THE ONE YOU CANNOT HAVE Read online

  ‘I know, I overheard your conversation,’ I say.

  ‘Oh did you? I am interviewing someone called Aman who I presumed was a guy. Turns out it is short for Amandeep and it’s a lady. Such a funny name,’ he says.

  ‘No, I like the name. It is nice,’ I say, to my own surprise.

  ‘I didn’t know you liked Punju names. Next you will tell me you like Baljeet,’ he teases.

  I refuse to take the bait. Also I don’t want to elucidate on my fascination for the name ‘Aman’. I have never mentioned Aman to Rishabh and I don’t intend to start now.

  ‘So who are the others you are interviewing? Are they any good?’ I ask him, cleverly changing the topic as the waiter serves us soup.

  ‘Look promising. Let’s see,’ he says.

  He asks me about work and how my day was.

  I tell him that a commercial vehicles manufacturing company has signed a memorandum of understanding with our finance division for their new range and I have to prepare a press release for the same. I also talk about how I have to chase journalists to get them to cover it.

  ‘You know, Club Happiness truly needs some serious PR talent like you,’ he says.

  ‘Hire me. Do you want to interview me?’ I smile.

  ‘It is definitely a possibility, Ms Shruti. Now, where do you see yourself in five years?’ he asks.

  ‘In a bigger, better bungalow in Bangalore as I plan to relocate. Who wants to stay in overcrowded Mumbai, where flats are the size of a matchbox?’ I reply, smartly.

  ‘Hmmm. That is a possibility. Club Happiness does have a branch in Bangalore. If we offer you a position there, would you join us?’ he asks.

  ‘Shut up and make it happen instead of showing me some dreams. I am not your woolly-eyed client whom you can sell a travel package as a holiday of a lifetime,’ I tease him back.

  ‘Ouch. That is below the belt. We don’t fool our clients.’

  ‘Yeah, you only fool your wife.’

  ‘The customer is not an idiot, she is your wife,’ he says, quoting David Ogilvy, the ad-man I admire immensely. I had written a paper on him in the final year of my PR and Advertising course. Naturally, I have studied all the books he has written.

  ‘Ogilvy also said, “The best ideas come as jokes. Make your thinking as funny as possible” and right now you aren’t being funny Mr Rishabh Prasad, just annoying,’ I say. Rishabh smiles.

  ‘See, this is why I love you. You speak your mind and are so clever,’ he says.

  I sit in silence and sip the soup. He does not know that I don’t always speak my mind and I am happy to let it be this way. There are some things best left buried. Like past memories that creep up on you.

  When we have sex that night, I am slightly more aggressive than usual. I kiss Rishabh with ferocity. I can see he is taken aback by this slight shift in my style but he quickly recovers and kisses me back with equal passion.

  Later as I fall asleep, I can’t help thinking that it is the best sex we have had in a long, long time. And all through it I had only been thinking of Aman.

  Chapter 3

  Aman

  Preserving keepsakes and memories when a relationship is over is a bad idea. But the sentimental fool that I am, I just couldn’t bear to throw them out. Perhaps I have held on to them in the hope that it isn’t over. Perhaps a small part of me has a tiny bit of hope that Shruti and I might get back together someday. Now, strewn all across the floor, these symbols of our love stir emotions that are hard to bear.

  Mark looks at me questioningly as if to say, ‘Uh-oh’, and then looks at the scattered contents. He probably guesses their significance, but he is too English and too polite to show any emotion. I pick up a handmade book which lies open at a photograph of Shruti and me smiling into the camera. I am hugging her from behind and my face nestles in her shoulder. Shruti had made a book of memories for me which was a record of every single date we had gone on. She had made this scrapbook painstakingly, by hand, filled it with photos, the bus-tickets of the rides we had taken together, especially that weekend trip to Mysore, the restaurant bills and tickets to even the house of horrors we had visited, which had scared her witless. Shruti was such a romantic—every little detail mattered to her. She had taken almost a year to put this book together and had given it to me on my birthday. Perhaps her sentimentalism had rubbed off on me. I don’t know why it is, but I cherish this book. This was the first time ever that someone had created something so beautiful, exclusively for me. It was like a precious phase of our lives was captured in these pages. And it is so painful now to even look at it.

