The Secret wish List (23 page)

‘Wow, Tanu, this is awesome!’ I exclaim.

‘Yeah, isn’t it just?’ She is as delighted as me.

‘Why didn’t you mention this one before? We could have saved the whole morning.’

‘Aaah, then you wouldn’t have appreciated it so much. It is only when we go through bad experiences that we recognise the good ones,’ I say.

‘So right about that. But don’t tell me we went all over town even though you knew this one existed, just for the experience?’

‘No, Tanu. I knew this was there but I never expected it to be so good. I had only seen it from outside. I’ve never been inside this complex.’

Tanu goes to the site office. Many of the homes are unoccupied as the project is just getting completed. There are plenty of options available for rent as many of the owners live abroad and have bought apartments here purely as investments or to move in at a later date.

Tanu finalises a beautiful three-bedroom penthouse which overlooks the pool. Since it is going to be leased by her company, she passes on all the details to the property manager who manages all this stuff. I am very impressed.

‘One of the perks of being in this organisation, babes. We don’t have to worry about any of this. In fact, at very senior levels, they have these personal concierge services, where everything they want is taken care of. Can you believe one of the senior executives wanted some particular drink flown in from Australia and they arranged for it?’ she says.

‘Wow, what luxury,’ I exclaim.

‘I agree, but then they slog off their butts too. These are small ways in which they can retain people.’

I think about how different Tanu’s world is from mine. I am happy about her success and how far she has come in life. But it once again painfully reminds me that the only thing I have really to show for my life, in these past years, is a well-raised child and perhaps a well-kept home. I am not even proud of my husband anymore.

Tanu drops me off and tells me I will have to accompany her over the weekend to go furniture shopping. She intends to move in that weekend itself.

‘And the best part about this property is that it is just a stone’s throw away from your home. I feel so good, we are now so close to each other. Bring Abhay over anytime. He would love to use the pool and bowling alley,’ she says.

I too am very happy to have her live so close by.

Ankit calls almost as soon as I enter the house.

‘And,
meine liebe
, how are we this morning?’ he asks.

‘Not so good, really,’ I answer him honestly.

‘What happened?’ I ask.

‘Will fill you in, face to face, when you come here. When are you coming?’

‘Tomorrow. You know what? I am planning to start a business hotel there. I have a meeting with some people tomorrow. It will give me a legitimate reason to move base to Bangalore. I want to be closer to you.’

I am stunned that he is actually contemplating moving base to Bangalore. I ask him about his current living arrangements and about his parents. I learn that they are divorced now. His mother lives in Mumbai and his father is still in Chennai.

Ankit travels the world over and has no fixed place that he can call home. The business group that he has set up has service apartments, resorts and hotels in major cities in India, as well as a few locations abroad and, at all these places, he has an exclusive presidential suite just for himself, which is where he stays when he travels.

‘It is high time we had a presidential suite to ourselves in Bangalore too. I am kind of bored with Leela,’ he quips.

I marvel at how easily Ankit deals with millions of rupees worth of business, as though it is child’s play. To me, it all seems extraordinary and amazing. For him, it is just business as usual. I have only read about such go-getting business tycoons in newspapers like
The
Economic Times
and business magazines. I have never personally encountered anybody from that circle. And here is one, madly in love with me, an ordinary housewife.

When I mention this to Ankit, he says, ‘You may call yourself ordinary, Diksha. But you fail to see your own qualities.’

‘And what qualities are those?’ I persist, hungry for his praise.

‘Beauty, intelligence, smartness, but, most importantly, empathy and a kind heart,’ he says.

I know he genuinely means all of it and I glow in the warmth of his words.

‘For how long are you here?’ I ask.

‘Three days, maybe four. Depends on how the discussions go. I am looking at properties too,’ he says.

‘And in between all this, will you still have time for me?’

‘You forget that you are the reason I am doing this whole deal. I am doing it to have more time with you. That’s how much you mean to me, Diksha.’

‘We could meet at my place this time, Ankit. I want you to see my house and also meet Abhay.’

‘And what about your husband? How will you explain to him?’

‘He is out of town. He won’t be back for a week or maybe even a fortnight. There is a lot I have to tell you.’

‘Hmmm, okay. In that case, let me finish my morning meetings. I’ll be there by noon. Is that fine?’

‘Perfect. I can hardly wait.’

‘Me too, Diksha. You know, any moment that I am not working, I am thinking of you. You are a song playing inside my head continuously in auto-loop.’

‘I think about you all the time, Ankit, all the time. I myself wonder how it is even possible that the auto-loop is forever on, 24 X 7.’

I feel that I have to ‘prepare my home’ for his visit. I want it to look really nice. I instruct the house-help to give all the bathrooms an extra scrubbing as I am having guests over. I tell her that everything should be spotless. I shift a few plants from the garden to the living room. It gives the room a cozy and welcoming look.

I tell Abhay that an old schoolmate, called Ankit, is coming home for dinner and that he is a successful businessman who has a large chain of hotels and resorts.

‘Oh, does Tanu know him?’ he asks. Tanu has specified that Abhay call her by name and not ‘Tanu Aunty’ or ‘Aunty Tanu’ as is the norm.

‘“Tanu Aunty” makes me feels so old. I am not an aunty yet, am I?’ she had smiled.

She and Abhay had got along really well. She had showed him a few tricks with his favourite video game, ‘Super Mario Bros’, when she had dropped in one evening and he had been thoroughly impressed with her ever since.

‘Ma! Tanu is so cool. She knows all the video games. And she is your age. How come you do not know anything?’ he had asked.

That is because I was busy raising you, feeding you, taking you to school, teaching you the alphabets, teaching you to ride a bike, and there was no time for video games in my life. She hasn’t had a child yet.

‘What to do? Your mummy is a
buddhuram
.’

‘No, that isn’t true. My mummy is very smart too, in a different way and I love her very much. She’s the BEST,’ he had said and given me an enormous hug. I had smiled broadly and hugged him back.

And this is how Ankit and I meet at my home. He texts me as soon as he lands in Bangalore.

‘Landed. Meeting them in the morning. See you at twelve thirty?’

‘Can’t wait. Come soon!’
I text back

‘Do you want me to cancel the meetings?’

‘No way! You meet and finish your work. Work comes first, romance later.’

‘You’re a darling. Loads of love. Mmmmuah. See you soon.’

It is funny how a few words typed in an electronic medium have the power to affect emotions this much. I truly feel on top of the world after I read his texts. It is like I am flying, like I am invincible. Love is a drug that gives a natural high. No wonder it has been an eternal subject of thousands of poets, artists, writers. I wonder if everyone in love feels the same way—that theirs is an exclusive emotion which nobody else can understand.

I go about fluffing up the cushions in the living room as the radio plays on. All the mushy love songs on radio have taken on new depth now. I smile at my own silliness as I listen to the lyrics of the song that is now playing:

When I look in your eyes

You’re all I ever wanted,

I always want you to be mine

Let’s make a promise till the end of time ,

We’ll always be together,

And our love will never die.

I would earlier not pay much attention to lyrics or even bother about music. But now I find myself looking up love songs, searching for their lyrics on the Internet so that I can send them to Ankit. It is as though no matter how much I express my love for him, it isn’t enough.

And finally, Ankit lands up at my doorstep. I open the door and see his eyes light up and his whole face transform before my very eyes. He looks a carefree, happy and besotted man.

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.