Adi smiled. He darted towards the corner table, evading the subtle, curious gazes of the other guests. His eyes gleamed, reflecting the soft, golden candle light.
I looked at him – elated, amused. He’d kept his word after all. Not in my weirdest dreams did I imagine that he’d play his part to fulfil a half-serious promise. A promise he’d made twenty years ago.
Twenty years! Seemed like a lifetime. Yet, it seemed like just the other day, when we, a bunch of glittery-eyed youngsters, flung our graduation hats, all set to make a mark in the corporate world.
“Tomorrow, we graduate,” I said. “And then…”
“And then, what, Purni?” said Adi.
“And then, what?” I shrugged. “And then, you’ll go your way; I’ll go mine. You go to the US; I stay here. Out of sight, out of mind.”
My last few words were warbled. I had a lump in my throat. I was surprised to feel my eyes prickling. I widened them, trying to suppress any drop that threatened its way out. A long, steadying breath helped regain my composure.
Most of the batch was engrossed in the trance of music, drinks and dance. Adi and I had run out of cigarettes. We were at Bulu’s shack across the road opposite to the main gate of the campus. Bulu had a steady, varied selection. Moreover, he kept his shack open till the early morning, especially during party nights.
“No. I think we’ll stay in touch.” Adi blew out a ring of smoke and watched it merge into the dark, grey sky. He passed the cigarette to me.
“I don’t know.” I flicked the cigarette to tap the ash on to the ground. We wandered around the garden sucking in and puffing out, giving each other a fair share of the cigarette.
The ‘culvert’ was buzzing even at two. It was actually a quaint, wooden bridge that spanned across a small, beautiful lily pool. It was earmarked for lovers to take a sitting break amidst their nightly strolls through the TIMM campus.
My mind suppressed a flurry of confused emotions. The drinks, the dance and the psychedelic music had taken its toll. I felt heady.
“It’d be so much fun,” I said, “to meet up after twenty years.” I chuckled – and then, laughed, when I realised that it didn’t make any sense.
“Twenty years?” Adi looked at me. He smirked.
A group of girls waved at him from the other end of the ‘culvert’.
“Yeah,” he said after a few seconds and another puff. “Let’s meet up.” It seemed like an afterthought; perhaps a ploy to end the conversation. He thrust the remainder of the cigarette between my fingers and scurried towards the girls. It felt weird, but I was used to this.
For once, he turned towards me. “I promise,” he said, “that I’ll try my best to make it happen.” The remainder of the cigarette in my hand, I stood agape watching him merge into the throng, into the darkness of the night.
I giggled. The din of the diners two tables away from us plunged me back into the present.
“Nothing’s changed,” said Adi, still smiling. His tall, athletic frame leaned over for a polite hug. I saw him thrust a small gift box into my handbag before sinking into his chair.
“You still giggle for no reason.”
“And, you’re getting bald!” I said, giggled again.
Adi sighed, his eyes half closed. His fingers unconsciously moved towards his head in a futile attempt to conceal his receding hairline with whatever remained of his frizzy hair. We laughed.
I lowered my eyes into the menu booklet. I was excited, seeing Adi after so many years. I turned the pages, sneaking furtive glances at him. With a smile on his face, he seemed engrossed in choosing his food.
He was handsome – still very handsome, despite his glasses, his swelling brow and the odd blemishes.
An all-rounder in college, he ended up in the top five in our batch, with a plum job with StraitJacket, the iconic Silicon Valley software giant. Very few could come close to him in sports. He was hands down the best when it came to debate and quizzing. The annual marquee event, TIMMbre, would not have been half the success it was, if not for him at the helm. And on the tenth of every month, most of us looked forward to ‘Our TIMM-es’, the online college e-zine, founded by Adi. I’d be surprised if anyone in college had missed the editorial section, penned by him, splashed with spice and humour.
Adi was six feet tall, perhaps a fraction of an inch taller. He had always had a beautiful face – the forehead, the sharp nose, the chiselled cheeks and the broad, square jawline all perfectly sculpted. And he had always been well groomed, a stark contrast to most of the others in the campus. As if that was not enough, he had a natural way with women. Swayed by his smoothtalking and wild sense of humour, they flocked around him. Adi thrived in their attention. Although he denied it, I suspect that he had serious flings with a couple of them.
“Good evening, ma’am and sir,” said the waiter. “Have you decided on what you’ll have this evening?”
I stopped flipping the menu booklet. After a quick discussion, we decided on a white wine for me, a vodka with orange juice for him and a couple of starters. Neither of us were passionate foodies. In college, the only consumable in which we had a shared interest was the cigarette. And now, I realised, we didn’t even have that.