  I gather it up hurriedly and close it.

  There is also a beautiful wooden statue of a cat that she had got for me. I had once told her I liked cats but had never had one as a child as my mother was working and there simply wasn’t time for luxuries like a pet. There is a gold-plated ring studded with zircon stones which I had given her. She had returned it when she left me. What could I do with it? I couldn’t take it back to the store. There is a bottle of Versace cologne. I just couldn’t bear to use it after she had walked out. And then there are at least about eighty cards. Shruti was artistic and her hobby was card-making. She would make these cards for the smallest occasion and ‘surprise’ me. She would spray it with the perfume she used—Eternity by Calvin Klein. Even now, I get a whiff of it as I pick up each card. The smell used to drive me insane. I have carefully kept every single one. As I gather them one by one and put them back into the box, each one feels like a cold sharp knife plunged into my heart. There is a blue and white striped T-shirt which she had bought for me. It was a size too small and I could neither wear it nor bear to give it away. There is a Calvin and Hobbes book which she gave me when I had told her Calvin was my favourite character. There is a wallet—an expensive one from Hidesign which she had bought for me with her first salary, a mobile phone cover which I had used for a while (the inner flap still has her picture in it), and a Sheaffer pen.

  These are what is left of the four happiest years of my life. The pain in seeing the physical evidence of something that no longer exists except in my memories, is excruciating.

  There is a lump in my throat as I pick up everything hurriedly and shove it back into the suitcase.

  ‘Are you okay, mate?’ asks Mark, his eyes full of concern.

  I nod.

  But I am not okay.

  ‘Do you need a drink?’ he asks and I nod again.

  I am unable to speak. I carry the suitcase to Mark’s car and place it with the rest of my luggage. We sit in silence as Mark drives us both to Coach and Horses, one of our regular haunts.

  Mark orders a beer for himself and, without asking, a whisky for me. I don’t protest. Just by looking at my ashen face, he has figured it all out.

  I am still trying to compose myself. But the truth of all that Shruti and I meant to each other has returned to haunt me. I had shut out all the memories of our love in a box. Literally. But today the illusion that I have healed and moved on has been shattered. After two years, the wounds have opened up again and made me realise that what has healed was just the surface. Underneath it is still raw, it is still painful. Lacerating. Unbearable.

  ‘I gather it was hard then, eh?’ says Mark.

  Before I can reply, my phone rings. When I see the caller’s name flashing, I excuse myself and step outside the pub to take the call. The cold English air hits my face and I slide the sleeve of my jacket over my hand.

  ‘Hey, Vikram, how are you? And the kids and Dipika?’ I greet him, trying to make my voice as normal as I can. This call from him is a welcome distraction.

  ‘Hey, Aman, all of us are waiting eagerly. You arrive on Saturday morning, right?’

  ‘Yes. I land in Mumbai and take the first flight to Bangalore,’ I confirm.

  ‘Good good, we’re all waiting for you. Ria and Reema keep a
sking how many days are left for you to arrive. I am tired of answering them,’ he says and I smile.

  Vikram insists I stay with them, even though we both know that my office will accommodate me in the company guesthouse. I can never say no to Vikram. He has been a pillar of strength in my worst moment. I think of the time two years ago when I was so broken. It was he who goaded me to get out of India. It would do me good, he had said. He had completely understood my situation. He had, in his quiet way, given me a much-needed push, without even mentioning her name. I was too devastated at that time to think clearly, but he had actually done me a huge favour. It helped heal, to some extent, my wounded soul. Right from the days that I had joined as a management trainee, reporting to Vikram, he seemed to know exactly what I needed and had managed, as always, to steer me towards it.

  The last time I was in India, Dipika had announced very solemnly that I was to be godfather to Ria and Reema.

  ‘Godfather? As in Mario Puzo?’ I had blinked.

