Authors: Sindhu S.
The Plunge
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Copyright (c) 2012 Sindhu S.
All rights reserved
ISBN: 1461159253
ISBN 13: 9781461159254
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62347-888-9
LCCN 2012923812
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I dedicate this book to all incurable romantics.
This story has seen the light of day only because of my son
Advaaith, my constant inspiration.
Suresh, Mandeep, Stacey and
Sudeshna, thank you for being there.
All characters in this work are fictitious.
Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
Some liberties were taken in quoting historical events.
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Contents
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A
njali was in love again.
Strange, that she was hooked on a voice just when she had crossed into the wrong side of thirty, ending her ten years of misandry. Sad, the voice happened to be in the wrong throat.
Swapna stared at her friend, then turned to the window and peered into darkness outside.
The broiled day had settled into the cold embrace of an October night. Dust, blown about by the storm earlier that evening, was driven into the unguarded nooks of the city. One more languid sunset in Rajkot; a sigh dodged her guard and mingled with the cold air in the room.
Anjali sat on the bed, leaning against the wall. A sudden rush of blood to her face made her look exceptionally pretty. Her chin quivered occasionally, rudely discounting the struggle of the pursed lips to hide her nervousness. When she raised her face, lips pinched, the habitually reclusive dimple on her chin showed up without a fuss. She always looked stunning when excited, with that mystic twinkle in her blue eyes.
“I can’t wait anymore, Swapna. I need to feel loved for once, stupid,” Anjali said, tears brimming up her eyes. She tightly held a pillow, as if to squeeze out an approval from it.
“I can’t chuck happiness anymore Swapna. Siddharth makes me feel terribly happy. He makes me feel like a woman. I feel loved,” she gushed out.
It reminded her of the young Anjali from their school days. The skinny girl who stood recounting multiplication tables to their mathematics teacher, her grip tightening on the skirt each time she fumbled. Her large eyes stealing glances at her unrelenting tormentor, she would start afresh, staring at the menacing yellow cane every now and then.
“Numbers don’t stay in my head.” Anjali had an explanation for everything.
That was more than twenty three years ago. The eight-year-old girl from their boarding-school days was now a mature woman, though essentially she was much the same.
The grime-covered glass of the windowpane throbbed against the cold metal frame at odd intervals, as if possessed. The clatter seemed to echo Anjali’s unsettled emotions. If only some miracle could calm her instantly.
Winters in Rajkot were always like this. The days were hot and exhausting, the evenings pleasant, and the nights freezing cold. But the comfort of their homes had become less appealing to people ever since that fateful earthquake had shaken the Saurashtra and Kutch regions of Gujarat nine months ago.
The wind occasionally howled outside, admitting impatience. It rocked against the window, pleading with it to be let in. She sniffed to spot the thin layer of dust that enveloped the floor of the living room, having inched in through the gap under the main door.
Swapna let go of her hold on the curtain, which fell into place right away, as if relieved to be out of her grip. She turned her face towards Anjali, and gazed at her. Seeing no response, she shook her head sideways. Lips sucked in, she walked to her friend’s side.
“Anjali, but he’s a married man, in fact happily married; with two grown-up kids and a wife he claims to love dearly. How can you say he loves you? It’s just not possible, girl,” Swapna said regretting her high pitch. She sat down next to Anjali and shook her by the shoulders, anxious to snap her out of her fixation.
Anjali tilted her head and looked at Swapna, with doleful eyes, setting the mood for her argument. “No, he loves me. I’m sure he does. He said he keeps thinking about me all the time. He waits for my messages, checks for my emails first thing every morning.”
Not convinced, Swapna looked at her with raised brows, biting her lower lip.
Anjali nodded as if to assure her, and said, “He said we could keep it platonic, and not cross into the forbidden. It’s possible, Swapna. Two mature adults can be in love even if they do not have the legal right to do so.” Anjali stopped her plea and looked at her for a response.
