8 Blast from the Past
Blast from the Past
E ven though i had spent most of my life in Delhi, save for the two years I lived in Bangalore to do my post-graduation, I hadn’t managed to pick up some of the key tactics and habits Delhiites were known for.
I couldn’t, for example, eat chaat off the streets without spending the entirety of the next morning in the loo.
I couldn’t hurl abuses at every motorcycle driver who cut in front of my car while I drove.
And I couldn’t, for the life of me, bargain.
‘Bhaiya, give me a fair price,’ said Vrinda as she ran her hand over the red silk fabric.
‘I called you shishter, didn’t I? I would never try to deceive you,’ said the man with a thin moustache, sounding incredibly earnest.
We were in a sari shop in the bustling market of Lajpat Nagar, where I had been forced into helping Vrinda source fabrics for her mother’s boutique.
This was the seventh store we had visited this afternoon, and I’d warned my friend I wasn’t willing to come out of it empty-handed.
It was surprisingly less crowded than some of the other shops, even though it had an air-conditioner to give customers some relief from the dreadful heat outside.
I sipped on my cola bottle with a straw as the two of them continued to bicker in good humour.
‘Can you show me some material for the blouse?’ V asked, shelving the bargaining for later.
‘Shishter, give me five minutes. I have the perfect blouse for this piece, but it’s in Chacha’s shop,’ the man said, hopping off the display platform.
‘We’re in a hurry,’ she said, even though we both knew we were going to be here for a while.
‘I’ll be back before you know it.’ He was already out the door.
There was no other helper in the shop, so we were left alone to chat. V reached out for the AC remote and lowered the temperature to 16 degrees, flapping the neckline of her cotton kurta to dry the sweat pooling on her chest.
‘Mom is going to flip if I don’t finish this off today,’ she said, taking the soda bottle from me for a sip.
‘How are the outfits coming along for that elaborate wedding?’ I enquired.
‘Don’t ask.’
‘That bad, huh?’ I asked, patting her shoulder lightly.
‘It’s just that this couldn’t have come at a worse time. You know we were just about to relocate,’ she said, stress-gulping the sugary drink she usually stayed away from. ‘The interior decorator also bailed on us.’
‘I’m sure you’ll find another one as soon as you’re done with this project,’ I said, consoling her.
‘No, I don’t think we’re looking. Now Mom wants to do it in-house,’ she said, then added, ‘which means it’ll fall on me.’
Vrinda was a smart girl, and she had a phenomenal eye for fashion.
But when it came to channelling those design capabilities into space and architecture, she struggled.
Her room, for example, was full of artworks, handicrafts, dreamcatchers and odd mementos from her many travels and adventures.
It was like a gallery wall, but instead of being organised into one structure for effect, it was scattered all over – like children’s toys in a community play school.
‘You’ll figure it out,’ I said, hoping I sounded sincere.
‘Actually …’ she said, placing the bottle on the wooden plank we were sitting on, ‘I was hoping you’d do it.’
The door jingled as a customer stepped inside, looking around to find someone to help her. She was carrying at least five huge shopping bags, all from different shops and brands. When no one jumped to assist her, she swiftly turned on her heel and left.
‘Me? I can help you, but I can’t do it all—’
‘Please? You’re so much better at that stuff than me. Plus, you’re always on Pinterest looking up inspiration that you never get to use,’ she said.
‘Hey! I do use them – for my events,’ I said, puffing up my chest.
V cocked her head to one side. ‘Really? When was the last time you designed a space for an event?’
She was right. The designing had gone out the window when we began outsourcing logistics a few years ago. Now my job mostly consisted of supervising the process and managing the guest list. Not that I was complaining – it was way less stressful.
‘I have a job, V. Where am I going to find the time?’ I asked, trying to reason with her.
‘You can just tell me the things you need, and I’ll source them for you on weekdays. And on weekends, you can put it all together,’ she said, and before I could respond, she added, ‘I’ll pay you!’
I stared at her, taken aback.
‘I meant, I don’t expect you to do it for free … it’s a professional, paid project.’
‘Then hire a professional to do it.’ I was cross, and she knew it.
I never liked discussing money with V, not only because we had considerably different financial backgrounds, but also because she couldn’t understand why it bothered me.
Like two years ago, when she had turned twenty-five, she wanted to take a girls’ trip to Vietnam.
