Chapter 30 #2
‘I’m scared that if I stay, I will get reeled in, and before long, I will be running on sensibility instead of sense,’ I said. ‘I’m going to Mumbai because I made a commitment.’
‘It’s not either/or, Myra; it doesn’t need to be. What you and Andrew have is not common. How can someone as smart as you not see that?’
There was a man during Chhaya’s MBA days, an older brother of a batchmate.
Her parents objected to the relationship.
I don’t know why, but I think it was because he was considered a loser.
He didn’t marry, and she hasn’t spoken about him since.
More than anyone I knew, Chhaya lived and didn’t.
Her laughter boomed, but there was a hollow silence to it if you listened carefully enough.
‘Why don’t you talk to him about it? Bring up the apology?’ We were like birds circling over the same spot; only, there was no weather phenomena to take advantage of.
‘It’s not a question that should be asked. It’s not a question that needs a verbal answer, because if that’s how he felt, I would’ve known even if he didn’t spell it out.’
Apologies are transparent.
‘I don’t know how to say this, Myra. I’m not a writer, and I can’t say it like you do, but I know feelings and emotions. I have a heart, and it was once broken for no one’s fault. All I can tell you is that there’s love and there’s L-O-V-E.’
She was angry, I could see that, but at least she had the grace to smile since she was returning my description of what Andrew and I had once shared.
Chhaya and I were chatting about Ravi over breakfast a few years ago.
I had told her I liked what I had with Ravi because it didn’t challenge me emotionally, it was comfortable.
I had deducted that neither Ravi nor I had wanted more on that front.
My friend wondered aloud if I was settling, to which I told her, ‘There’s love, Chhaya, and there’s L-O-V-E.
’ She had looked at me kindly, as if I had lost my marbles.
I didn’t extend an explanation. I knew she’d figure it out once she allowed herself to digest it.
‘Don’t do this, Myra, please.’
I looked away from Chhaya. My tears rolled into my coffee cup.
‘Okay then, go to Mumbai, honour your fucking commitment,’ she said. ‘I’m not buying your “I’m scared” line. You’re one of the toughest women I know, Myra Rai, and I know some.’
I didn’t want to remind my friend that tough people make titanic sacrifices to not let the cracks show. Chhaya Mehta had excelled in that department.
I missed Andrew more than I missed anything or anyone in Bengaluru.
A void I was finding increasingly difficult to fill.
I missed our coffees, which I had unfortunately reacquainted myself with; I missed our exchanges, our talks, which were now without the boundaries of family.
His. I missed him chauffeuring me around.
I loved sitting in his car, his fragrance engulfing me, cushioning me.
I missed the brush of our hands, the reassurance I got when our eyes met in a room full of people.
I missed his gait, the way he covered the editorial floor with a few lithe steps.
It was amatory. I missed the way he works.
I missed our strolls on MG Road. I missed the way he pushed me as a writer, forcing me to reach for more.
The disdain with which he brushed aside my half-baked ideas without so much as saying a word.
His brow shot up. Really, Rai? it asked.
He critiqued my work, but he was also my professional armchair. I could rest on him.
I’ve checked my mail any number of times, thinking there would be something, anything, for me.
From him. An offer of friendship, a dinner date.
An understanding. Continuance. I’ve reached for my phone with a legitimate doubt almost every day.
There was so much to ask him, talk to him about, but I didn’t dial or mail or message.
That wouldn’t win me a Pulitzer for non-fiction, but it should for resilience.
I had only once asked Chhaya how Andrew was doing, and she had returned my question with one of her own.
‘Why?’
‘Just,’ I had said.
She changed topics.
I’m not sure if I deserved any better.
I think I started running to get away from Andrew, give myself something to do rather than read a piece he had written and let my head and heart wander.
Running gave my day the push it sorely needed, but the more I ran and the further I got, the more my mind determinedly raced in the direction of Andrew.
I tried listening to music to distract me – Adele, Beyoncé, Justin Timberlake and Taylor Swift.
I even threw one of my mother’s favourites in, Kenny Rogers.
Nothing worked, so I tried bawdy Bollywood numbers, which appeared to serve the purpose for a while until they sparked my nerves.
Why couldn’t I just forget what happened, bury the hatchet and give it a go? I had run too many miles to add ‘fresh start’.
The image of the destruction I caused at his apartment came before me. The look in his eyes, a plea.
I had gone off my beaten track, and I was somewhere on Malabar Hill, feeling the climb, but I pushed for a bit until I was gasping for the warm morning air. Then, just as I turned to head back, I asked myself for the first time, What if?
What if Andrew never realizes that his affair with Meena destroyed us simply because he can’t see what it has done to us?
What if this obsession with his own world forever blinds him to things beyond his space?
I stopped running. My tears had mixed with my sweat. I was as thoroughly drenched as a Mumbai monsoon day.
