These Lies Between Us

Chapter 1

The fault in my stars.

ADITYA

“Dammit, Priya. Why won’t you listen to me? Rephrasing the same question will not change my answer.” I slam my fist on her desk, the frustration with this back and forth boiling over.

She flinches and steps back. I squirm, watching her clutch the papers close to her chest. Damn my inner monsters. I have no right to unleash them on her. Ashamed of my actions, I bury my face in my hands.

“Priya, I am so sorry.” I blurt out a pathetic apology.

“Why can’t you understand? How do you expect me to be a part of this... this con act?” She counters.

When I am done rubbing my eyes, I find her glaring at me. “No. Look.” I raise my hands, palms facing her. “All I am asking for is a little grey so that someone's life has a chance to find colours.” I plead, choking at the thought of how I have blackened Shalini’s life.

“What you are asking is a ridiculous stunt.” She shakes her head, dismayed at my words.

“Why? Don’t People use ghost writers?” The desperation seeps out in my voice.

“You are being ridiculous. Ghost writing is different from what you're trying to pull off.”

“How? People hire experts to write for them and seldom acknowledge the real writers. The industry accepts them. Why not me? All I am asking is to flip the roles. Think beyond the paradigm.”

“Gah. Be reasonable. Your novel is a matchstick away from blowing people’s minds. Book bloggers will clamour for your interviews. What about all the book signings? The world would want to put a face to your writing. A real face.” She pauses for a bit. “Aditya, you may be the next Anish.”

“Are you nuts?” I pinch the bridge of my nose.

We won't make any headway if we keep sparring.

I glance at my mobile. Shit! It is already 1pm.

My train leaves at four, giving me only fifteen more minutes to sort this out before my lunch meeting.

I take a deep breath, adjust my glasses, and smile.

Yes, stubborn people have been known to wilt under my charm.

“Is this how your marketing team wants to play?”

I sweep my hand across my reasonable five-foot-nine-inch stocky frame.

“Where do you see the resemblance?” Anish is a lithe giant, and his boyish face with thick, wavy hair would turn heads even without fame.

I wear thick-rimmed glasses and struggle to rein in my tummy in my pants.

Priya waves me off and settles on her chair across from me.

I ignore her eye roll. “And he writes deep, well-researched genre-bending mythological science fiction. My book is a contemporary romance.”

“The genre may differ, but your narration is intriguing, eloquent, and immerses the reader. And you, of all people, should not slap labels on your work.” She dares me to counter her with a glare.

It’s now my turn for an eye roll. She leaves me no choice. I must give her a glimpse of my worries.

“I have taken my first step out of the closet. Only you, Shalini, and Jatin are aware.”

And Col. Wilfred, but he doesn't talk, so there is no risk of tattling to the media from him.

“Heck, even I did not accept my attraction to men till a few years ago.” I turn and gaze out of the glass facade.

Priya's office in the outer circle of Rajiv Chowk has a great view.

From a floor above the canopies of trees, the orange contrast of Gulmohar's in full bloom adds a vibrant hue to the greens.

“I can't come out to the world. Shalini has only begun to recover from our divorce.

I can't thrust this on her and cause her more hurt than I already have. She needs time to rebuild. We both need space to sort our lives. Announcing my sexuality to the world will ruin everything.” And break my promise to her.

“What do you want to do?” Priya's voice softens. “I am your agent and will always support you. But at least give my suggestion a thought.”

I ignore her plea. “Like I said. This is only a reversal of the ghost-writing model. We use a proxy. I am, as it is, writing under a pen name. We pay a part of my royalty to someone the media would eat up. A smart guy with a decent mug who is already out and proud. We contract them to market the book.”

“You are ridiculous. How do you plan to pull off this con act?” Priya huffs and shoos me off with a wild wave of her hand.

I cringe at Priya’s use of the phrase. Should all deceptions be clubbed under one bracket and dumped in the waste bins of sin?

Is there no room for lying for a worthy cause?

Yudhistra lied in the Mahabharata. Once.