When I told her I didn’t have the funds for it, she offered to sponsor me.
She didn’t speak to me for two weeks after I turned her down.
It hadn’t always been like this. When we were kids, our differences didn’t take up so much space in our lives.
We shared everything. We would swap clothes, lend each other books and video games and even trade our prized Pokémon cards, blurring the lines between what was hers and what was mine.
Yet as we got older, things changed. She would spend her summer vacations travelling to Europe and Australia, while I stayed home and waited for her to return.
Every birthday, she would shower me with expensive gifts, and on hers, I’d try to overcompensate for my pitiable budget with handmade scrapbooks.
Once, during a school fundraiser, she effortlessly sold twice as many raffle tickets as me, tapping into her family’s extensive social network, while I struggled to meet my modest quota.
These instances, though seemingly minor, began to serve as constant reminders of the growing gap between us.
‘Come on, at least think about it?’ she said, pleading with her eyes.
I was saved from the pressure of responding when the shopkeeper returned, panting from his journey.
‘Here, shishter. Look at this golden beauty,’ he said, climbing the platform so he could sit in front of us.
V spent a few minutes fussing over the texture of the fabric before finalising her purchase. The bargaining that followed resembled the 2008 Wimbledon final between Rafael Nadal and Roger Federer. In the end, V scored the final point, taking the trophy home.
Outside, we stopped at a sweetcorn stall to pick up a snack. We hadn’t said much to each other since she’d offered to employ me, and I desperately wanted to make the weirdness go away.
‘I’ll do it,’ I said, handing a hundred-rupee note to the street vendor in exchange for two criminally small cups of buttered sweetcorn.
Before she could erupt into a fit of excitement, I continued, ‘But I’m not taking money for it. At best, you can give me a Zara gift card.’
V flashed a bright smile at me, clinking her paper cup with mine. We discussed how to kick-start the process as we walked back to the main road, where her chauffeur-driven BMW awaited us. The driver held the door open for us both as we got into the backseat.
‘By the way,’ V said when we were on our way, ‘I have some news about him .’
The way she said it left me with little doubt about who the person in question was.
V followed he-who-must-not-be-named, aka my ex, on Instagram to give me life updates about him – although only when absolutely necessary.
I’d blocked him everywhere, knowing I couldn’t stand the heartache of seeing him live his life, sans me.
But that didn’t mean I couldn’t still keep tabs on him.
‘He’s got a girlfriend … some white chick called Juliette.’
Juliette, really?
‘I see,’ I said, trying very hard to block the pang of jealousy I was feeling.
‘Honestly, she’s not even that pretty,’ V said, her kind eyes searching my face for any sign of despair.
‘I don’t care. It’s been forever,’ I said, but we both knew I didn’t mean it.
It’s not that I wasn’t over him. I knew I didn’t want him back – not in this life, not even in another. But I found it hard to shake off the pain he’d left me with.
‘Do you want to see the post? It might give you some kind of closure,’ V said, placing a hand on mine.
‘Oh God, no. That’s a terrible idea. You’ve seen it and I know about it, that’s enough,’ I said, my mouth falling open in horror.
‘Okay, Annie,’ she said quietly.
The car ride to V’s house felt longer than it should have. She changed the topic soon after she realised I didn’t want to talk about him, but I was distant, my mind elsewhere.
‘What’s happening on the dating front? Swiped on a new cutie?’ she asked, infusing her voice with cheerfulness.
This would’ve been a good time to tell her about The Bet.
I want to say I wasn’t sure why I didn’t tell her, but that would be a lie.
I knew exactly why it was hard for me to come clean to V about something like this.
She’d tell me it was a stupid idea, one that would almost certainly end in disaster.
She wouldn’t understand the kick it had given me, and how I was determined to find a partner, even if it was to experience some fabricated feeling of victory.
And now, I had two people to beat – my original contender and the man who had broken my heart three years ago, who was now playing Romeo to someone else.
After aggressively swiping for three days, I realised I was going about this the wrong way.
I was looking for a pool of cute, intelligent and eligible guys when the truth was I’d already interacted with most of them during my online dating career.
Not only had I met and turned down hundreds of guys, but I’d also ghosted countless others without giving them a fair chance.
It was time, I decided, to dig into the archives.