THE ONE YOU CANNOT HAVE Read online

  At the end of two hours I have hit a dead end and I haven’t found her.

  Then it occurs to me that it could be because she had blocked me. That might be the reason I am unable to find her. I create a fake id and I log in. I once again go through all the ‘Shruti Srinivasans’ that my search throws up. By now I am familiar with all the Shrutis on Facebook. There is one who works in a software company, another who is a teacher, another who is a team leader at an international bank, another who works at a newspaper, another who works for a finance company and so on. I think I can write a thesis on ‘Shruti Srinivasans’ on FB. I can even write an essay on the Shruti with the red rose as her profile picture as I have studied her profile so much. But none of them is the one I am looking for.

  And then something else occurs to me. Perhaps she has changed her name after her marriage. Perhaps she is no longer Shruti Srinivasan, but Shruti something else. If that is the case, then I will never be able to find her.

  I rack my brains hard to try and remember the surname of the guy she was getting married to. Heck—I don’t even know the guy’s name or his last name. How will I ever find her? I don’t even know where she lives now. I remember how angry I was at our last meeting when she had met me to tell me it was over between us. After a lengthy meeting which mostly consisted of silences, after she announced her decision to break up and exit my life, my final parting words to her had been, ‘Look, Shruti, you know what we mean to each other. You know you are my life and I cannot imagine a future without you. You know where to reach me. You have my numbers, email and everything. If you change your mind, and I am hoping you do, please come back to me. I will be waiting to welcome you with open arms. But I, on my part, will never ever contact you, or stand in your way. That is a promise.’

  She had hugged me and wept, but I had been too angry to hug her back.

  I bite my lip at the memory. I set my laptop aside and walk towards the black suitcase and bring it back to my bed. My ex-box, I think, and am amused at the joke I am trying to make of it. But this is no joke. This is my life.

  My heart beats faster as I open the box and take out the book that Shruti had made for me. It is made of handmade paper and has a red cover. ‘Red, the colour of passion. Suits us, Aman. It is our colour. Happy birthday, my love,’ she had said as she had handed it to me. I had presumed she was referring to the red wrapping paper. But when I had opened it, I saw it had a red cover too. I lovingly run my hand over the cover now.

  I remember how Shruti had clicked pictures of me as I had opened the cover.

  ‘I want to remember these moments for ever. I want to see the look on your face when you discover what it is,’ she had said excitedly as I smiled. Then she had put her hand on mine and stopped me from opening it.

  ‘What do you think it could be? Guess,’ she had said.

  ‘Hmmm—seems like some kind of a diary,’ I had replied.

  ‘Ha ha… close, yes. But not a diary. Guess again,’ she had said.

  I had playfully nipped her hand and she had laughed and said, ‘Ouch! That hurt! Wait, you dumbo—open the gift first.’

  And as I had opened it, my expression had changed to complete amazement from the initial befuddlement as I discovered that she had actually made it all. She said it had taken her more than eight months to put it all together. And she had done it secretly, hiding from her parents, saving everything from all our dates, during that period. She said it was the grandest thing she could think of giving me. And she wanted to make something grand, something that I would cherish.

  Oh, how she had succeeded. It has been two years since she went away. I am still spellbound by all the memories she has captured in vivid detail and put into the pages of this book.

  I open to the first page. My heartbeats race, competing with each other. Part of me wants to close the book and throw it away, while another part wants to re-live everything that has been. I am torn, undecided. The book is sending me to a place I don’t want to go. I am done with it, it is the past, it is over—my head tells me. Yet my heart tugs.

  Finally, it is the heart that wins.

  I open the book and begin to read Shruti’s words, in her handwriting:

  ‘For Aman, with all my love’ and she has stuck a picture of us, clicked on her birthday, when we made that trip to Kabini River Lodge. I stare at the picture for a few minutes. I remember how we had asked the waiter to click it. My arms are around her waist and she is clutching me tight, as though afraid to let me go. She is smiling and so am I. It is a picture that screams ‘LOVE’. It is a picture which radiates happiness. It is a picture that says, ‘Oh, look at this lucky couple. These guys are going to be happy together for the rest of their lives.’ I have to fight back the urge to kiss her in the photo.

  I turn the page and begin to read:

  My love Aman,

  You must be fast asleep right now, as I work on this book. I meant to do this a long time back, when the idea first occurred to me. I wanted to give you something truly unique on your birthday. Something that would show you how much you mean to me. Something that would involve the best and most precious gift of all—TIME. (How quickly we run out of it. Before we even realise it, it has slipped away.) So I thought of creating this book, just for you, and writing in it every memorable date that we had, stick stuff in it—stuff that matters only to both of us. I hope to be doing that starting now, till your birthday, when I will present you this book.

  Since your birthday is at least eight months away, I think I will have a great book. This is our baby—till we make a real one. Heh, heh. Take care of it, okay?

  And I know you will love it!

  Happy birthday to the greatest guy in the world.

