bombay Masala pizza, with ‘extra veggies, low on salt, high on fresh olives and made with olive oil, not butter’ was steaming in the box in his hands as he walked to his car.
It was parked some distance away from the restaurant in case Maya or Gautam happened to be around.
He opened his door and slipped in, passing the box to Ritu and driving out of the spot.
He had promised to hide her in a lane and he was about to do just that.
She was worked up. Her head was turned away from the window, her face curtained in her hair.
As he wove away from Pizza By The Bay, slowly and steadily she relaxed.
He found a secluded bylane that was mostly deserted, with ample parking space. The tree-lined canopy was thick and kept the sun away. And Saturday meant the businesses around were closed. He parked the car, turned towards her and took the box that she hadn’t even pulled open yet.
Nilay opened it and pulled out a slice for her.
“I will eat later. You eat, I can come and drive…” she began to open her door.
“Keep sitting,” he commanded. Usually, she would spar with him, or get out and do exactly as she pleased.
Today, she listened. He took advantage and handed her the slice.
She gaped at it. He pulled another slice and bit into it.
She swallowed, and bit into her own. Then, he did not need to do anything else.
Like clockwork, they shared the pizza, one slice at a time.
Silent. Sitting in the car with nobody to look at and nobody to look at them.
“Where to go for the ice cream?” He asked, blotting his fingers clean with a tissue and setting the empty box on the floor behind his seat.
“I don’t want ice cream.”
“That’s not what you had planned.”
Food seemed to have done the trick because this time she glared at him — “I am back and not going to be pushed around.”
He smirked. “You are that hangry kinda girl, Doctor?”
Her eyes felt shut, but her mouth curled.
A smidge. He felt so good that he did not fight her on the ice cream.
Nilay passed her the tissues and turned the car, zooming it back to the suburbs.
To home. The ride was spent in silence. But this one was bearable.
She wasn’t as sad. Just moody. He drove her to Maya’s house, and that’s when she snapped to life.
“Not here, I am a lane away.”
“Why?”
“I moved out.”
“Is everything ok?”
“Yes…” she let out a hesitant chuckle. “Yes. It’s… Maya’s stupid plan.”
“Do I want to know about this plan?”
“Probably not.”
“You will still tell me,” he commanded, driving along the promenade, following her directions.
“I will not.”
“What else will you do when I am sitting in your hall having coffee?”
“You are supposed to avoid coffee.”
“That means I will be sitting in your hall?”
“Right there,” she pointed, and he drove through the gates of a luxurious apartment building. He parked in the spot that the security directed and got out with her.
“Nilay, thank you,” she murmured, coming around to him, holding her ghaghra up.
Her chunari covered most of her chest and he wished he could right it for her so that she would hold her shoulders up, straight, and not like she was defeated.
But he knew something about her sensitivities with her body, and it would be a cold day in hell before he did anything to trigger them.
“You are welcome,” he locked his car and slipped the key inside his pocket. “Which floor?”
She stared at him, then shook her head — “I am not…” she wetted her lips, then lowered her voice. “It was one night. I cannot do that again.”
“What part of hall and coffee did you not hear?”
“I know what coffee means.”
“What does it mean?”
“Sleeping together.”
“Really?” He crossed his arms across his chest. “I thought it means hosting someone and chatting over a cup. Or two.”
Her lips pressed together, a sneer close on its tail. He loved it, but refrained from showing it.
“I am not up for chatting either.”
“Then give me water. I haven’t had any after the pizza.”
Defeated, she trudged into the reception, making him follow with a smirk. He hated to see her defeated, unless, she was defeated by his hardheaded demands. Then, he probably was the happiest man alive. It was rare that she bowed to them, so when she did, he savoured it. Shamelessly.
“Stop smiling.”
He glanced up, and found her glaring at him through the smoked glass of the lift doors.
His grin widened. They looked good together, like a couple returning from a friend’s wedding, filled to bursting, ready to go home, get rid of all the finery, strip to pyjamas and boxers and lie down in bed for an afternoon nap.
He didn’t even take afternoon naps, and yet he found himself savouring the feeling.
She led him to her floor and down the alley, opening the door and holding it until he took the handle from her and pushed it shut.
He wasn't a man who held doors open for people.
People held doors open for him. He was not a man who closed doors.
He closed it now, turning in time to see her push the curtains open and let the mild afternoon sun in.
The hall was massive, a long curved sofa looking spacious enough to lay out all his fabrics and design equipment on as he worked. The open kitchen looked bare. Empty.
“How long have you stayed here?”
“Today is the second day.” She set the keys and her potli down on the kitchen island, the hand-embroidered sequins of the multi-panelled ghaghra glinting just the way he had envisioned they would in the right lights.
He had seen this piece on a model when it was launched, and then on Miss Universe, India.
He had never seen it come to life like it did now, buttressing her creamy skin that he had the honour of feeling under his hands only a fortnight ago, complimenting the red of her mouth that was naturally full, cuffing her forearms at just the right spots so that they looked whole and womanly, not toned.
“You are staring again.”
“You are wearing me.”
Her brows furrowed. Then enlightenment hit, and her eyes widened.
She gaped down at herself, turning one way and then the other, as if doing so would give her a glimpse of the back.
He got that glimpse, of the long, delicate fabric tassels tangling with locks of dark hair and clinking with her bare back where they tied and held the blouse together.
His pants felt tight and he raised his gaze.
He had been in this business ever since he was a teenager.
He had designed, sewn and marketed couture for women, dressed them too.
Never had he reacted like this. It was job.
Work. Bland. One look at her and he wanted to tear the same couture that he had spent five and a half nights designing off her so that he would have her.
“This is so good, Nilay…” she was still moving around, her ghaghra swishing around her. “Maya didn’t tell me it’s yours.”
“I doubt that.”
She rolled her eyes — “Ok, maybe she did but I was so stressed that I must have missed it.”
That tamped his desire. And her momentary awe. She stilled.
“I’ll get you water.”
“Ritu.”
She stopped.
“One minute, honest things. Go.”
“No.”
“Go.”
“No.”