I hailed a cab and got back to my apartment. I had been in Mumbai for six months. I hadn’t met or mailed or spoken to Andrew in that time, but I just couldn’t stop thinking of him.
I was walking to office on a violently hot June morning. I wasn’t in a cab because my head was occupied.
I had to tell my father I wouldn’t be in Bengaluru this month. I was needed in Mumbai. I was dicing that.
I had been home once every month since I moved cities. The first time, I stayed for a whole week, using the work-from-home option. My father was delighted. He wanted me to spend two weeks in Bengaluru and two in Mumbai. I could only make it for weekends thereafter.
My phone was ringing in my pocket. It was my father probably; we hadn’t spoken this morning. I considered reaching office and calling him when my sweaty palm reached for my phone. It was Chhaya. I was about to return the phone to my pocket when I swiped right.
My father had had an accident. Not an emergency, nothing major, she insisted twice or thrice. He had fallen on the footpath yesterday, not far from my house. He was in hospital. She sounded calm. I was calmer in appearance.
How? Why? My mind raced.
He was dizzy and had lost his footing. I was digesting the details.
In 20 minutes, I had booked a plane ticket, packed a bare necessities bag and was on my way to the airport. I was in Bengaluru three hours later.
I called Chhaya again. I needed to know if my father was alive.
I repeated the question because her answer was incoherent. The taxi driver, a woman, stepped on the accelerator. Is he breathing?
He had hit the pavement face down. A battery of tests had been carried out.
I was sweating by the bucket.
The doctors wanted him in hospital for 48 hours; he had agreed to only 24. That told me he was doing okay.
Papa had dialled Andrew as soon as he regained consciousness. His was the first number on the call list. Andrew had driven him to the same hospital my mother’s lifeless body had been taken to nine years ago. It was the quickest to reach.
I thought of Ravi as I climbed the 10 floors to my father’s room. Elevators in hospitals take forever.
I opened the door to my father’s badly discoloured face. He lifted his hand as soon as he saw me. He couldn’t smile. I smiled for him.
‘Why didn’t you call me, Papa?’ I asked. I was sobbing.
‘I didn’t want to trouble you. It was nothing,’ he said, nudging me aside and standing up to prove a point.
He was in pain.
An arm tightened around me. I had inhaled Andrew as soon as I laid eyes on my dad.
My back arched into the car seat. I hoped it would take me in and keep me there. Concealed in brown leather. Tears were streaming down my face.
I was on my way to the airport, five days after I arrived in Bengaluru. Andrew was driving me.
I kept my breath soft. I didn’t want him to know I was crying.
He had come home in the morning, his first visit since he had dropped Dad and me off a few hours after I had arrived in Bengaluru. I was about to book me a ride when the doorbell went off. It startled me, and I dropped my phone.
Andrew offered to drive me to the airport.
The car was cruising while I was held captive in an uncomfortable space. I gritted my teeth and forced the tears out. All at once.
‘He’ll be okay, Myraah. He has recovered. The doctor said if there were no episodes in the 24 hours after, he was fine. And I’m right here.’
I took a gulp of air, which was his scent.
My father was okay, I knew that. When we left the hospital, the doctor had told me to make a note of even the slightest fumble. When holding a teacup. A spoon. Lifting a tumbler of water. A misstep. He was good, his actions told me that.
I was forced to think these last five days, walk those paths I didn’t have the time to tread. So I had told myself.
I got physically busy at first – my great escape from my thoughts. I cleaned the house, starting with the kitchen. Then I decided to cook – make a few dishes, a couple of dals (my dad’s favourite), nati chicken curry and marinate some mackerel. I froze them in little containers.
In the course of that cooking and cleaning operation, I decided to talk to the office to split my time between Bengaluru and Mumbai. I could make it possible in a couple of months once I put things in order in Mumbai.
The shift, not just of platform, but cities, too, was not just good for my career, it was necessary. I was handling a team without props, taking independent, professional decisions in a city I was just getting acquainted with.
Yet, it didn’t have to be this way with Andrew. He had apologized from whatever standpoint. I could’ve moved to Mumbai and also stayed in touch with Andrew. Maybe I could’ve helped him understand. I was thirsty; I took a swig from my bottle. Discomposure is hard to swallow.
The car came to a jerky halt an hour after we left home. My tears had abated temporarily. I jumped out of the car and reached for my check-in baggage and wheeled it away. I was walking in a daze, lost to the world, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Andrew. He had come to give me my shacket.
Horns were blaring. I looked around me. He had parked in the middle of the road in the most un-Andrew-like fashion. People were shouting at him to move his car.
‘Le hero, ghadi tegiyooo,’ a cabbie gestured madly.
He wrapped the shacket around my shoulders and joined me in my laughter.
‘Le hero,’ I shouted at his back. Andrew spun around and jogged backwards for a couple of steps. He was still laughing.