  All my love and some more.

  Shruti

  The next page has at least fifty photos of me, which Shruti has printed out and used to make a border.

  It is like a frame. And then in the centre, this is what she has written:

  Aman—

  If I could paint pictures, I would have made a million portraits of you.

  If I could write poetry, I would have written a million poems for you.

  Instead, I write here this poem which conveys what I feel about you.

  Stars in a moonless sky

  What is it that you dream about she asks.

  Your Smile,Your look

  Your Kiss,Your hug

  Your love,Your trust

  Your words,Your feelings

  Your warmth,Your concern

  Your presence,Your eyes

  He replies.

  And she smiles as she understands the language of truth.

  She mulls over his words

  Long after he has slept

  She lies awake

  Weaving with them

  Her security blanket

  Wrapping them around herself

  And then carefully squirrelling them away

  On the days when there is nothing but blackness

  For his words are the stars that illuminate her moonless sky.

  And they are hers.

  Nothing can take them away from each other now.

  For words once uttered find their way into hearts

  And later spill over to paper

  In the form of poetry.

  Immortalised forever.

  Perhaps this is what they call love.

  I know you aren’t much into poetry but read this one please. I wrote this specially for you. Read each line. Multiply the emotions expressed in it by a million.

  That MUCH is how much I love you Aman. That MUCH.

  Each of her entries is like that. Overflowing with love. Swearing undying devotion. So expressive. So full of emotion. So her.

  And for me now, so full of pain. I read each and every entry that she wrote in that book. Each one brings a lump in my throat. As I continue reading, the lump just keeps gettin
g bigger and bigger. Each of the entries written here brings a fresh wave of agony till I am submerged in it.

  I want to find her right now and wave this book in front of her and ask her, ‘What happened to all this love, Shruti? What happened? Are you happy now? How the fuck did you do this to me? Don’t you have a conscience? Have you forgotten all that we had been through? Am I that disposable? Do you miss me? Do you think of me? Heck—do you even care? Or is your life now all around that husband of yours?’

  And then it occurs to me. I could still find her by her email id. She has (or used to have) three email ids. Surely she would still be using one of them for Facebook?

  So I log in to my email account. I am temporarily distracted by a mail from Anjali. She is asking for help for a piece she is writing and she wants to know, ‘What Men Really Want’. She has marked it to her friends as well as to me. Ha. What men want—it is not much. I write out a reply to her. I want to add, ‘Men want a woman who will be faithful to them and not walk off with another guy’. But I refrain. I send Anjali the email and then do a search in my account. In a few seconds, I pull out all three email ids that Shruti used to have.

  I once again open Facebook with my fake id, and search using the email ids.

  And then it happens.

  I find her.

  Chapter 4

  Anjali

  Dipika stretches her legs and arms and squints as the morning sunlight plays hide-and-seek on her face. She smiles and asks for another cup of coffee.

  ‘If it isn’t too much trouble, that is,’ she adds as an afterthought.

  ‘Of course not. No trouble. I knew you would want more, so I just made some extra. Let me pop it in the microwave,’ I say, walking towards the kitchen.

  ‘I so love your terrace, Anjali. It is so peaceful. I think it is the best thing about the house. And lovely deck chairs too. I can never get this kind of peace at home. Ria and Rima are a handful, you know. But I think I have told you all this a million times,’ she says as she leans back comfortably and closes her eyes.

  ‘I know, but they are such moppets. Little dolls,’ I reply.

  ‘Yes, when they are asleep,’ she laughs. ‘God, Anjali, I so needed this break,’ she says, still with her eyes closed.

  ‘Anytime. You are most welcome here. Offer open only for my favourite cousin, though,’ I reply.

  I return back with the coffees and plonk down on the deck chair next to hers.

  ‘You know, Anjali, I wait to get away like this. I am so fed up of my life. Sometimes I feel I have had enough of husband, kids, the whole marriage thing.’

  ‘Why? Why in the world are you fed up?’ I ask. I am curious.

  Dipika has the best of everything—a wonderful husband, two lovely girls and a beautifully done-up apartment, a posh penthouse, unlike my tiny one-bedroom flat where the only good part is the terrace. And the worst, an inquisitive landlord, a distant relative, who keeps a hawk’s eye on me and reports back everything to my parents. Dipika is lucky. She has a fabulous figure, she does not need to work to make a living, and has everything going for her.

  She pauses now as though carefully considering how to answer my question.

  ‘What you see on the surface isn’t the whole picture. You only see the shine, the sheen, the gloss. Beneath it, there is masonry, peeling plaster, shaky foundations. It is all dressed up and you never notice it because of the veneer.’ Her voice is laced with bitterness and I am surprised.

  ‘Are we talking about constructions here? Masonry, bricks and all that?’ I attempt a feeble joke, just to lighten the mood, but Dipika does not smile.

  ‘Do you realise it is about two months since Vikram and I even had a proper conversation?’ she asks.