His distortion of facts brought Dronacharya down and paved the way for the defeat of the evil Kauravas.

What I suggest will not cause a war or harm any human.

I am buying time for Shalini, giving her the space to stand on her feet.

“Consider this for a moment: a whole trope of fake relationships exists in novels and films. We can sign a non-disclosure and a legal contract. Once I am comfortable with my sexuality, we can clear things.”

I study Priya's face. The manicured index finger tapping on her chin raises my hope. She is hovering on the fence, so I add a layer of icing, “And when we reveal my identity, the book may find a second wind. The world loves a scandal.”

“Where will we find such a person?” She rests her hands on the table.

Ah, the break I needed. Priya is on board. “How much time do we have?”

She turns to her laptop and taps on the keyboard. “Your editing schedule doesn't start till November, so you have five months. Add two cycles of edits over another two to three months, followed by the cover design. Once we finalise the cover, I won't be able to hold back the marketing team.”

“Give me three months, and I will find someone.” I offer my hand to Priya. We shake on our agreement, and I walk out of her office with a smile. Gosh, what a relief!

***

Go inside or walk away? My feet are stuck on the cemented floor while my mind debates over what awaits me beyond this door. Frustration? Some more angry words? Another round of tears will find their way between Shalini and me. At least the screaming has stopped.

Buck up, Aditya. You cooked this dish, so you got to munch and swallow.

Inflicting pain by flogging myself again before old cuts heal has become second nature, but I need to do this. I need to keep meeting Shalini at frequent intervals.

But for what? To overcome my guilt? To move on?

Shalini and I need to cleanse ourselves of our past to make a new life.

Jatin's words from breakfast poke me. 'Make a clean break.

You are turning your divorce into a festering wound.

' Does he not understand? I cannot walk away after slashing and creating this laceration in our lives.

I am the one who must soothe and heal the gash.

I take a final deep inhale before pushing open the heavy wooden door to the Burmese restaurant.

One more step on this long road. Shalini sits at a corner table, her head resting on her hand, her eyes forlorn and vacant.

The serpent of guilt wriggles and tightens its grip on my heart.

Jatin may be right; despite my best efforts, remorse lingers on my soul like the lint on a coat.

“Hi,” my voice startles Shalini from her brooding. My lips droop at the longing eyes studying my face. I clear my throat. “How have you been?” I regret the words as soon as I utter them.

She does not waste the opportunity. “How should I be?”

I squeeze my eyes shut and sigh. “I know I have hurt you. But months have passed; we need to move on.”

“Yeah. More than a year. But what about the ten years before? What part of my life should I believe?” She pours her hurt into every word. “Aditya, did I... did I turn you gay? Was there something wrong with me?” She dabs the corner of her eye with her handkerchief.

“No, Shalini. Please...” I stutter, trying to find words to soothe the burn evident in her voice. Hands clutching the chair, I try again. “No one turns anyone gay. It’s a truth that lies here.” I place my palm on my chest.

Shalini’s tearful eyes turn accusatory, but I ward her off. “Sometimes those feelings are hard for us to acknowledge. Social expectations browbeat us to live in denial or hide.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but I stop her with my hand. “I am guilty of hiding behind my internalised homophobia. No matter what I do or say, I cannot return those years to you. But I will be there to support you however I can.”

“Will you stand against my friends who question me about our relationship? What should I tell them when they ask what went wrong? How will you ward off those mocking eyes and sneers when the truth comes out about your sexuality? Can you fight off everyone who scoffs at our divorce?” Tears well up in her eyes, marking a fresh gash on my heart.

“Come on, Shalini. You know we were at the edge of a cliff. We went from lovers to bickering roommates.”

“Were we ever lovers?” She challenges me. A few heads turn at her rising tone.

“Fair enough.” I raise my hands in surrender. There are no ready-made answers. Anything I say will only agitate her more. So I deflect. “How is your new teaching gig?”

There is no point in repeating the same narrative over and over.

What is done is done. Yes, I faked my sexuality for ten years and lived through marriage, cocooned in the convenience of a straight-passing relationship.