  Dipika had given me a mock-angry stare as if to say ‘stop fooling around’. I actually hadn’t been. I had no idea what being godfather to two little girls aged six and four meant. Vikram had shot me a warning look to comply. I did so and pretended to understand that if anything were to ever happen to her and Vikram, I would officially be responsible for the girls. I found it all too far-fetched, but had gone along just to please Dipika.

  ‘Here, speak to Dipika. She is clamouring to take the phone from me,’ says Vikram and Dipika comes on the line.

  Dipika wants to know what time I will arrive and whether or not I will join them for breakfast. Dipika is a very attractive woman and has a perfect, sculpted body. It is hard to not notice the sensuality she exudes without even being aware of it, which all the more adds to her appeal. God, even her voice is sexy. If she weren’t Vikram’s wife, and if I did not have such a good equation with him, I would have hit on her for sure.

  ‘No, no. I will arrive by mid-morning, so will join you for lunch instead,’ I answer.

  ‘Great. Looking forward then. All of us, especially the girls, are waiting to see you,’ she says as she hangs up.

  I step back into the warmth of the pub, glad to be out of the cold.

  I join Mark and see that my whisky has arrived. I realise that I haven’t spoken about Shruti to anybody. Not even to Vikram, even though he had asked me about it.

  But now that Mark has seen the contents of the box and my reaction to it, I feel I owe him some kind of explanation.

  ‘You know, she is the reason I moved to Norwich,’ I tell Mark.

  ‘Whoa, that is intense,’ he says.

  I am not sure if he even realises what a relationship actually means. After all, even though he claims Eva is his girlfriend, he has had several flings with other women. I doubt Mark will understand something so deep, so pure and so genuine. I had been madly in love with Shruti when she walked out. Of course, she was in love with me too. Undoubtedly. How can women do this—be in love with one guy and marry another? I don’t know.

  For me, Shruti was truly ‘The One’ and I do not know if I will ever meet anyone like her. No one, just no woman, matches up to Shruti.

  I do not know how to convey all this to Mark and I don’t think any of it will even make any sense to him.

  ‘So what happened then? Only if you want to talk about it, that is,’ says Mark.

  ‘I don’t think her parents approved of me,’ I say.

  ‘What do you mean her parents didn’t approve? Why? Was it like you did something? Or weren’t you rich enough for them?’ Mark is genuinely puzzled.

  ‘No, we are from different communities. She is south Indian and I am north Indian. We have a caste system, and marriages outside the community aren’t approved by elders,’ I try to simplify the Indian scenario to Mark. In India, it is not just two people getting married, it is two families connecting. Everybody is involved in a wedding, unlike in the UK, where the bride and groom decide and plan everything themselves and even foot the bill for their wedding, and only the closest family and friends are invited.

  Mark had asked me about arranged marriages in India (all foreigners I have met have—they are fascinated by the concept) and I had explained to him that it is just like setting up a date with a prospective partner, only in this case it is set up by parents. He had found it strange and shocking that an adult should allow his or her parents or relatives to choose a life partner for him or her. But I had not gone into the dynamics of the caste system and how it worked.

  ‘So is that a problem then? Don’t people from different communities get married in India?’ asks Mark, now curious to know.

  ‘In cities they do. Urban India is very different from rural India. In the villages it is still frowned upon,’ I answer.

  ‘Oh—so was she from a village then?’

  I smile in response, trying to picture Shruti as a village belle.

  ‘Of course not. It was complicated, Mark. Her mother got breast cancer and they did not know if she would make it. Her parents had been against me from the start. She broke up with me as her parents wanted her to get married to someone of their choice. I hope she is happy,’ I say as I take a large sip of whisky.

  Mark nods and we sit in silence finishing our drink. It is hard for me to even think about Shruti, let alone speak to Mark about her. Mark senses it and changes the topic deftly to the upcoming football game. Norwich has a great football team and they are playing against Everton on Friday. He talks about how much he is looking forward to it. I try my best to feign interest but Shruti has exploded back into my life with the power and force of a storm and I am reeling under the impact of the resurrected memories.

  Mark drops me to my hotel and the check-in formalities are completed in no time. Once I am in my room, the black suitcase with memories of Shruti calls out to me. I don’t want to revisit the past. It is sheer torture to do so.

