Chapter 14
I’m not a morning person. It’s not when I’m alive and kicking. I’m not a night owl either. I’m a tweener. A spirit of the daylight hours.
I sometimes wish the day would stretch, like an English summer day, when the sun forgets to set. A series of extended coffee breaks when I could lock into what needed to be done. Today ran out on me like one of those social media stories I forgot to hold.
Each time my thoughts drifted in the direction of the why or what of the affair, someone knocked on my cabin door or I was called into a meeting or there was a public relations person hawking shoelaces.
I wondered if Pooja would’ve been a factor if Meena’s betrayal hadn’t socked me in the gut. I shook my head. Pooja didn’t count because of Ravi. Pooja is the present, I want to say, Andrew is in the past, but I would only be lying to myself. Wounds should be allowed to heal.
I pulled on my running shoes a little after I unlocked the door to my apartment.
I was spruced up in running gear that lined my contours.
I started slowly, but as the conversation of a couple of yesterdays ago with Chhaya turned in my head, my feet picked up pace.
I was pushing without feeling it. My teeth were grinding, and my nostrils flared. It wasn’t for the physical effort.
Did Andrew hit on Meena? Was that where it all started?
Was he the game? The estuary of the affection.
It was a beautiful spring evening, as are most days at this time of year in this city I love to distraction.
The wind was soft, a little wet, and it was constantly rearranging my curls.
I had pushed them back with my mother’s handkerchief (she actually carried that stuff around, beautifully embroidered maybe, but…), which I had converted into a headband.
Why had he done what he had done?
Did the ‘what’ actually matter? A rope I could use to hang myself with.
Why? A million times why.
I had run for more than an hour and stopped only once to take off my running jacket and wrap it around my waist. I stopped again, this time at a roadside stall, one of the many that dot Bengaluru’s undone pavements and bought a bottle of water.
I did a bottoms-up with the 330 ml container and looked around me.
There was nothing familiar. It wasn’t the same tin box I stopped for water at whenever I ran.
I had no idea where I was. I remembered then that I hadn’t taken my usual route.
I probably turned left once I exited the apartment.
I normally turn right and run along the CBD before getting into Cubbon Park and cutting across it.
I had probably run some 10 kilometres, which meant I was in a suburb.
In a sense, learning of their affair was liberating. Strangely so.
I had wondered: What happened to him? To us? We hadn’t broken up; we hadn’t drifted apart. Yet I hadn’t heard from him. I swung back and forth between concern and curiosity until I spotted his next byline. I was tempted to mail him…
I had written a great number of emails, which, until they disappeared, lay in the draft basket of my mailbox.
Dearest Andrew, Dear Andrew, Andrew…
How do you address one who was once a part of you?
I’m one of those creatures who walk around with a shawl or cardigan all day, all year.
That’s the reason I own a running jacket, living in Bengaluru.
I have an aircon blasting inside me. I always feel cold, but Andrew only had to throw an arm around me, and I was instantly warmed. It was the same in spirit.
Then he was gone.
Now I know what happened in that time – those eight years were accounted for.
Not all eight, but I didn’t need a count for the seasons that followed.
Suddenly, the ache gave way to anger that erupted in my head in unfettered waves.
Expletives were flying across my mind like rockets against a dark sky when I heard my name.
‘Myraaaahhhh – aaahh.’ It carried in the evening breeze like a cry.
It came from somewhere behind me. Was it Andrew or was it the wind?
It was blowing a gale. I heard it more than felt it.
I couldn’t stop though I was tiring. My heart was heavy, but my feet kept going.
My nails had bitten into the palms of my hands.
I felt my eyes burning. I wanted to stop, to lean.
I wanted to be held, but it was only the cold embrace of twilight that I was surrounded by.
‘Myraah! Is that you?’
It was him. I slowed down and then nodded into the darkness. I didn’t want to see him.
As I turned, I felt a stiff wind rustling through the branches above me. I sniffed rain and caught a whiff of his fragrance before my eyes found him.
‘You look a mess,’ Andrew said. I remembered I hadn’t taken off my kajal. Or my lipstick even. Dior 999. He was in front of me now and wearing an undecided expression. Like he wanted to smile but wasn’t sure if he should.
I pulled on my jacket. To look less of a mess maybe.
Andrew was the safe haven of my youth, and I was precipitously transported to that time.
I wanted to close the space between us and throw my sweaty self at him, have him hold me forever.
These are thoughts that should have no place in my head, now that I am almost engaged.
Sometimes, though, the past catches up, no matter how hard you run.
‘Th… thaannks,’ I managed.
I wanted to ask him what he was doing there, but I had no idea where I was. I looked around for a sign, a hint, but it was dark and there were no street lights.
Andrew was driving back from a political meeting when he caught my gait.
I was in the opposite direction of the traffic.
I had broken from my run. He drove past thinking I was on my evening stroll (as if I’d ever do something as weak-hearted as an evening walk).
After he’d driven for a kilometre or so, it struck him that I didn’t live in the direction I was headed in.
He took one U-turn and then another and was behind me again.
‘I followed you from a distance, not wanting to intrude. It’s late, there were some men around, I wondered where the hell you were going,’ he said, pointing in the direction of his car.
We started walking towards his car. Sweat was streaming down my face, or was it tears? I noticed a half-constructed wall, and suddenly, I wanted to sit down. I walked ahead of him and perched on it.