She seemed convinced that she had finally met someone she had been desperately wanting. That someone she had lost hope of finding was suddenly before her. She wouldn’t agree that her ideal man was a mere creation of a desperate mind.
Anjali hugged the pillow as if she feared someone would snatch it away, eyes fixed on her confidant. She was possibly sifting for signs of empathy, Swapna knew. At that moment, she looked like a little girl protecting her prized doll from harm.
“I must live my life. I must experience love, and whatever comes with it,” Anjali stressed each word, as if to sway Swapna with her emotional appeal.
This was the same Anjali who would not mess about with destiny. That was nine months ago. Nine months was too long a time for Anjali, who thrived on impulse. Nobody knew her next move, not even Swapna, her conscience-keeper from school days.
A childlike stubbornness made Anjali look younger. Her hair was tousled, a few strands moist with tears stuck to her cheeks as if pledging their loyalty. She looked miserable yet determined.
The conversation came to an end when Rishi walked into the room. He would be tall, like his father, Swapna thought as she looked at her eleven-year-old son.
“Have you finished your homework?”
Rishi nodded, picked up a Spiderman toy from the table, and walked out quietly.
“He is turning into an introvert,” said Anjali after he left the room. She turned her gaze back to Swapna.
“Why did Vinod do that? Why commit suicide?” Anjali’s voice cracked as she spoke. It was as if she suddenly realised there were other things in the world that were just as important as her obsession with Siddharth.
Swapna shook her head and said impassively. “I don’t know why he did that. Nobody knows, not even his mother. I don’t know why he didn’t understand that his son needed him. I attended his funeral for Rishi’s sake. I also hoped his mother would be able to tell me something about his sudden despair. He had sounded very low when he had called up a day before…” Swapna left her thought midway, as if it would hurt her to complete it.
It was difficult to forgive a man who had fled from life when it posed the slightest challenge. He left them when Rishi needed his support the most. Dyslexia was a simple mental challenge, though it made normal schooling impossible.
The apology Vinod had emailed a few days before he died did not help her forgive him.
Anjali was Swapna’s only thought that night. As her son lay asleep next to her, she tried to analyse what Anjali hoped to achieve. Her friend was going through a difficult time.
Did Siddharth really love Anjali? If he did, then why was he insisting on secrecy? Was he just a flirt? Was he trying to trap Anjali in an abusive relationship? If he was so scared of acknowledging the friendship they shared, then he must be considering it a mistake that would have to be corrected at a future date. Did that not mean that he would dump her at the first sign of trouble? How would poor Anjali handle her emotions then, sensitive, temperamental, and insecure as she was?
Anjali was serious about Siddharth, and seemingly convinced that she had finally met her man. She too had similar feelings when she had met Vinod for the first time, years ago. He was not exactly handsome. She was not an irresistible woman, either. She was a little too plump. But Vinod had said he did not like skinny women.
Their life was perfect for almost a year. Was it the birth of Rishi that created insecurity in Vinod’s parents? Probably.
“She won’t be able to take care of the child. Let her be with us for at least a year,” his mother had said. And he had agreed.
Ten years since she first came to live in Rajkot, life had changed. Vinod had resigned from his job and had gone to live with his mother. He had started feeling guilty about not being present at his father’s deathbed. When they went to Kerala for the funeral, his mother exploited the moment. She managed to convince him to leave his job and settle down in the village. Vinod left them and a promising career, with shocking ease. That was two years ago. Her pleading only pushed him further away. And now, he was dead.
Men were weak and their emotions easy to play with, she had learned. Swapna had never understood Vinod’s mother, how her perverted mind interpreted life. She blinked her eyes in disgust.
Her thoughts drifted back to Anjali. She fantasised, and then became obsessed with them.
Anjali would leave for her assignment the next morning. This would be her second trip to Kutch, a followup story for her newspaper, on the life of the earthquake victims.
