The Secret wish List Read online

  I draw him inside, bolt the door and he pulls me to him. We hold each other tight. He strokes my hair and our embrace seems to go on forever. When we finally break away, I lead him to the drawing room.

  He is interested in every single detail of my home. Things which I have long forgotten because they have become so much a part of my life that I hardly even notice them. He looks at the framed photographs on the chest of drawers. I haven’t looked at them properly in years. Strange, how we become so used to our surroundings that we stop noticing.

  One of the frames has a very old photo of Sandeep and me clicked when we had just got married. Sandeep has his hands on his hips and I am half-smiling, half-scowling in the picture. I remember we had visited his relatives in Mysore and they had insisted on clicking a picture and later mailed it to us. The other frame has a photo of Abhay as a baby.

  ‘He is darn cute, your son,’ says Ankit.

  I smile. These words are music to any mother’s ears.

  ‘Were you ever happy with Sandeep, Diksha? Look at you in this picture. The smile looks so forced,’ he says, studying the other photo intensely.

  ‘In the beginning I did make an effort. I tried hard to get over you. After all, I was just sixteen. I guess that was what my parents had gambled on too, when they married me off.’

  ‘But why did you agree, Diksha? You were just nineteen when you got married, right?’

  ‘I did not have a choice, Ankit. The all-women’s college in Kerala they sent me to felt like prison after our school in Chennai. My grandmother and aunt monitored everything I did. I was dropped to college and picked up as soon as the bell rang. I used to feel sick, really. I hated it there. I longed to get out. I hardly spoke to anyone or made any friends. It is so hard to assert yourself when you are nineteen and weighed down by the guilt and parental pressure imposed on you.’

  ‘I know, Diksha. I wrote to you every single day for three months. But I had no address to post those letters to.’

  ‘Yeah, I wish we had the Internet and smart phones back then.’

  ‘Then we would have probably eloped. We would have never lost touch. Incidentally, I have a gift for you,’ he says. He opens his carry-bag and whips out a packet which is beautifully wrapped in white paper tied with a golden bow.

  ‘What is this? Perfume?’ I ask.

  ‘Open it,’ he smiles.

  I do and I gasp. It is an iPhone. There is a tag tied to it, which has a handwritten message from Ankit:

  ‘U phone, I phone—doesn’t matter. All I want is to be always connected. For meine liebe, with all my love, Ankit.’

  ‘Oh my God! Ankit!’ I say.

  ‘What?’ he asks as he comes up from behind and hugs me, planting a kiss on my cheek.

  ‘This is really nice of you, Ankit, but what will I tell Sandeep?’

  ‘Tell him Tanu gifted it to you. And who pays your mobile bills? I am guessing it is Sandeep right?’

  ‘Yes, and he checks every single thing in the itemised bill. He is finicky that way about money.’

  ‘I guessed as much. Which is why this phone has a sim card which enables the bill to get automatically debited from my account.’

  ‘Oh my God, Ankit! You are too much!’ I say and kiss him.

  I lead him to the spare bedroom and we lie on the bed and listen to classical music. We play Poudre d’Or by Erik Satie. As the music fills the room, we lie close together and look into each other’s eyes and smile.

  We do not make love.

  Instead we talk. And talk and talk.

  With the music softly playing in the background.

  I tell him about how Sandeep created a scene at the salsa class and how shamed I felt. His blood boils listening to it. He says he feels like killing Sandeep. He says he fails to understand how a man can be so old-fashioned, possessive and jealous. He wonders how men can treat women like that.

  We talk about old times and how we had got caught kissing. We talk about parental aspirations. He tells me how he joined his dad’s business and how quickly he got bored and wanted to branch out on his own. He talks about how he raised funds for his first resort, how hard he worked and how he got it up and running from scratch. He talks about how it led to the second one being opened and then the third and how the others followed.