“When did you quit smoking?” My voice was shrill – almost a squeak of complaint. “And how?”
Adi laughed – at the comic eccentricity of my reaction? Perhaps.
“Long back,” he said. “Within a year of staying in the US.”
I nodded. “Was it the weather?”
“No,” he said, laughing again. “I didn’t have you for company.”
I joined him in his laughter, struggling to light the cigarette clasped between my lips.
The group on the adjacent table had left. The place was quieter and better than it had been twenty minutes ago. The beige walls with a dab of intricate woodwork, the exotic décor and the lighting – the ambience was breath-taking. From the twenty-first floor deck, through the full height glass walls, I could see the glitter of Mumbai reflecting the darkly shimmering Arabian Sea. It was magnificent. At The Paradise, the stars seemed to kiss the earth.
“Good choice, Adi. It’s a nice place.” I blew out a ring of smoke and stubbed the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray. I felt awkward with no one for company. I hoped that I wouldn’t get another craving for the remainder of our time together.
“Thanks, glad you liked it.” He wore a wry, nonchalant smile. I smiled back.
The waiter served our drinks. We clinked our glasses and took our first sips.
“How’s life as a celebrity CEO?”
Adi smirked. “Celebrity CEO…,” he echoed, almost in a whisper. He shook his head and looked into his glass, as if to find an answer from inside his drink. I wondered if the question was not apt for the occasion. I couldn’t think of a reason why it was not. Adi had become the youngest CEO of StraitJacket earlier that year. With his appointment, the company threatened to become the world’s number one in terms of market cap before the end of that year. Adi was splashed across newspapers, TV channels, the social media and coffee conversations until a few weeks back.
“What?” I narrowed my eyes and wrinkled my brow.
Adi looked towards me, still looking down. He curved his lips towards one side.
“Corporate life,” he said. “You’re only as good as your veneer and your destiny.”
“Whoa!” I wrinkled my forehead and raised an eyebrow over one of my squinted eyes. “When did you become so philosophical?”
He took another sip of his drink. I dug into a dry paneer that the waiter had served a few minutes back.
“Purni,” he said. “You know that as well as I do. Don’t you?”
My life was moving in the auto-mode. Unlike Adi, I’d hopped three companies – moved from one to the other when I felt that I was stifled for growth. And in my fourth, with BlueHat, I was heading a product line, yet to reach the stage when I needed to make my next move.
And then, there was family – a loving husband and a cherubic ten-year old daughter. We led a high-end life interspersed between our cosy apartment, swanky workplaces, synthetic parties and glossy vacations.
So, yes. Life was comfortably mundane. I didn’t go so far as to analyse life vis-à-vis veneer and destiny!
“My life’s not half as exciting as yours, Adi,” said I. “My brain’s numb with monotony. I don’t delve into these things.”
Adi nodded. He took another bite of garlic bread.
“There’s monotony everywhere, Purni.”
His eyes spoke a million words.
“Sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have been judgmental.”
“Stop it! Why should you say sorry for this?”
The lights were low. The music was soft. Amidst our words, all the elements of the milieu adjusted themselves to perfection.
“How’s Tanu?”
“She’s fine.” Adi swiped on his phone and after a couple of pokes, turned it towards me. “You’ve not seen her picture. Have you?”
The couple was all smiles. I smiled, taking the phone and zooming out the picture. I remembered that day, about fourteen years back. I had, by then, lost all contact with Adi. But, my heart missed a few beats when I learnt from a common friend that he was getting married. Now, deep within, I laughed at myself for being so silly and possessive of him.
“She’s beautiful. And you guys look good, together.”
Adi grinned. I saw a dash of devilish sarcasm on his face. Did he feel that I didn’t mean what I said? I was not so sure if I did.
“You don’t need to be so formal.” I shook my head to suggest I was not.
The craving for a cigarette threatened to get the better of me. I sipped my drink. Our conversation was dipping. We’d shared most of what was sharable of our current lives, when we got back in touch via a WhatsApp group of our batch. Some enthusiastic souls had made this group a couple of weeks back, to figure out if anything could be done about a twenty-year get-together in the campus.
But, I didn’t want our evening to end so soon. After all, I was with my best friend from my college days after two decades.
Adi broke the stalemate.“I miss those days,” he said.
“So do I.”
I felt a strong urge to reminisce those days – some of the best of my life.
“Should we order a repeat of our drinks?”
Adi read my mind. I nodded my head in the affirmative. The drinks were served in no time and I was enjoying my third glass of wine that evening. For the next hour, we relived those days over our drinks. Suddenly, we had a lot to speak about. Within minutes, I rediscovered the Adi that I sought that day – the nonsense, the taunts, the wisdom, the humour. Adi spoke about the Professors, the events, the dance parties, the pranks and our classmates.