  I don’t know what to say. I am insanely fond of Dipika and, more than a cousin, I look upon her as a great friend and secretly I want to have a marriage like hers. Why, even my parents praise her all the time, and one of the reasons why they are comfortable with me staying on my own is that Dipika is around. She has assured them that she will keep an eye on me, which she does. We usually go shopping together and sometimes we meet up for lunch or just hang out. When we do, it is always lighthearted banter about movies, books and my latest dating disaster. I have been on dates with at least six guys and each of them was more disastrous than the previous one. Dipika always teases me about how I haven’t found Mr Right yet. And now here she is, telling me that her Mr Right is not so right, after all?

  ‘It is the monotony that gets to me. All I do is look after Ria and Reema, send them to school, go to the gym and work out, and then come back home. Vikram is never around. My life is always the same old routine. I think men have a button which gets activated the moment they become husbands. They change so much. He was never like this before marriage,’ she continues.

  ‘Come on, Dipika. Vikram is babysitting today, isn’t he? He is in fact, giving you a break,’ I defend Vikram. ‘I know so many people in my office whose husbands won’t even lift a teacup. Vikram is so sweet, in comparison.’

  ‘He would have been sweeter if he was around. Most of the time he is travelling. When he comes home, he hardly has time for me.’

  I want to point out that it is because he works so hard that their family leads a luxurious lifestyle. They vacation abroad every year and live in one of Bangalore’s most enviable residential luxury apartments. But I don’t think Dipika wants to hear that. So I keep mum.

  ‘Anyhow, forget it. You tell me—how are things with you? How are Sriram and Latika? And how is work? All good?’ Dipika has taken the tone of a concerned older sister now. I don’t mind. Secretly I like it that she kind of ‘watches out’ for me.

  ‘Yes, all good. I met both of them yesterday. Sriram has broken up with yet another woman. And Latika’s husband was out of town. So, for once, it was just three of us, instead of their respective partners tagging along. It was like old times.’

  ‘You three have been together quite long, haven’t you?’ asks Dipika.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Together since class six, when my parents decided to put me in a hostel in Bangalore. Sriram and Latika are my lifelines. I don’t know how I would have survived school without them.’

  Dipika smiles. ‘I know about some of the crazy adventures you have had. You are lucky to have such great friends. I am barely in touch with anyone I went to school with. It all changes when you have kids.’

  I hope nothing changes between Sriram, Latika and me. I want nothing to come between our friendship. And, I don’t know if things change after people have kids. If they want to keep in touch, they will always find a way. But I don’t see any point in arguing with Dipika. She seems to be in a cynical mood today.

  ‘By the way, it will be great to have Aman back in India. The girls are so excited,’ says Dipika.

  ‘I know. I am in touch with him on and off. He is good with children, isn’t he? He was so patient with Ria and Reema. Isn’t it almost a year now since we last met him?’

  ‘Yes, I think it has been just over a year. Do you remember how they clung to him and wouldn’t let him go?’

  ‘Of course. They both took turns sitting on his back and it was sweet of him to pretend to be an elephant and give them rides. His knees must have hurt,’ I say and smile at the memory.

  Aman had been visiting India, and Dipika and Vikram had invited me over for dinner while he was around. Since then, we had kept in touch online. He is refreshingly different from all the men I have known so far. There is a kind of sincerity and kindness in his eyes. Also he is articulate, well-mannered, polite and has a great sense of humour. He is a good conversationalist and he listens when you speak. It isn’t hard for me to see why Dipika’s family is so fond of him.

  Dipika and I lounge around on the deck chairs, chatting about everything. She calls it our ‘hanging out’ time. I rustle up some sandwiches for lunch. Finally
, Dipika says that she has to leave, as it is time to take both the girls for their ballet lessons and Vikram will not be able to do their hair by himself.

  After she leaves, I lie for a long time on my deck chair thinking about what she has said. I wonder if people change after marriage. She does sound down. She never used to be so cynical on her earlier visits but, of late, she has sounded increasingly negative.

  I just hope that it is a phase and will pass.

  My mother calls as usual. She never misses her weekly call to me.

  ‘How are you, darling? Are you doing well?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, all fine, Ma.’

  ‘And what are you working on at the moment?’

  My mother is quite proud of the fact that I work for a magazine. She boasts to all her friends that her daughter is a writer. My mother too writes for the Indian community magazine in Muscat, which is where she and Dad have been living for many years now. But she does not consider her writing a ‘real job’ as it is purely voluntary.

  ‘I have two stories, Ma. One is on fashion trends in colleges, the other on relationships.’

  ‘Good, good. Send me the scans when they appear.’

  ‘Of course, I will. Don’t I always?’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ she says and I can picture her smiling proudly.

  ‘And?’ she prompts.

  I know this is my cue to tell her about whether or not I have found a ‘suitable’ man. My mother is always pushing me to go and ‘find’ a man. Like it is so easy! Like there are suitable guys growing on trees and all I have to do is pick one.