  He says, ‘I had turned into a total workaholic, Diksha. I was like a man possessed. It felt as though by burying myself in work, I could forget about you. I truly haven’t had time to even breathe all these years, let alone have a relationship. Yes, I did have meaningless flings. Woman after woman after woman. I used to change girlfriends the moment they got clingy and demanded a bit more of my time. Heartless, I know, but I never really felt anything for them, Diksha. There really was no place for anyone in my heart but you.’

  I kiss him softly on the mouth and say, ‘You’re really a specimen—you know that, don’t you? Whoever heard of “true love” at seventeen? Whoever holds on like that?’

  ‘I do. And you do too, Diksha. You know it. And if I am a specimen, so be it. You are in love with a specimen,’ he smiles.

  I kiss him again.

  ‘And you know what, Ankit, I can be content just lying here and gazing at you. This isn’t even about the sex. Look, we haven’t had sex now and we are perfectly content.’

  ‘I know, Diksha, I know. This connect, this bond I feel with you is really something extraordinary’.

  ‘You know what they say, Ankit—if you cannot get someone out of your head, maybe they are supposed to be there.’

  He draws me into his arms and we lie there hugging each other, fully clothed, two souls who have at last found home.

  Later when Abhay arrives from school, I introduce Ankit to him. Ankit is genuinely interested in everything that Abhay has to say. In no time at all, they are chatting with each other like old friends. Abhay has already offered to show Ankit his room and I overhear him telling Ankit all about his science project. Ankit has a lot of suggestions to make and Abhay and he discuss the project in detail. Ankit is surprised at the depth of Abhay’s knowledge.

  ‘I hope you know, Diksha, your son is a little genius. I am amazed at just how much he knows. He is an awesome little young man. Do you know, he is able to explain all that stuff about robots in detail to me?’

  ‘I know. And I don’t even have to teach him anything, Ankit. He just researches and finds out everything on his own. He borrows books from his school and local libraries, gathers information from the Internet – and reads and reads! But he is zero in sports,’

  ‘See, Diksha—this is the problem with most parents. Here you have a child who is bordering on genius and yet look at the way you are downplaying it by saying he is zero in sports. Most parents do that. They just want their children to live according to their expectations of them.’

  ‘Tell me about it, Ankit. You know I even got married to placate my parents. Come on. I wasn’t downplaying Abhay’s achievements. I was just telling you how geeky he is as a person. ’

  ‘It is okay. It is okay to be geeky and nerdy,’ smiles Ankit.

  ‘I really don’t care. I just want him to be a good, happy, well-adjusted human being who contributes something to the society.’

  ‘He will be. You are indeed raising him well.’

  Later Ankit, Abhay and I watch a documentary on television, something that Abhay insists Ankit ‘must see’. It is a programme about surviving in the wild. Abhay animatedly describes in detail the exploits of Bear Grylls, adventurer, writer and television presenter, who stars in the show. Ankit listen patiently to everything Abhay explains and I can see he finds it fascinating too.

  Later, after dinner, Ankit leaves for his hotel and Abhay promptly brings his blanket and comes to my bedroom. Whenever Sandeep travels, it is an unwritten rule that Abhay gets to sleep in my bed. He cuddles up with me, his leg flung over me. I so love it when he still needs his mama.

  ‘Ma, you know what?’ he says in the darkness.

  ‘What?’ I ask as I
snuggle up to him, smelling his hair, remembering his baby smells, my heart overflowing with tenderness towards my son who is no longer a baby.

  ‘If Papa was here, we wouldn’t have been able to watch Bear Grylls because Papa likes watching only his programmes all the time.’

  ‘I know, baby. Sometimes it is nice to watch something you like, right?’

  ‘Yeah and Ankit is really cool, Mummy. I really like him.’

  I want to say, ‘I do too’ but I refrain. Instead I pull him closer to me and smile in the darkness as Abhay drifts off to sleep in my arms.

