Chapter 11 #3
“My mother was helpless. She had always been helpless, delivering five daughters for my father, the last of which was me, before she delivered a son. She asked me to pick something I wanted to study abroad and leave. I didn’t like it.
I didn’t want to leave home and Mumbai. But I was so disturbed.
We had three functions after that and every time I lived in terror.
The first time I saw him after that, I was so scared.
He kept looking at me. He… how can I describe how he looked at me.
How can any girl describe it… it’s… helpless…
like you are not safe anywhere… like if not today then tomorrow he will catch up with you…
especially when he is so close to you and nobody is there to stop him…
I didn’t know where to go. My room also didn’t feel safe.
That entire night I tagged along with Maya.
I spent nights crying and thinking what would my future be?
If I couldn’t get over this, I would go crazy.
Sometimes I would think I am overreacting.
I was going crazy. I didn’t want to study or do anything.
My weight started fluctuating then. I wasn’t like this.
I liked my body, it was in shape. Then, as if my mind knew that a shapely body is not safe for me, it started pushing me into cravings and binge-eating.
I don’t remember from where I found the drive to study, get the required numbers to qualify for Harvard entrance and gave it.
I got in and left Mumbai. I only came for my mother’s funeral. ”
He pulled her head back into his chest and tightened his arms around her. She hiccuped, finally drained of words. And tears. Nilay breathed slowly, deeply, hating this and needing to end her father. And that man. And then he remembered.
“What did he want from you today?”
She sniffled. “He wanted me to see his ill mother.”
“You will not see her.”
“I don’t know…”
“Ritu.” He turned and set her back on the bed, hovering over her — “I am not fucking around when I say that you will not see her.”
“I took an oath to…”
“There are hundreds of cardiologists in this city for her. Not you.”
She nodded.
“I just feel guilty holding something as sacred as life ransom for this…”
“This is not a forgivable crime. He stole an entire life, an entire future, an entire personality from a young girl. He dimmed your brightness. I can see it. Fuck, I can see it now. Those parts of you that shine from behind your tightly held guard. You must have been that, and so much more than that. He took that from you, and you are not obligated to do anything back for him except break his fuckin…”
“I broke his fingers.”
“I was going to say something far more delicate but well done.”
“I feel so bad.”
“You did right.”
“You can forget about all this when this afternoon ends.”
“Would you want me to?”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you pity me.”
“I see that we have a communication gap when it comes to my looks and your interpretations, Doctor. But I do not feel pity for you. I feel rage and helplessness, and also proud joy.”
“Seeing me cry.”
He laughed — “That’s collateral benefit.
” He playfully reached for his phone but she grabbed his hand, locking it between her chest and his.
He laughed harder, laying his body down beside hers and covering her as much as he could without suffocating her.
Her chest deflated in a sigh, and he pushed more of his weight on her, resting his head beside hers.
He turned it to meet her eyes. Hers turned too, and this time, she advanced towards him.
Their noses touched, and something peaceful stayed there. Her eyes closed. His did too.
Nilay had never experienced such peace. Maybe on the swing under his mango tree as a child.
But never after that. Her breaths met his, and his body slowly began to lose its tight grip on staying awake.
It was a workday for him. His mobile had been on silent ever since she had gotten into his car.
He knew it was lighting up from time to time behind him.
Nilay ignored all of it and let sleep pull him in.
“Maasi!”
That voice jolted him up. Ritu was faster, scampering out of the bed and towards the door — “Stay here, don’t come out.”
“How did she come in?” He jumped to reach for his shirt.
“It’s her house, she has keys!” She snarled
“Lock your door next time!” He sneered back, donning his shirt and buttoning it up.
“If she comes in, I will start singing a song from the corridor. Go and hide in the bathroom. And take your belt!”
“You seem to be issuing orders like you have experience hiding men.”
She picked up her duffel bag and threw it at his head. He laughed, thankfully catching it in his hands and realising it was just clothes. Before he could instigate her, she was out of the room, shutting the door behind her.
Nilay looked around himself — he was hiding in a woman’s bedroom! At 41, he, NiP, was hiding inside a woman’s bedroom, waiting for her niece to go away, and plotting what he would do if she came inside and he was caught.
Since he had fallen so far down the rabbit hole, he went completely juvenile.
Nilay padded to the closed door and stuck his ear to the panel. Muffled voices. Just female voices. Thank god Gautam wasn't here. Maya was unhinged enough to buy his excuses or even digest the real one. Gautam… he wasn't too sure.
