Chapter 16
I sat heavily at the breakfast table Ravi had picked for us. There was a lot on my mind; most of it was Andrew-related.
Were Sudha’s sources right? Was he going to quit? It had nothing to do with me, which was an issue by itself.
Andrew either wanted to up and go because this wasn’t what he bargained for or was being pushed into a corner as Soor had asserted.
I was leaning towards the former only because of where it came from, but who’s to say?
It was like looking into a kaleidoscope, disjointed bits of a story floating around, parts of which I recognized.
That Andrew had no idea I had messaged him had crept up on me like a snake. Poison.
What kind of a relationship were Meena and Andrew in?
How deep was their love if his phone was with her? If she knew the passwords to his phone?
My airways felt constricted. I needed air.
Andrew had given up on us only a few months after he left Bengaluru.
Ravi reached across the table and squeezed my hand. I returned the squeeze, exhaling. Divinity was in the pacific.
My mind wouldn’t stop going back. Each time I managed to drag it forward, it found a way back. I could feel the surge of emotion; it was showing in my eyes. I could tell.
What brought Andrew back to Bengaluru? Or rather, who?
I wanted to stop these questions because they did not matter. I was almost engaged. I had finally found some peace after my mother’s death and Andrew’s hasty exit from my life.
Closure is not for all things and everyone. Sometimes, you just move on.
My head was spinning, and Ravi was smiling as he always does when we meet. It made me want to smile, too, but all that I could manage this morning was a half-hearted response.
We weren’t at our usual 11 a.m. coffee-break table. We were early, but our spot was taken by two men in slick business suits. House rules ignored. I grumbled to Ravi, who contributed to the charade with no more than an eye-roll.
We don’t do breakfasts; we meet for lunch or dinner whenever possible. But that mid-morning coffee break is our time.
When Ravi called last evening, asking if we could meet for coffee, I suggested breakfast, and he readily agreed.
My body didn’t need nourishment until midday most of the time.
I drink gallons of water, have fruit – an apple or guava – and a mug of black coffee with a splash of milk, and I’m good most mornings.
I save the egg my father fries for me for dinner.
Lately, however, I’ve been experiencing hunger pangs early in the day.
That’s why I suggested breakfast. It might have something to do with my running, which I was becoming increasingly regular with.
We hadn’t decided on a place, maybe because we didn’t need to. Ravi offered to pick me up at 10 a.m., giving me fair room to drop my bags in office.
‘I want to eat their blueberry waffles,’ Ravi had said as soon as I settled down in his car. He hadn’t even greeted me.
‘Someone is hungry.’ I was speaking for myself, too, and this was after I had already gobbled a two-egg omelette.
‘They must be the only people on the planet who make it without any added sugar or sweetener. The moment you said, “Why not breakfast”, I knew what I was going to order.’ Ravi was beaming.
The food arrived at the table almost as soon as we settled down, and quite a spread it was. The plump walnut and raisin waffles with maple syrup and a fluffy egg-white omelette, condiments and a large breadbasket.
Ravi was digging into his food the moment it was placed on the table. He was obviously ravenous. I was shifting my plate around, wondering where to start, waiting for my coffee to arrive.
Were they still picking the beans?
It was 10.40 a.m., and I couldn’t put another morsel in my mouth without coffee. I also wanted a bite of the waffles, which I feared I was never going to taste, given the pace at which Ravi was polishing his plate. There were four pieces, and he had already eaten two of them.
I waved at the waiter and mouthed coffee when I noticed a familiar figure walking into the restaurant.
He was a step or two behind a waitress, who appeared to be struggling with her footwear.
The light was on him so I couldn’t tell for sure, but the gait was Andrew’s.
The build was Andrew’s. And so was the face.
What was he doing here? I was smiling; no, I wasn’t.
Andrew spotted me almost as soon as I laid eyes on him and walked over.
I tried to apprise Ravi of Andrew’s arrival with my eyes, but he was so focused on his food, clanging cutlery on crockery, that nothing short of a full-throated yell, which would’ve invited the whole room to join the party, would’ve got his attention.
Fortunately for me, just before Andrew joined us at the table, my coffee arrived.
Ravi was quick with his appreciation, as always, glancing at my plate and adding, ‘My girlfriend will finally eat something.’ If I hadn’t stopped breathing, I would’ve laughed out loud.