  Later I think about how well Ankit seems to have blended into my life, with Abhay, how interested he was in his science project, how we watched television together like a family. This is indeed bliss. I realise that this is something I have never experienced with Sandeep—this feeling of completeness and contentment. This feeling of functioning as a single team, of being a family unit, and experiencing the warmth only a family can bring.

  I think that perhaps this was what my parents had hoped I would achieve with Sandeep when they married me off, trying to get me away from Ankit.

  How ironic that it is Ankit who has shown it to me. And now that I have tasted it, I want it for ever.

  Twenty-Two

  ONCE TANU MOVES INTO HER NEW APARTMENT, our life improves dramatically. She gives me a key to her apartment as she works late most days, and I have a free run of her place. Soon as Abhay comes from school, I take him there and he swims for an hour. He totally digs the pool. We carve out our own little routine and both of us love it.

  Ankit’s visit this time has resulted in a bond between Abhay and him. While I am indeed happy at this development, I also wonder what I am really doing. Will this behaviour of mine impact Abhay in anyway?

  My ‘moral mind’ reminds me that I am having an extramarital affair and questions whether it’s right to introduce my child to my lover (I wince at the word) and do things which are irrevocable. My moral mind says it is wrong. It says I should be happy and content with my husband. That my husband, after all, hasn’t run behind any other woman or cheated on me. It is me who has had an affair and cheated on him. My moral mind is really the voice of my mother and perhaps of society at large.

  But, I think of the numerous times when Sandeep had a chance to create a happy family. It would have taken very little to have kept me happy. A dinner in a nice restaurant once in a while, a movie on a weekend, or even a trip to the mall – would have been good enough. Instead, his weekends are reserved always only for golf, TV and a visit to his mother’s house. We don’t even have anyone that we can call our ‘family friends’. He socialises after work with his colleagues and on weekends with his golf buddies. We attend office-dos where I have to play the ‘good corporate wife’ and I have always done that. But as a ‘family’ we truly have never bonded or connected.

  Is that reason enough to have an affair, my moral mind asks.

  I think of the forced sex, I think of the humiliation at the salsa class, I think about how different I am as a person when I am with Sandeep, I think of the countless instances of supreme selfishness and a taken-for-granted attitude when it comes to me. I think of his mother’s words and I think of all that he has brought to the table in this marriage and all that I have.

  Then I tell my moral mind to sod off and that it is indeed reason enough.

  I have lived my life according to the diktats of my mother and of the society. I have really tried hard to make a happy family.

  Fact is, I do feel complete only with Ankit. There is no refuting it after his visit this time. And I know his visits will continue.

  Ankit truly makes my life worth living. I know I want him more than anything else. But I lack the courage to say this to Sandeep. I am terrified of the repercussions and I am terrified of facing his wrath.

  And so I settle for the clandestine meetings. It is truly these meetings that keep me going. Apart from the happiness that I feel when I am with Ankit, there is also a small ego-kick I get from being lavished attention by such a successful business tycoon for whom I mean the world. He travels a lot on business, but messages me the moment he lands from wherever he is. I feel as though I am with him. We are constantly connected. His resort-hotel has branches in Goa, Trivandrum, Delhi, Pune and Chennai in India, and the Maldives and Mauritius abroad, and he travels to all of these places.

  I sometimes still cannot believe that this is indeed happening to me. Ankit and I, after the first two meetings, have become almost inseparable. I message him using the Instant Messenger App on my iPhone, and send him photographs of me or Abhay when we aren’t on the phone with each other. There is such a lot I want to share with him.

  I still say nothing about Ankit to either Tanu or Vibha. I know that I will have to tell them at some point, but for now I hug my secret and keep it to myself.

  There is a phone call from Sandeep after a week. I am now so involved with Ankit and so busy living my life that it really makes no difference to me whether or not he calls. I debate with myself whether to mention Ankit’s visit to him or not. But he does not give me a chance to do so.

  His tone is curt, brief and to the point. He says his company has bagged the deal and it makes sense for him to extend his stay. Even if he comes back, he might have to rush back for a month or maybe even two, he isn’t sure. He asks if all is well and if Abhay is okay. I reply that he is. He asks me to tell his mother too.

