Arranged Love (16 page)

I didn’t know what to say or do. I was elated to find a place to dump my canvasses. I wouldn’t have to look at Dad’s small, helpless face every time I got a new canvas and Mom cribbed about her need for a bigger house. Ecstatic, I hugged Deep.

‘One hug for every painting sold,’ he bargained playfully.

‘Deal,’ I smiled gleefully.

He went back to listening to songs and I to my sketching. Minutes later, I felt his hand on my shoulder. I hadn’t realized when he had stood up. I thought he must be gesturing to return. I checked my phone clock. It was almost time for river rafting. I started to pack my pencils when he lifted me by the waist, placed an earplug in my ear, and started turning me around.

A fast-beat, romantic song was playing on his iPod. We had learnt some basic ballroom dance steps on this song for the ASM last week. I was still struggling to learn the nuances of salsa; Deep however seemed a pro. I closed my eyes and let myself flow with his rhythm. He swayed me around with the
slightest pressure on my back and gentle push to my arms. I had never experienced anything so romantic in my life before. Nothing about this was real—the cast, the location or the wild excitement that I was experiencing. And then the music changed and a slow number started playing. Deep pulled me closer and I sidled up to him, feeling safer and confident that I wouldn’t fall off the treehouse plank.

‘Remember the day at the pub, when you had collapsed in my arms?’ he said, gazing directly into my eyes. The music continued in the background in our ears.

‘Yeah. That was quite embarrassing,’ I said, and looked away, feeling shy.

‘I was with this girl called Meeta.’

I could vividly recall Meeta. In fact, I had debated many a times later to ask Deep about her, but could never gather the courage. Deep had told me about his close circle of IIT friends and their girlfriends but he had never brought up Meeta before.

‘I have known her ever since I got to know the difference between a boy and a girl. We went to the same school. She was my best friend and I was hers.’

I had guessed that much. I wondered why he was telling me this story now.

‘That day in the pub, I had proposed to her.’

I remembered the hurt look in Deep’s eyes and knew what might have ensued. I waited for him to say it.

‘She didn’t think I was her Mr Right.’ Deep’s voice was solemn and pain-stricken.

No wonder he had been so enraged that night about girls playing with guys’ feelings. ‘Deep, I am so sorry,’ I said in order to empathize.

‘Let me finish,’ he said gravely. There was a strange sadness in his eyes. The kind that I had never seen in anyone’s eyes before. The kind that made me scared.

‘I don’t want to burn my fingers again,’ he said. ‘So I want to ask you one last time if you are interested in exploring a future with me?’

He wasn’t proposing to me or telling me that he loved me. He was simply asking if there was a road for us to be together in the future or was it a dead end. I knew I ought to have said a straight no. I ought to have told him about Jay. This was not about flirting and having fun any more. This was serious. Yet, I found my lips sewn with an invisible thread.

‘You don’t have to tell me now, but please let me know as soon as you know,’ he said softly, and loosened his grip around my waist.

I felt so close and yet so far away from him.

Even though his face had become a blur now, and it didn’t matter how he looked, I couldn’t possibly get serious about him. I was supposed to be in love with Jay. I was in love with Jay, I corrected myself. My hesitation to reject him must be because he was a good friend and it hurts to hurt friends, I told myself.

When we got back from river rafting, I saw the tears in Kammo’s eyes and figured that Deep must have delivered the blow. Better sooner than later. She seemed to be handling it quite well. I found Madhuri and Sanjeev merrily playing cat’s cradle in a corner. A bonfire was being lit in the open courtyard, and the guys were getting ready to drink and dance. Deep was busy on his phone and I was lost in my own web of confusion.

I came back home more exhausted than ever. Experiencing web withdrawal symptoms, I immediately logged on to Gmail and saw a ‘crush confirmed’ new message from
Crushaider.com
. This was exactly what I needed right now. A confirmation from Jay that he loved me. I clicked open the mail and it said, ‘Congrats!
[email protected]
has confirmed a crush on you. We offer you a discount coupon of 25 per cent on your next dinner date.
Please click here to book a restaurant through
Crushaider.com
.’