We were deep into our conversation. Out of the blue, Adi broke the drift.
“You look gorgeous,” he said. “Were you like this in college?”
I took a deep long breath and lowered my eyes. Adi was one of the few who could make me blush. He still is… I thought.
At forty-three, I received such compliments from everyone. But it felt special coming from Adi. My fingers twirled the ends of my wavy locks. I couldn’t stop smiling.
“Nah,” he said. “You were not like this. You were a fat puppy. If you were like this, I’d have proposed to you.”
I waved my hand near his face, as if to slap him.
“You had an army of fans,” I said in a low voice. “Why would you even bother to look at me?”
My curious eyes met his, through his glasses. My lips quivered. I felt a few twists in my stomach. Was my wine getting into my head? Or perhaps it was because I was starved of cigarettes for the longest period in recent memory. I wondered what had happened to me.
“You know what,” he said. “I still remember you in that off-white and gold sari during the TIMM-bre Fashion Show. Traditional suits you. I hope you dress up in saris often these days.”
My jaw dropped.
“Are you serious?” I rushed down a couple of gulps of wine. The drinks had hit Adi for sure.
“I didn’t know that you even noticed me that day!” I laughed – a forced laughter. It was a façade, for sure. My lips continued to quiver. The few twists in my stomach gave way to a multitude of racy flutters. I realised that there was more to it than the drinks and my cigarette craving.
“But, you didn’t speak a word about that at that time?”
Adi sipped at his drink. I couldn’t resist any longer. I took a cigarette and lit it. I felt relieved blowing out the smoke towards the ceiling. Adi watched me; his lips stretched into a smile. Our eyes met again. I felt weird. Amidst the smoke and the drinks – I floated to a high.
“You’re a steam engine,” said Adi. “Why do you smoke so much?”
He ignored my question. I let it be.
“So concerned?” I laughed. I wondered how many more times I’d need to put on the façade that evening.
“I became an addict, thanks to you,” said I. “Do you even remember?”
I bit my lower lip and then blew out the smoke in a huff, all over Adi. He was a trifle taken aback at my passive aggression, but soon got back into his own, smiling at me. I looked at him. I’d always loved his eyes the most – deep, dark and mesmerising. They’d draw me into a beautiful reverie, from where I’d not want to come out.
“You know,” I blurted. “You’re still so attractive.” I coughed, as I stubbed my cigarette into the ashtray. I closed my watery eyes. I was not myself. I reached out for my glass of water. Adi held the glass up for me. I felt his hands touching mine. Adi’s touch, after two decades, sparked something in me.
This was not real. This was not I. How could it be? Adi was just a friend. I laughed out loud, without any control over my thoughts and words.
“You know, Adi,” I said, in warbled words, peppered with my laughter, “I had a crush on you in college. But, you were busy with your other girls. I didn’t want to take a chance and ruin our friendship.”
My stinging eyes were half closed. I sipped the water, still laughing.
“I did the right thing. Didn’t I?”
I expected to hear Adi reciprocate the laughter. He didn’t. I opened my eyes and saw his smile fade – little by little, into a grim, stoic expression. Our eyes met again. We didn’t speak a word. I was embarrassed. Did I say too much? Did I mean what I said? My brain was in shreds – confused, almost deranged.
We were done with our drinks. I reached out for another cigarette. I looked at Adi. His eyes dissuaded me from lighting it.
“Dinner?” asked Adi.
I realised, as much as he did, that we had had enough of the evening.
“I’m good.”
I felt uneasy – as if something was slipping away from me. Adi would go back to the US the following week. There was little hope of meeting the big man again. If at all, after another twenty years!
Was I crazy? A forty-something me, on the verge of stepping into middle-age – craving to experience the supposed love for a person I met after twenty years? I’m a wife, a mother. Stupid me. It was too late.
Soon, we parted ways.
In my car, I relived our conversations that evening. My eyes felt raw.
All of a sudden, I remembered the gift pack that Adi had thrust into my bag. I vaguely remembered that he had thrust a similar pack into my bag on the last day of college. It was odd, but then, it was Adi. With the excitement of the last day, I had misplaced it and didn’t get to see its contents. I didn’t want to repeat that mistake.
I rummaged my bag, took it out and tore open the cover. It was a framed old photograph of the two of us with the words:
“Our first in the same frame…wish we have many more…”
Then there was a small card that read:
“Doesn’t it look familiar? I’d shared this one with you twenty years ago? Do you still have it? Pity, we didn’t capture any more – although, I’ve captured and treasured all our good times together in the safe confines of my heart. – Adi”