  I ask him why he cannot call his mother directly. In an exasperated tone, he says that international calls are expensive and, besides, there is really nothing to talk about, so could I pass on the message. Then, abruptly, he says he has to go and will call or email if there are any further developments at his end. And then he hangs up.

  I call my mother-in-law to pass on the message. She sighs.

  ‘I really cannot understand him. He has changed so much after his father died. It feels as though he has gone into a shell, for he is certainly not the boy I raised. He could have easily called me, all it takes is one measly phone call.’

  ‘You know how he is when it comes to money. He counts every penny,’ I find myself making excuses for him.

  ‘I know only too well, Diksha. We have come up the hard way. In fact, he took care of his higher education all by himself, paid off his educational loans, and all that. But, today, he is in a position where he does not have to count the pennies. He seems to have forgotten that. It seems as though he has got stuck in a time-warp. Gosh, in some ways, I am more modern than him! And I am sixty-five.’

  ‘I know.’

  I know she is referring to his views. I want to tell her about how he behaved with me at the salsa class, and how darn humiliated I still feel when I think about it. That I haven’t had the nerve to face my classmates ever since. But I do not mention it to her. There isn’t anything she can do anyway. It will only add more misery to her. In a funny way, even though I am hurt myself, I feel this compelling need to protect her.

  She asks me how Abhay is doing in school and when I will send him over. She says that she misses him.

  I realise that ever since Tanu moved into her apartment, Abhay hasn’t really bothered to ask if we can go to Aayi’s house. Earlier, the swimming pool in her apartment complex was an attraction for him. But now that he has access to one, like all children, he has been immediately distracted. Children live in the immediacy of the moment. For them, there is only the near future, never the far future—they live from day to day.

  I apologise to her and tell her that we will soon pay her a visit. She says she will be more than happy to have him over and I thank her for it.

  Ankit is in Bangalore for two more days. He isn’t able to meet me the next day as he is in meetings. His responses to my messages are much delayed.

  ‘Sorry, meine liebe. This deal is important. In meetings whole day. Will call you the moment I get free.’

  He types and there is also an emoticon, a kiss which sends my heart racing again.

&nb
sp; It is as though I have turned into a teenager overnight after meeting Ankit. He says that he feels the same way.

  ‘It’s okay. I’m right here waiting for you. Do your work well,’ I type back. I do mean it.

  I do not mind when he is busy with meetings. He in talks with a group of investors who want to collaborate with him to open a hotel in Bangalore which will have super-luxury service apartments instead of just rooms. They plan to offer studio apartments as well as two- and three-bedroom apartments with the unique comforts of home, the ambience of a corporate guest house or a five star hotel, and the exclusive facilities ideal for both a short-term and extended stay.

  I feel proud just thinking of his achievements. I am amazed that he has still held on to a love that he felt when he was seventeen. I cannot get over the fact that he loves me so much. He must have met scores of attractive women, smart women. Yet, he wants a relationship with me. But then, I think about my friendship with Tanu and how we still feel the same way towards each other. And I realise that some bonds forged during the early years are eternal.

  I have a salsa class that evening and I am increasingly certain that I do not want to go back and face the others in class. Gaurav calls me up to enquire if I will attend.

  ‘Listen, Gaurav. I love salsa, and I really do want to learn it. But let me be honest with you. After what happened that day, I cannot face my classmates. I simply do not have the guts. I had let them believe that I was single and in-between jobs. And after that crazy scene Sandeep created that day, I am ashamed to even show my face there.’

  ‘I know, Diksha. But you have already paid up. 16K isn’t exactly a small sum. And the institute has a policy of non-refund. If I owned the institute, I would have gladly refunded you the full amount. But I get audited for it. I feel bad about you not only losing money, but more so about you losing out on learning salsa. You are really talented. It would be a shame to let that talent go waste.’