One Indian Girl(77)

‘Fine, I can move to London. But it has to feel like a new job. I don’t want you in my life. At all.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘No common deals. No being in touch. Be gone. Clear?’

‘How can we. . .’

‘Neel, I am serious. If this is reported, you get into trouble. Not me. You are the boss.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘I am saying I am serious. I am going to be a huge mess. I don’t know if I will be able to pick up the pieces again. I don’t want you in my life there. That is why I am leaving.’

‘Okay,’ Neel said in a heavy voice and came back to his seat.

‘Thanks.’

‘Someone from the London office will call you this evening,’ he said.

‘Fine. Can I leave now?’

‘Yeah,’ he said and paused. ‘Radhika?’

‘Yes?’

‘I am sorry.’

‘For?’

‘I am sorry I let you down.’

I stood up to leave.

‘I let myself down, Neel.’





32


I felt a lump in my throat as I replayed Hong Kong in my head. My hand holding the breakfast plate trembled. Neel looked at me. My relatives continued to fill the dining room. I drank a glass of water to buy time.

‘Can we talk in private? Please?’ Neel whispered.

‘How, Neel? Can’t you see? I am at my wedding.’

‘I have a room here. Come for a little bit. Please.’

‘How did you get a room? They told us they were full.’

‘It’s not important. Please, fifteen minutes?’

‘But how did you get a room?’ I said. I wanted to scream at the lobby manager.

‘I took the presidential suite. That’s all they had. Now can you come there? Room 101?’

Of course, Mr Partner had to be in the presidential suite. My cousins waved, gesturing me to come back.

‘I need to have breakfast with my cousins. See you in thirty minutes,’ I said.



‘You said you would leave me alone,’ I said as he opened the door. I entered his lavish 3,000-square-feet presidential suite. I sat on one of the sofas in the suite living room. He didn’t respond. He went to the electric kettle at the corner of the room and filled it with water.

‘Tea?’ he said.

‘Neel! I don’t have time. You said you wouldn’t bother me.’

‘I cut off for a year. Did I ever bother you in London?’ he said. ‘Would you like some green tea?’

‘What is it you wanted to tell me?’ I said.

‘Can you relax?’ Neel said. ‘How about a “Hey, how have you been?”’

‘Neel,’ I said. ‘I don’t have time for pleasantries.’

‘I am just making conversation. Am I allowed to do that while I make a cup of tea?’

‘Sure,’ I said.

‘We haven’t caught up in a year. How was London? You know I grew up there, right?’

‘I do.’

‘So how was it?’

I just kept looking at him.

‘What?’

‘I am not here to talk about London.’

‘Give me a minute. I need to bring something from the other room.’

I nodded. He went into the bedroom. I looked out of the window. The sea was silent behind the double-glazed glass. Neel’s mention of London brought back many memories of my move there.





London

One Year Ago





33


The Goldman Sachs office in London is located on 133 Fleet Street. The office at Peterborough Court is at the same site as the old Daily Telegraph building. Patricia, the group secretary, settled me into my new cubicle. The British accent in the London office reminded me of Neel. When you break up, it becomes a habit to remember everything about the man—with my second heartbreak I had learnt this much. Neel was a habit, a bad habit rather, almost an addiction. Like smoking, when you know it is bad for you but you can’t seem to leave it. I also learnt that you don’t get better at handling heartbreaks. They suck every single time, even though this time was marginally better since I had initiated the break-up. I battled the urge to email him, telling him I had arrived at the new place.

Why couldn’t he email me? Why couldn’t he call? Well, how could he? I had threatened to expose him.

I missed his voice. I missed his eyes. I missed his touch. I missed all that he did to me, with me, in bed. So what if he is married? He loves me, and love is what I need, right?

See, this is how your mind plays games with you. If it wants you to do something, it will find a hundred reasons to justify it. What’s more, the reasons will even make sense. I picked up the internal phone on my desk to call Neel.

The buzz on my cellphone disrupted my thoughts. In the past few months my mother had discovered WhatsApp. She had sent me a message.

‘Checked profile?’

You won’t give up, will you? I wanted to type back.

‘Doing it, now,’ I replied instead.

I opened shaadi.com on my office laptop. The screen displayed happy faces of couples in nuptial bliss, who had found each other on this website. Testimonials spoke of how a couple who met on the site married within three months and were now expecting a child. Was finding love that simple? Why did I find it difficult? Why did I have to complicate everything? Or was there something wrong with me?