“…why are there men’s shoes here?”
Nilay winced. Fuck. Idiot.
He got ready to come out and confess when Ritu’s voice stunned him — “They are your neighbour’s.”
Crazy, crazy Doctor. You don’t know how to lie!
“Neighbour’s? Shailesh uncle’s? Maasi, why would Shailesh uncle leave his shoes and socks in this house?”
“Umm… he came this morning and I offered him tea. Then when his wife came home and called him, he went back barefoot.”
“His wife is in Dubai…”
Silence.
Then — “Oh… there was some lady who called him.”
“That must be his girlfriend. Was she short and looked like honeybees had attacked her lips?”
“Yes! Maybe.”
“His girlfriend. Comes to meet him on the weekends when his wife is in Dubai. But shouldn’t we go and tell him to take his shoes…”
“I told him, I told him. He will take them in some time.”
“Are you sure, Maasi?”
“You think I am hiding a man in my bedroom and making up stories?”
Nilay shut his eyes. Don’t bait her, Ritu.
“That would be fun, no?” Maya’s voice sounded closer.
Fuck you, Doctor.
He began to step back, picking up his belt and readying himself to shut inside the bathroom.
“But you and fun are step-sisters, Maasi. And anyway these shoes look like they are Shailesh uncle’s. Very uncle-types.”
Excuse me. Those were custom-made Italian leather loafers she was calling uncle-types.
He fumed. But then their muffled murmurs went farther. He relaxed. And lost interest in their conversation. Nilay flung his belt on the bed and threw himself on her pillow. Since he was shut inside her bedroom, he might as well work. He reached for his phone and thumbed open his messages.
————————————————————
The doorknob rattled and he jumped up.
“Fatela jeb sil jaayega, jo chaahega mil jaayega, rukne ka nahi thakne ka nahi…” Ritu was singing.
Fuck.
He collected his belt and phone and froze on his way to the bathroom as the door flung open.
“Bheja kyu sarkane ka, sahi boltae, sahi boltae…” she burst into the room laughing.
“You are dead.” He threw his belt and phone and dashed. She ran out of the room, screaming. She wasn’t even trying too hard to escape, rattling with mad laughter. He caught her on his first snatch and hitched her up and around, laughing with her until she struggled to be set down.
“You mad! Your heart!” She chided as he set her down.
“As of this morning, my doctor declared my reports are great,” he buried his fingers in the hair on both sides of her head and pressed a kiss to her cheek.
She beamed, did not push away. Her forehead fell on his chin and as the setting sun spread its light through the hall, Nilay stood with her. Soaking it in.
“She left?”
“No, she is hiding in the bathroom.”
He poked her side — “Funny, Doctor.”
She giggled.
“Or should I call you a mavali? You sing like a true tapori.”
“I have my special tapori voice to thank,” she playfully cleared her throat. “Maya and I used to have face-offs all the time.”
“I can attest I have the winner in my arms.”
She raised her brows, looking proud and so lovely.
“What did you do inside for 3 hours?”
“I was shut there for 3 hours?” He reared, pulling back and striding to the bedroom. “I worked, I was typing a message when you scared the living shit out of me.”
He grabbed his phone and walked back out, hitting play on the last audio note from the list his Creative Lead had sent him.
Zara zara, mehekta hai, behekta hai…
Nilay pressed call.
“Hello, hi, NiP!” Jasmeet answered with faux cheer. She knew what was coming.
“What the fuck is this?”
“It’s a…”
“If I wanted a monsoon playlist, I own a Spotify subscription.”
“We are still curating, NiP.”
“And how long does it take to do that?” He eyed the clock.
“NiP… just give us another hour.”
“For another Spotify playlist?”
“No, no, exactly as per your brief. One hour, so sorry…”
“If I don’t have a list of 20 at the top of the next hour, your entire team is sacked. Start scouting jobs on the side.”
He ended the call and pushed his phone into his pocket. He turned, and what met him was Ritu’s raised eyebrows.
“Work.”
“You always talk in ultimatums with your staff?”
“They don’t understand another language.”
“How does your grand brand run?”
“On my talent,” he stepped towards her. “My largess and my…”
“Obnoxiousness,” she completed. “You are a complete Devil Weds Prada.”