OH MY GOD! I checked the mail delivery time. It was yesterday morning. Deep must have already seen the email on his phone before he came over to the treehouse. WTF!

Sipping a glass of wine and nibbling on different varieties of amazingly mouth-watering cheese that I had no idea were available in Gurgaon, I was passively observing the surge in demand for contemporary, affordable and aesthetically appealing art in this suburb. It was the opening eve of an art exhibition, at Epicentre, curated by the same art curator that Deep had kindly connected me with. The exhibition hall was bubbling with artsy excitement and overflowing with colour. While some were looking for provocative, catchy art to go with the theme of their upcoming summer bonanza party, others just needed to break the monotony of the expansive cream walls in their recently purchased 5000-square-foot apartment. A serious few were exploring art as alternative investment and a fraction thereof were seeking moments of contemplation, to unlock the worlds inside their soul. Largely it was folks who came along because a friend was coming and they had nothing better to do. The good part was that this majority had a huge discretionary income and were prone to whimsical purchases.

I stood in a corner, looking at the painting of a young girl draped in a Maharashtrian-style saree, the fabric tucked between the legs, with a backless choli. She was walking on a dirt track in a dense forest, towards the ray of hope, her partly bare back facing the viewer.

‘She seems to evoke a feeling of definite purpose in my consciousness,’ remarked a woman standing beside me and admiring the painting. She was herself dressed in an elegant, designer saree. From the few whites sprinkled in her hair, she seemed to be in her late thirties.

‘Me too,’ I admitted.

‘This artist has never displayed earlier, but I see potential in her works,’ observed an older, seemingly art-worldly-wise lady.

‘I would like to have her on my bedroom wall, so that every morning she would give me the courage to keep pursuing my dreams in life,’ said the first woman. She was definitely interested in buying the painting.

‘Sorry, but she is going in my den,’ informed the proud owner, a dashingly handsome, forty-something executive in formal business attire.

‘Congrats, Suhaani,’ he said addressing me, ‘Love your work.’

‘Thanks for the encouragement, Vikram, but you don’t have to buy,’ I said, gathering appreciative glances from the women around as they realized I was the artist.

‘Trust me, it’s not for you, it’s for me that I am buying,’ he assured me with the ease and poise of a lawyer. ‘At least I will have some company to watch TV and discuss stocks with,’ he added, and broke into a soft chortle.

With his endearing smile and captivating eyes, he must have been quite some catch in his college days. I wondered why his first wife had left him and if he was buying my painting because he wanted to impress Tanu di?

Just then, we heard an announcement about the chief guest’s arrival and headed for the lamp lighting ceremony. Tanu di was already standing at the forefront of the crowd, clicking pictures of Shovana Narayan, the most renowned kathak dancer in the world, as she lit the diyas. Tanu di’s passion for kathak was like her love
for Champ, subdued under her career aspirations, but still longing for fulfilment. I watched her animatedly discuss the intricacies of footwork and mudras with the legendary dancer. Vikram had to leave so he told me to tell Tanu di that he had a business call to attend and would catch up with Di later. Realizing that Tanu di was not going to be free any time soon, I decided to take a walk up to the snacks table and sample some more cheese and crackers. I was disappointed to learn that my favourite oregano-flavoured cheese was finished but I was thrilled to see red dots against five of my paintings.

It had all happened very suddenly. I had shown Deep’s IIT senior my paintings and she had liked them so much, that she decided to accommodate me at the last minute in a exhibition she was organizing the same week.

