Tea for Two and a Piece of Cake (12 page)

With a Little Help From My Friends

R
eading the journal has brought back a flood of memories. It is as though a door which had been closed has suddenly opened, and you have discovered an entirely new room in your home which you had forgotten existed. It is like I want to retrace every single thing that happened ever since Samir and I got married, to examine and see if there were signs or warnings of something amiss in our marriage all along. Till Samir walked out, I never knew what pain
really
feels like. Never had I felt like this—not even when my father died. This pain—it feels like a vicious beast attacking me, baring its menacing claws and teeth when I am bound and gagged, and it will get my throat any moment now. Mostly, I feel helpless.

There is nothing I can do. And I think it is mostly my outrage at the injustice of it all that is making me want to wail out loudly. Tears stream down my cheeks and I get up to wash my face. Then I make a cup of tea for myself. And I settle down on the rocking chair in the balcony with my journals again.

It is funny how eight years change you, make you forget the tiny details. But when you open that door, it suddenly comes back crystal clear. It is as though the journal is the key to my past. It is as though by looking back, I can make some sense of the pieces that my life now lies in.

The next entry in the journal is on November 11, 2001.

It is just a very short entry which reads:

The entry ends abruptly there, and I think back and recall that day in vivid detail.

It had been three weeks since I joined the baking and cooking course. I had told Samir that I was beginning to get bored at home after ten days of staying put, and that I was contemplating joining some cooking course.

‘You are going to cook?’ he had asked smiling.

‘Come on! I am not that bad a cook. Haan, I might not be as good as your Baiju Maharaj yet, but wait and see. You will soon be begging for stuff I cook.’

‘You know, Nisha, how diet-conscious I am. I am careful about what I eat, and Baiju knows exactly what I want. He’s been with me for ages. Just leave the cooking to him.’

I did feel a bit upset at the way he put it so frankly. But a marriage is all about honesty, isn’t it? I do know how very careful he is about his diet, and how he will not miss his workout at the gym for anything in the world (A lean, taut, muscular body like that of Adonis does not come without all that hard work). But still, there was no need to be so upfront about it.

‘Okay, Samir. I won’t do the course and I won’t cook for you. Happy?’

‘Hey, Nisha. Don’t get upset. Go do the course! It makes you happy, right?’

‘It’s not that it makes me happy, Samir. You are at work the whole day and when you come back, you don’t want to talk about it. I am at home the whole day. Cooking and cleaning is taken care of by your efficient staff.’

‘Not “your”, my love, it is now “OUR”. This home is as much yours as it is mine,’ he gently corrects me.

‘Well, what I am saying is that this is not how it used to be before, Samir. I felt good at work, I felt good discussing every project with you, and how you valued my inputs. And now suddenly I am at home, with nothing to do except waiting for you to get back. Then
you don’t even want to discuss things that happened at office with me anymore.’

‘I leave my office worries in the office itself, Nisha. And besides, when have we really talked work after office? I need to unwind once I get back home, I need to take a breather, and talking about work is a strain. I thought you of all people would understand that.’

He was right as usual, of course. In office, we gave work our hundred per cent, but once we left office, we made it a point not to talk about it. We just ended up having some amazing sex and we were recharged for the next day.

‘Yeah, Samir, you’re right. I don’t know why I am getting so worked up these days.’

He had kissed me on the forehead and said, ‘Go do the course baby, you will feel good.’

The course turns out to be a very good one. When it came to cooking, I knew only the basic items like rice, dal, rotis, and a few vegetables. In my growing up years, Malati Tayi had cooked for us, and after she passed away, I had managed the basics. My father never cooked, except for the regular cups of tea he made for himself. He had once said that my mother had been a really superb cook. So maybe it was genetic, I don’t know, but I find myself really interested in learning all that the course instructor has to teach. She is Mrs Indrayani, a round, fat, Punjabi lady, and she proudly announces that food is her passion. It shows.

We have learnt how to bake a mouth-watering pineapple cake. The course includes everything—right from starters to main course to desserts. It includes the basic dishes from four styles, namely, Mughlai, Continental, Indian, and Chinese. I get to learn the various terminologies used in cooking; I learn the difference between sautéing and blanching, and the julienne style of chopping vegetables. I also learn how in Chinese cooking, cutting the vegetables with precision is the most important thing, and how it has to be cooked on very high flame for very little time.

Baiju has already cooked for the day and left. But I badly want to cook, to try out all that I have learnt in my cooking class. I zero in on a sumptuous-sounding Chinese meal and decide to go shopping for the ingredients I would need. When I finally make it, I am so pleased with the results. The fried rice and noodles are cooked to perfection. So are the stir-fried vegetables in hot garlic sauce. And so is the chilly–garlic chicken. I am so darn proud of my first home-cooked meal that I simply sit and gaze at it in admiration. It looks so professional for a first timer! Maybe I do have my mother’s natural flair for cooking. In a strange way, I feel connected to my mother, and it has been ages since I have thought of her.