  But I am powerless. It is as though an invisible force is pulling me towards it. One part of me badly wants to throw this suitcase out. It is a dead relationship. It is over and she is now married to another guy, I remind myself. But another part of me wants to relive what I had with her, which is something that nobody can snatch away from me.

  I walk up and down the length of the room. The room overlooks River Wensum and today even the breathtaking view of the river and the cobbled walkway beside it, lined with weeping willow trees and flower beds, fails to distract me. I see a young woman and her child walking along the river path. The child stops to feed the ducks that swim alongside. The woman watches and smiles at the child. I wonder if she is a single mother. Then I see a man walk up to both of them and kiss the woman on the lips. He puts his arm around her shoulders and says something to the child who runs ahead in glee as they watch indulgently. The happy scene sends a fresh wave of agony through me as I recall how Shruti had laughingly talked about the children we would have, how many and what we would name them. We had sat watching the placid waters of the Kabini river, near Bangalore, on one of our dates, she leaning against me. I had laughed in response and said that I wanted two daughters, and she said she wanted a girl and a boy, a girl first preferably. We had so many plans—Shruti and I. And now all I have are memories and a boxful of painful reminders of the one that I cannot have.

  I open the suitcase and gaze at the cards. I think about how her hands have created them and imagine her tucking away an errant wisp of hair as she worked. I remember the evening she had spent at my flat in Bangalore. She had lied to her parents about an overnight trip from her college and come away with me. I remember how shy she had been when we first made love. I recall how I had assured her it was fine and when we made love again, how delighted she had been. I think about my arms around her tiny waist and how she had cuddled up to me and we had slept together naked. Next morning I had made coffee for her and watched her sleep so peacefully. I smile wryly at the memory o
f her opening her eyes, seeing me there and shrieking in horror when she realised the bedsheet had fallen off her, exposing her breasts. She had quickly pulled it up and covered herself. How much I had laughed at her shyness. She was beautiful, my Shruti. She was amazing. She was one of a kind. My perfect woman. I would truly have moved heaven and earth for her. I would have got her the moon had she asked for it.

  Instead, she had walked away.

  And left a gaping void in my heart. Leaving me incapable of ever loving another woman. She had taken my soul when she left.

  I wonder how she is now. I wonder if her husband is good in bed. I realise I am gritting my teeth even as I think of her with another guy, even though he is her husband.

  I am overcome by an urge to know where she is right now and what she is doing. I wonder whether she is happy or sad. She is sure to be on Facebook. She had ‘unfriended’ and blocked me the day that she had walked out and I had no access to her profile any more. It was painful, too, at that time to even face it and I had no desire to stalk her. So I had let it be.

  But today, I cannot let go. So I log in to my profile on Facebook. Usually I do not give much thought to it and am slightly derisive of those who are addicted to it. But now I am grateful for this privacy-stealing, time-draining gargantuan social monster on which most people seem to spend hours.

  I type in ‘Shruti Srinivasan’. There are hundreds of profiles by that name. I start checking each one. Most of the women have their own photographs as their profile pictures and so looking at their photos alone, they are easy to eliminate. When I reach the end of the page, I click on ‘show more results’ and it throws up more Shruti Srinivasans. One of the Shrutis has used a picture of a baby but it is easy to eliminate her as she has studied in Faizabad. This is not my Shruti. There is another Shruti who has used the picture of a rose as her profile picture and all the info that is there is that she lives in Dhanbad. My heart beats a little faster. I know my Shruti would never use the picture of a red rose as her profile picture, but I cannot just eliminate this one, as my Shruti loved red roses. I go to the profile and check out what she has liked. There are only Hindi movies there and my Shruti couldn’t speak a word of Hindi. So I eliminate the red-rose Shruti too. There is another Shruti who has used the picture of a bird breaking out of its cage and flying to freedom. Could this be my Shruti? I once again go to the profile and discover that this Shruti likes R.D. Burman and Lata Mangeshkar songs. She too is eliminated. My Shruti never listened to either.