I am the most selfish 'p' in the world. No amount of cuss words hurled at me since coming out can change these facts.

The fear, denial, and confusion I fought every day of the past decade are outweighed by my lie.

Shalini studies me for a while before answering, “The school is okay. The kids are great, though.” A smile lights up her face. Once we gave up on having a kid, she started working with children in our local school, using her master’s in education.

The infertility treatments were torture.

Shalini bore the brunt of the pain, disappointment, and meddling relatives.

Sometimes I wonder if the decision to stop wanting a child was the final shove propelling me out of the closet.

Sex had become a chore, performed and timed at the doctor’s instructions.

“Ah, kindergarten and nursery kids are adorable. Have they settled now? How do you deal with thirty crying and cranky kids throwing tantrums?”

“Hmm, the first few months are tough, but things calm down once they settle into the school routine.”

“What do you want to eat?” I push the menu to her, not allowing space for the past to creep into our lunch meeting.

She flips through the menu. “I will have the Burmese pepper soup and the tangy spring vegetable buns. What about you? Order something different. We can share.”

My chest tightens at the idea of sharing. We used to share our meals at dine-outs. We were once friends, if not lovers.

“I will have the Lotus root salad.”

“Only a salad?” She questions my choice.

“Err, trying to maintain my weight.”

“There is nothing wrong with you. Besides, you are now living in the hills. All the incline walking should be enough to burn the calories.”

“Yeah, but I stopped running.” Another thing we used to do together. How much has my life changed with one truth? Before walking down memory lanes overwhelms me, I wave to the waiting staff to place our order.

“How is the house? Did you find a tenant?” As part of the divorce settlement, I offered my parental two-story home to her. She resisted the offer, but the sprawling bungalow shut her father’s and relatives’ mouths.

“Yeah, a couple with a bank lease moved in last month. The ground floor, though, is still too big for me.”

Great. At least she has some financial security. A private primary school teacher's salary is not much. While we wait for the food, we talk about tenants and housekeeping work, filling in the silences that have crept into our relationship. Careful to skirt around any relics of our past.

“How about you? Settled in your new home.” Shalini asks, as the server places our order.

“Yeah. The house is big for me too. But the cottage is pretty. You should come to visit during your summer holidays. Jatin and Jasmeet can join us.”

“Do you think visiting you is a good idea? You and me?” Shalini keeps her soup spoon down.

“Shalini, can’t we be friends? Our past is muddied now, but we did share some beautiful moments.” I reach out and touch her hand.

She studies our joined hands for a few seconds before withdrawing. “Friends?”

I sense the hurt in her words, but smile nonetheless at the progress. We have gone thirty minutes without raising our voices or crying. In the companionable silence, we settle into finishing our meal. I pay, and we leave together.

“What the hell?” I grab the door, but someone jerks my collar.

“Papa, what are you doing here?” Shalini tries to unclasp her father's hold on my shirt. “Don't create a scene here. Leave Aditya.”

With her help, I extricate myself from my ex-father-in-law. For a sixty-year-old portly man, he has a death grip. He lunges at me, but Shalini gets in between.

“Why are you protecting this cheat?” Mr Tribhuvan shouts, attracting the attention of other patrons and staff. “I will find out what you were up to behind my daughter's back. You can fool Shalini and the courts, but not me.” The man waves his finger in my face, side-stepping Shalini.

“Papa. Enough! Go out and wait for me.” She points him to the door.

I clench my fists, desperate to tell him the truth, but Shalini's silent plea through the shake of her head forces me to shut my mouth.

“One more year,” She says in a hushed voice, watching her father leave before turning to face me. “Let me settle things with them.”

Her tear-filled eyes puncture the anger bristling inside me.

During our divorce, I protested against keeping things a secret, but I caved to her request after her family became violent.

Her father and brother had stormed our house and wrecked the living room.

If I kept my sexuality hidden from the world for over a decade, what are a few more years?

This is the least I can do for all the years she lost.