I wanted to share my ebullience at having sold so many of my works on day one with someone close. Someone who would be able to understand what it meant to me. I selected Deep’s number and then feeling guilty, I clicked on cancel. I still hadn’t disclosed to him the half-red dot placed against my heart, reserving me for Jay. I somehow wanted to hold on to Deep without giving up Jay. While women are in general adept at multi-tasking, this shared love account was bothering me. I needed to discuss this with Tanu di. Now! I found her outside in the lobby, listening raptly to the Padmashree awardee give sound bites to the media people. I pulled her away from the noisy exhibition hall to the quaint little coffee shop in the building. Ordering a chocolate chip muffin for myself and a double espresso for Di, I asked her about her expedition to Santa’s town. I hadn’t had a chance to talk to Di since she got back from the North Pole.

‘Santa Claus was complaining about the latest size-zero fad,’ smiled Di. ‘He is under pressure to get rid of his wobbling belly and set a good example for children.’

‘Jay is so not getting a gift from Santa this year,’ I sniggered, digging into my scrumptious muffin.

‘He was also upset with the companies cashing in on his popularity by running weight loss programmes like “How to get rid of a Santa belly” that doesn’t benefit him in any way.’

‘So Chetan Bhagat isn’t the only one having credit issues,’ I teased.

Di gave a knowing smile for Chetan was her batchmate from IIT. ‘Oh! There are far more serious, financial repercussions,’ informed Di, dismissing CB’s publicity stunt. ‘With Kareena importing the size-zero fad to India, Sensex has also become figure conscious and gone on a crash diet, trying to shed the extra pounds it had gained,’ said Di. She was rocking her shoulders back and forth, her chin resting on her hands pensively.

Indians have always been besotted with what America does. With Indian retailers now aping the West and offering upto 50 per cent ‘markdowns every change of season, it was not surprising that
market down
had also become a regular phenomenon with the Indian stock market. But I felt that there was an unknown hand in the timing of the market crash that couldn’t be attributed to Santa’s discontent with Kareena’s figure or the 10 per cent off on the La Senza push-up bra.

‘You don’t think it is Champ’s curse, do you?’ I surmised.

She smiled at my implication that every time she was looking to raise money, markets went down like it was a curse on her success.

‘Vikram’s firm has still agreed to fund my company,’ she revealed lackadaisically, like it was yet another compliment on her Pantene-advertisement-like long, flowing hair. One would think a ten million dollars’ funding in a bear market deserved a bit more enthusiasm. These IIT types! They get so used to big successes so soon that they forget how to enjoy the little pleasures of life.

‘That’s fabulous, right! You don’t have to go to the Himalayas
any more looking for sanjeevani booti,’ I cheered.

She didn’t seem pleased. ‘Vikram proposed,’ she said, this time sounding peeved like he had asked her for sexual favours.

‘You are making it sound like he is asking you to marry him in exchange for the investment. Look at it this way. He is giving you the funding in dowry,’ I joked.

‘What if I am unable to forget Champ even after I marry Vikram? I don’t want to end up screwing VC’s life,’ she said, twirling her hair around her index finger nervously.

‘There is very little chance of you doing that,’ I comforted her. ‘As of now he is planning to spend his evenings with the painting of a girl with her back towards him. At least you would be a face he would be looking at and a lovely dimpled one at that,’ I complimented. ‘Besides, Champ had only placed a green dot against your heart,’ I reasoned in art jargon. ‘A green dot reserves a painting for a collector for a limited time. You have already given Champ over a decade of your life. It is high time you moved on and said yes to Vikram,’ I advised.

‘I wish I could meet Champ once, just once,’ said Di, with apparent longing in her eyes. ‘If only I had the Marauder map to locate him,’ she pined.

‘Sadly Muggles only use RFID locator tags for high-value items in a supermarket,’ I kidded and then asked curiously, ‘What would you do with him if you did find him? He is married, after all.’

‘Punch him in the face, kick him in the balls and ask him why he couldn’t wait a few years for the love I have waited my entire life for,’ she said, her voice charged with emotions. A cold, vengeful determination had replaced the soft, desirous look in her eyes.

I was taken aback at how a romantic comedy had suddenly transformed into an action thriller.