He was so busy with his food, clumping the waffle with cream and syrup, I could’ve fainted and he wouldn’t have known.
This was the first time he had positioned himself as my boyfriend in public.
Andrew, who was standing a little behind the waitress, had suddenly stopped smiling.
I picked up the cup and took a sip. I let the liquid trickle down my throat. I needed to take charge. Introductions were in order.
‘Ravi, this is Andrew Brown, our political editor, and, Andrew, this is Ravi Rao.’ This is where I should’ve stopped.
Ravi had the advantage of knowing about Andrew, who he was, and even if only partially, what he had meant to me.
Andrew had no idea about Ravi, who he was in my life, and that is not my problem.
But my mouth was opening and closing on its own, speaking because it had to. ‘He is Hari Rao’s grandson,’ I said.
‘You two are dating?’ Andrew asked, pointing at Ravi and me.
‘Andy, is it?’ Ravi asked, standing up to shake Andrew’s hand.
‘Andrew,’ he returned. There was no smile to soften the correction.
Ravi’s expression dimmed, and I wanted to dive under the table.
This wasn’t about Ravi, despite how it appeared.
Andrew had steadfastly refused to subscribe to shortening names, which was a pastime of sorts in Bengaluru.
Like picnics and board games. Anita is Ani and Anil is Anu.
It’s that micro. I was Myra or Baby or Bubbs, to him, never ‘Mai’, which is what I’m called most times.
I didn’t protest the rechristening, but Andrew has always been vocal about it.
I remember him cutting off a classmate when he called him AB.
Even before the fellow was out of earshot, he was ranting, ‘It’s like people here don’t have the bandwidth for more than two or three letters. ’
‘I’m pushing for an engagement,’ Ravi said, placing his hand on mine.
Not only was the announcement unnecessary, but it was also against his grain. We hadn’t spoken about keeping our relationship quiet only because that’s what both of us wanted. At least until such time that it was formalized.
Andrew smiled.
Just as he opened his mouth to say something, another man, a politician type, tapped Andrew on the shoulder. Whatever else the dolled-in-yellow-metal political aspirant may or may not have been, he was the messiah of face-saving timing.
I was seated beside Andrew at a resto-bar some 10 hours later. The sound system was hurting my ears, a welcome distraction for a change.
I was getting ready to swipe out when Andrew asked if we could get a drink.
I could’ve bought myself some much-needed time, saying I was meeting Chhaya or my dad or my kitchen counter at that particular hour, but I thought I owed it to him.
Correction, I owed him nothing. But this was not how I had wanted him to find out about Ravi. I’d wanted to be the one to tell him.
It had been an awkward 10-minute walk from Morning Herald Towers. Our mute commute drowned out the deafening evening traffic.
Andrew disappeared to get us drinks as soon as we dropped our bags.
How had this day ended up the way it had? Even if it wasn’t going to plan, the morning had been rescued somewhat when the coffee finally arrived on my table. But that was before my eyes clapped on Andrew Brown. Or was it a storm?
My phone pinged. It was Ravi. Home?
Office. I lied and dropped the phone into my bag.
I didn’t have a clue where my personal life was headed. Only a few months ago, there was an order, which I may not have fully embraced but was beginning to accept. I was at peace, or so I thought.
There was a reason for this steadfast refusal to look at where Ravi stood in my life, what he meant to me. I was searching, digging, reaching, but try as I did, I couldn’t go beyond friend.
Had it always been this way?
In the past, each time I felt a tug or was confronted with the question about Ravi, of where he stood in my life, I was sure it would pan out eventually. The candle I held for Andrew would die, and I would get on with my life.
Initially, when I was going to bed and waking up with thoughts of Andrew, bookending my days with the memories we had made, I let me be.
It was understandable, given how things had ended or been left to dry.
Some eight years later, when Andrew walked into my den, I told myself it was finally endgame.
This wasn’t closure though – far from it.
This was stirring-to-life feelings, emotions that should’ve been dealt with and laid to rest long ago.
Why was I having a drink with a man who hadn’t had the minimum decency to end what we shared before hooking up with my friend? Then, having gone right ahead and played that game, he hadn’t bothered to tell me about it. I had to hear it from her.
My face must’ve looked a mess because Andrew raised his brow questioningly.
When my gaze met his, I saw a reflection of what had to be my own expression.