I feel so happy that I immediately call up Samir to tell him of my culinary achievement. He listens and then says that it is a good thing, but he is in an important meeting and will get back to me later. I apologize and tell him that there is a lot of food and I would like to call my friends over to celebrate. He distractedly agrees.

I have been in touch with Chetana and Akash ever since I got back from Seychelles. I now feel a kind of special bond with them because they actually made so much effort to be with me throughout my wedding, playing the part of my family.

I call them and insist that they come to my home straight from work and that I will not take a ‘no’ for an answer.

‘But, Nisha, it will take us at least one and a half hours to get to your place from Andheri,’ says Chetana.

‘So when did distance become an issue to visit an old friend? Get Akash and just come!’ I order.

‘He has his tennis practice and you know how important that is for him.’

‘Tell him I said I will get very upset if he doesn’t come and that he can give up his tennis for just one day.’

Finally they arrive. I squeal in joy as I open the door and hug them. It is the first time I am meeting them after my marriage. They are completely impressed with my home, just as I was when I had stepped into this house with Samir, for the first time all those months ago. It is now my home too. They can’t stop raving about the house, the skylight, the view of the ocean, the airy balconies, the well done-up interiors, and the location.

‘Nisha, you are so darn lucky to be living here!’ exclaims Akash. Chetana too is undisguised in her admiration and oohs and aaahs at appropriate places, as I give them a walking tour of my home.

Samir watches us with an amused look on his face. He has come a little earlier than usual.

I have set the table well and it looks very attractive with placemats and the tablecloth and cutlery neatly arranged. (Table setting is a part of the course as well, and I am a proud student today.) Chetana and Akash just cannot believe that I have done all the cooking. Akash asks me to confess whether I got it from a restaurant. I tell them about my cooking course and how much I am enjoying it.

They talk about Parinita, how she has become even stricter than before. Akash says he is preparing hard for the CAT exam en route to an MBA. He says his goal is to get into one of the IIMs, the most coveted management institutes in the country, and that that the job at Point to Point is only temporary. Chetana talks about the latest parade of men in her arranged-marriage chapter. She says that she has met about four IIT graduates so far, and each one turned out to be crazier than the last. She says most of them are selfish pricks and have no idea of how to talk to a woman. She talks about how most are so scared that they are not ‘cool enough’ and she talks about how unfit they all are, and how they have no sense of what to wear, and how they have this superior attitude and think they are smarter than most people around.

Akash cleverly refuses to comment but he winks at me and says ‘Yeah, non-IIT guys are cooler any day’ and then he asks Samir about his education and says sheepishly, ‘I hope you are not from IIT.’

Samir politely says that he has gone to Wharton, before which he went to Hughes Hall, Cambridge. Samir’s educational qualifications are as blue-blooded as
they can get. Akash does not know what to say, but he is clearly in awe of Samir now.

‘It must be really expensive to study in those places, right?’ asks Chetana.

I feel a little embarrassed. Samir comes from money. For their family, it wouldn’t really be as ‘expensive’ as Chetana puts it. I wonder what made Chetana make a comment like that. It’s not as though her folks aren’t wealthy. But I suppose, if Samir is royalty here, she is perhaps not even a minor nobleman.

What are you and Akash then, Nisha? Commoners?

I hate myself even as I think that thought. Since when did I start classifying friends according to the wealth of their families? I quickly squash the thought and change the topic as it starts making me feel increasingly uncomfortable.

‘Hey, what is Deepti up to nowadays?’ I ask, deliberately changing the topic.

Chetana talks about Deepti and Prashant. She talks about how they are the only ones at Point to Point who will stick around till the end. She says she is also planning to leave the agency soon.

Samir does not talk much at all. I badly want to show him off. I want my friends to think of him as charming, clever, and down-to-earth, the qualities I most admire in him. I badly want him to impress my friends. But he has withdrawn into polite silence and answers mostly in monosyllables, even when they try to draw him into our conversations. Akash, Chetana, and I carry on the cheerful banter, but I am beginning to feel very uncomfortable at how Samir is interacting with them.
They, of course, have no clue of the slightly substandard treatment that Samir is meting out to them, and they presume he is taciturn and reserved.

No sooner than they leave, Samir says ‘phew’ as he exhales sharply.

I am too angry with him to speak. But I cannot keep quiet and I blurt out.

‘Look Samir, if you did not want my friends to come, you should have said so in the first place. You were so withdrawn all through the meal, making me feel like you were condescending towards them.’

‘Did you ask if I wanted to socialize with them?’

‘Come on! What is to ask? I did mention it to you on the phone when you were in a meeting.’

‘You know how I am when I am working. Nothing you said really registered.’

I am upset and I keep quiet.

‘See, it was different when you were working there. You have moved on in life, Nisha. You are now Mrs Samir Sharma. I cannot really relate to all the talk about your internal Point to Point politics, nor does it interest me in the least. I do find both of them a little immature, and come on—we are at a different level from where they are.’