‘We don’t have the magical map, but we have FB. Why don’t you tell me his name and we will look him up?’ I offered eagerly,
hopeful that a dramatic encounter with Champ would help her close this chapter for good. I, of course, didn’t know Champ’s real name else this story would have ended pages ago.

‘I told you he is not on FB,’ she said, dejected.

‘Let’s locate Piya then,’ I suggested. Tanu di liked the idea. We logged on using Di’s BlackBerry. Di searched for Champ’s wife, Piya Khanna. After scanning through some fifty-plus results without any luck, I proposed we search using her maiden name as many women from the earlier generation, wanting to get in touch with friends, had stuck to maiden names. This time we easily found the right Piya. Her profile had a picture of her with her ten-year-old son. Tanu di’s face turned pale on seeing the child’s picture. She perhaps saw Champ’s reflection in the chubby, fair boy, though I could bet my nude painting on the fact that he resembled Sharmaji or any other Punjabi
puttar
as much as anyone else. Yet, it was intriguing how love could hurt even after so many years.

‘Now you see why I can’t marry VC?’ she said, taking a gulp of water to swallow her tears.

I could see nothing of that sort. All I could see was that her nose was red as a clown and that Champ had filled her heart with pain and VC was eager to fill it with his love.

‘I know I let go of the right guy for my ambition, but I can’t marry the wrong guy to fulfil those same dreams.’ Di gave me some convoluted BS, but there was no point arguing further. The action thriller had now become an emotional drama. Although I was a sucker for the quintessential Bollywood-styled
‘Mere paas ma hai’
histrionics, I had my own pressing matters to discuss. I updated her on Dad’s so far unsuccessful suitor shopping and then told her what had transpired back in Chakrata on the lonely treetop with Deep.

‘Why didn’t I say no to him straight away?’ I asked puzzled.

‘It can’t be because you care for him. You are not the selfless,
mahatma
kind,’ Di stated, with absolute confidence in my imperfect
humanness. Her eyes were still sombre but I was glad that she had regained her sense of humour.

‘Yeah, I know,’ I promptly agreed, relieved to be able to talk without any façade. Being the only child, I had always felt this pressure of being extra good, of doing what my parents would deem right. Yet, I was a normal human being with my own set of weaknesses. I liked to splurge on my shoes even though I knew that there were kids living on the street that roamed barefoot. I often judged people by their clothes and I sometimes picked my nose and threw the booger on the ground. Di, however, was one person with whom I could be just me, without having to be an idle daughter, the perfect girlfriend or a good, moral citizen.

‘Do you think I simply wanted to keep my options open?’ I speculated.

‘If you were in high school or college, I would say yes. A long-term relationship for the vast majority of kids these days lasts a semester or two. You break up with one guy and hook up with another. It’s almost like picking up a new mobile phone,’ stated Di.

I found myself agreeing with Di that the affairs of the current generation were more like accessories. A clear proof was the popular chartbuster
‘Peechle saat dino mein’
which compared losing one’s heart to losing a denim jacket, a silver ring, a half-read novel and a new pair of sunglasses. I mean, nothing could have captured the commodification of love better than this song.

‘A college fling is like a Friday evening plan,’ Di continued. ‘You need plan B and plan C in case plan A doesn’t work out as you don’t want to be home alone. Love, however, is like the smile you want to wear every day for the rest of your life. You don’t want options when you are in love,’ she concluded.

‘Are you saying that I am not in love with Jay because I am keeping my options open?’ I asked, even more puzzled than before.

‘Is that how you feel?’ she asked, sipping her double espresso, bouncing the question back at me.

‘I don’t know what I feel, Di,’ I said, feeling all muddled up. ‘How do I know if I love Jay?’ I implored.

‘Love is like a child, hon. Just like a single exam paper cannot gauge a child’s knowledge, it’s hard to devise a test for love,’ Di philosophized. ‘Like a child, love also blossoms best when left alone to wander, make mistakes and learn. For your love to prosper, it’s important that you feel free with your loved one,’ Di expounded.

I knew she was warming up and soon she would help me think aloud through this dilemma like many others in the past.