I would’ve loved a coffee, but it was too late for that. Something more potent perhaps.
‘That was quite a pace. When did you start running?’ Andrew asked, joining me on the parapet.
‘While you were away,’ I said. I was smiling. I was feeling light-headed. Blame it on the endorphins.
He nodded.
Andrew was always a relaxed presence around me, even in public. He wasn’t stiff, putting a distance, pretending to be indifferent. That was him, Andrew Brown. Remarkably without affectation.
I told him about running, it being my refuge, and also my time with my mother. I nudged him, tickling his ribs, and told him he was intruding. He bowed in mock apology.
Everything was forgotten. I was living in the moment. The credo of a pop psychologist who never lived.
I had made peace with the world. Had Meena passed me now, I would’ve jumped up and enveloped her in a hug.
‘How much do you run? Miles?’
‘Depends,’ I said, looking at my watch to check the distance. ‘A little over 12 kilometres.’ I stressed the measure as a reminder that he was in India and not the United States.
‘About eight miles,’ he said, refusing to budge. We played these little games. A word here, a point there. Mental Monopoly.
‘You don’t listen to music when you run?’
‘No. Not most times at least. It’s a prop people use to take them a little further. One more song. A bubbly beat. A distraction to fatigue or boredom. I just want to be with my thoughts… and my mother.’
I didn’t have a target, and the music of my life would suffice.
He nodded.
‘Besides, I don’t run such great distances.’
‘I’m not sure this is a good idea. I don’t think it’s safe,’ he said, suddenly, looking at his watch. It was close to 9 p.m.
‘Five more minutes,’ I said, tugging at his sleeve. Had I drummed up that ready-to-eat empire idea, it would’ve been plated in five minutes. That’s my pace.
Andrew turned and looked behind the wall, using his phone as a torch.
‘Why are you here, Andrew?’
He turned instantly. His gaze met mine.
‘Not right here, but here in Bengaluru, in Morning Herald?’
Put like that, the sum had a whole different look.
‘Why did you decide to come back?’
‘Family.’
Blood is thicker perhaps than those connections that run their course. Reasons and seasons.
‘There was the house,’ Andrew said, ‘I could’ve done all that online.’
I nodded. It had nothing to do with me.
A sharp evening drift swept past us, clearing the space between us.
‘How many times I called and messaged. You could’ve told me you wanted to be alone. I would’ve understood,’ Andrew said finally.
‘Really, Andrew? Did I need to tell you that?’
His eyes were clouded. ‘I thought it was rejection,’ he said. He was looking down at his palms. ‘You, too?’
Why would he feel rejected? And why me, too? Because Meena dumped him not once but twice?
‘You didn’t want to have anything to do with me,’ he said.
I wanted to remind him that I had just lost my mother in a way nothing in the world would’ve ever prepared me for, but he put his hand up for right of way.
‘With Noelene gone too…’ he said, shaking his head, ‘I was alone, all alone in this world, without a next of kin. I had no one.’
Yet he had returned to Bengaluru, India, chosen to work in Morning Herald, because of family that did not exist.
Andrew turned away, looking into the darkness.
I felt the hollow within him.
Andrew didn’t bring up my asking him to go. He hadn’t forgotten; it was deliberate.
‘Myraah.’ He breathed my name. ‘Believe me, please.’
Andrew and Meena and now Andrew and Pooja. The wind was playing havoc with my nerves. I wanted to run; I wanted control of my senses at least.
Andrew exhaled.
I was on my feet, and Andrew followed. I motioned towards where his car was parked, and he followed me.
He held the door open and waited for me to get in before following suit. I noticed a bottle of water in a side pocket. I took a swig and spat it out.
I sank into the seat and threw a glance around me before determinedly engaging my mind with the interiors.
Andrew’s car wasn’t one of those flashy vehicles, even though his salary would allow for that.
It was a mid-range sedan, but it was prized, I could tell, just by the way he put the car in gear and let it glide before he stepped on the accelerator.
I wondered how much it cost and then looked around me again.
There was a pen drive, an unopened box of Marlboro Gold and a lighter on the ridge that divided the front seats.
We were quiet for a while, and then I exhaled.
‘Why didn’t you reply to my messages?’ My tone was casual.
‘What messages?’ he asked. He was smiling.
‘My messages to you, Andrew. I sent you two of them.’
‘You never messaged, you never communicated; you just let me fly away like a kite and then cut the thread.’
‘I had messaged you, Andrew. How could I not?’ We’re only separated by the physical miles. I love you, and I know you love me.
Andrew pulled up at a dimly lit side road and turned off the ignition. I didn’t have to tell him that was how I had signed off my first message.
‘Messages… two…’ He had turned and was staring out of the window. The night was dark, and I was beginning to see the light.
Please reply, if only to say you’re doing okay. That was how my 203-word second message had ended. My body still recoiled at the memory of the day I wrote it; the pain had permeated down to my bones.
‘I never saw those messages, Myraah.’ He grabbed my arms and was shaking me. ‘They never reached me.’
I could still see the blue ticks.
‘Are you sure you sent them to…’ His fingers tightened around my arms. I didn’t flinch. ‘You did send them to me?’
Andrew and I both chose not to mention Meena, for different reasons. I wanted him to tell me about that relationship, only because those are the norms for trade.
I was sure, though, that Andrew hadn’t seen my messages. Meena had deleted them. I was sure of that.