“Ritu, my team is brilliant when they want to be. And they want to be brilliant thrice a year — when they are on deadlines before launches. Everything in between is threats, ultimatums and tantrums. They have been scouting the web for 10 Hindi songs about rain. How hard can it be to find that? I generously broadened their brief and included all Indian languages. This is what they sent.”
He hit play.
Tip tip barsa paani…
She sputtered.
“Funny when you are not paying them world-class salaries and perks for this.”
“To be fair, it is a rain song.”
His mouth pursed. He scrolled down his chats and opened the brief he had sent.
He pushed his phone in her face and she giddily reached for it, reading, mumbling under her breath.
“Something about rain but not typical rain, something that has haunting feels but ends with hopeful notes…” Her eyes rose to his. “I pity your team.”
He snatched his mobile back.
“Why do you need rain songs?”
“For my next collection.”
“You said you are not a musical person.”
His heart skipped a beat. She remembered that? Nilay held back his own giddy smile and shook his head. “It’s to create a storyboard for my collection. My Creative Director is working in tandem with me on the campaign as I design.”
“I thought you have a team that designs.”
“I design one capsule collection in a year. The rest are seasonal and led by my team. What you wore today was mine from last April.”
“Ok…” she leaned back on the kitchen island. “Hmm… let’s see. Rain songs from Bollywood that are haunting but hopeful. ‘Bheegi bheegi si hai raatein…’” she hummed.
He had never heard that song before. He shook his head.
“Wait, not in my tapori voice.” She scrolled on her mobile and hit play. The haunting tune filled the hall. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the melody. Words hit and it turned sadder.
Naa jaane koi… kaisi hai yeh zindagani, humari adhoori kahani…
Nilay shook his head. “Not hopeful.”
“Hmm…” her mouth twisted. Adorably. And she began scrolling.
Badal jo aaye haaye…
“No.”
Nahi saamne yeh alag baat hai, mere paas hai tu…
“No.”
“Why?! This is haunting and hopeful both.”
“Not to underscore the entire campaign. Maybe for one piece.”
“You have different songs for different pieces?”
“This time I do. We are creating campaigns around every piece, one story each. 10 pieces, 10 stories, 10 songs.”
“Rains?”
“Rains.”
“And you want 20 songs for 10 campaigns?”
“I want 20 songs to pick from for the underscore of the entire campaign. The 10 comes later.”
Her mouth pursed, her cheeks appearing fuller and so beautiful as she looked at him like he was Hitler incarnate. She went back to her manic playing.
Tum se hi din hota hai… Taal se taal mila… Barso re megha megha…
“Ritu, you are driving me nuts with this. Either play one full song or don’t play.”
“I am searching for you only. Keep quiet.”
“I have an entire team to do that. Let’s do something that is not my work. Want to go to Juhu Beach for a walk?”
“No, wait…” she ignored him, busy playing more scraps.
Nilay sat down on the sofa and observed. It was like being inside the mind of a mad jukebox junky. There was so much they could do — talk, go out to eat, go to Juhu Beach for that sand walking thing. But here they were.
Tu hawa hai, fiza hai, zameen ki nahi… Bhaage re mann kahin
“Stop.”
She glanced up.
“Play the last one again.”
She hit play.
Behta hai mann kahi…
“No, the one before that.”
She frowned, going back. “This is not rain exactly. It’s…”
Tu hawa hai, fiza hai, zameen ki nahi, tu ghata hai toh phir kyon barasti nahi…
He sat up, closing his eyes, listening carefully. He had never heard this song and yet it felt like the cells of his body knew it. As an artist, he knew how pieces of art spoke to you from different mediums. This was one of those. But it spoke to him like it knew him, and he knew it.
He thought of his showstopper piece, Rainforest green, sequins of silver, lilac flowers blooming from the hem of the ghaghra to the waist.
The journey of wind. From the hem of the ghaghra up to the waist, up to the blouse, ending on the bosom. From a tiny cocoon at the start to a butterfly unraveling on the shoulder, moving onto the dupatta. Growth of movement. Symmetry that hid it in plain sight. The constancy of change.
“This one.” His eyes popped open.
And the woman standing in front of him, playing that song on her phone for him, felt like the one. He startled.
“You are weird.”
He blinked, because now she sounded like
the one.
“You briefed your team for a rain song and liked one that is about the wind? You are really weird. I pity your team. I hope their world-class perks are worth your crazy.”
Nilay smiled. Now he knew she was the one.