Page 10 of 12 Years: My Messed-up Love Story

‘You?’

he screamed, then instantly lowered his voice to avoid being overheard by the guests inside.

‘You rascal, how did you even get in?’

He opened his phone and checked the automatic visitor notification.

‘Mudit? You lied about your name,’

Anand said as he read the notification.

‘But what else can I expect …’

‘Uncle, I’m Mudit,’

Mudit said.

‘Saket’s friend.’

Anand ignored him completely and spoke to me.

‘I don’t want to see you. I’m calling security.’

‘I don’t want to see you either. I need to see Payal. Call her,’

I said, full of Old Monk confidence.

‘You’re drunk?’

Anand said, sniffing the air around me like a constipated mouse.

‘Call her, or I’ll go inside and find her myself,’ I said.

‘Security,’

Anand spoke into the phone.

‘Please come to the fifth floor. I’m in danger.’

‘You’re not in danger, Uncle, or Mr Jain or whatever. I’m just here to see my girlfriend, who’s being kept here forcibly,’ I said.

‘Get lost,’

Anand said.

‘Who is it, ji?’

Yashodha called out as she came to the door.

She looked at Mudit and me, aghast.

Both of us wore old T-shirts and shorts—Janata Bar couture.

In contrast, the Jains looked like actors in a Tanishq Diwali ad.

Anand wore a brocade silk kurta with a matching embellished waistcoat.

Yashodha wore a purple saree with golden embroidery all over it.

She also wore a massive diamond necklace, gleaming with more stones than South Africa’s total annual production.

‘Where did he come from? This curse?’

she muttered.

Okay, she was referring to me.

‘Aunty, please call Payal. I’ll speak to her and leave,’ I said.

‘We have a family function going on,’

Yashodha said.

‘I’m coming in,’ I said.

‘No, you’re not,’

Anand said, blocking the door with his arm, as if that would stop me. I could snap his arm like a twig. And given my mood, I was about to.

Anand called the building security again. They told him the guards were on their way up. Fine. I could take them on too, if needed. Rage seethed in me. I wanted to see my girl. I couldn’t let a weak, fat man who only ate carbs stop me.

‘I’ll call Payal,’

I said, dialling her number from Mudit’s phone. She didn’t pick up.

What was she doing inside? Talking to that asshole Parimal? Hadn’t she noticed the commotion at the door?

The lift doors opened in the corridor outside the Jains’

apartment. Three puny but self-important-looking guards came running towards us, as if this were a hostage situation.

‘Take them away,’

Anand said.

‘Let’s go, Saket,’

Mudit said, eyeing the guards.

‘We can deal with this later.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I said.

‘Take them, I said!’

Anand shouted.

One of the security guards came towards me. He seemed intimidated by my size and signalled another guard to come up behind me.

‘Don’t touch me,’

I said, raising my hands as they tried to hold me. I clenched my fists, ready to punch.

One of the security guards pulled out a walkie-talkie. He asked for backup like he was Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible.

‘My girlfriend is inside. Payal Jain. I’m only here to meet her. This man is preventing me from going in. Take him away, not me,’ I said.

The guards hesitated for a second, confused.

Anand was livid.

‘This is my house. What are you waiting for? Take him away! I’m calling the police.’

He dialled a number.

‘Patil, send a few men, please. Yes, the same rascal. He’s landed up at my daughter’s engagement and is creating a ruckus.’

Engagement? What the fuck did he just say? This wasn’t a family get-together or even a roka? It was a freaking engagement? Did Payal lie to me?

‘The cops are coming,’

Anand said.

‘You won’t leave otherwise.’

Mudit shook my shoulder, realizing things had escalated while the Old Monk was wearing off.

‘Let’s go, bro, he’s called the cops.’

‘Fuck the cops, man. They’re getting Payal engaged,’ I said.

The entrance door opened and Payal emerged.

She was wearing a pink lehenga with delicate red flowers embroidered all over it, each flower centred with tiny gold and silver stones.

Even drunk, I noticed the intricate details.

She looked like the most beautiful bride in the world.

And even though I had sworn off marriage for a while, I could’ve married her right then and there.

‘Payal,’

I said, my voice softening.

‘I just need to talk to you.’

‘Payal, go back inside, now!’

Yashodha said.

‘Saket? Mudit?’

Payal looked at us, shocked.

‘Two minutes, Payal. Please, Mr Jain, Mrs Jain … I want to talk to her for two minutes, then I’ll leave,’

I said, my voice breaking. No, I wouldn’t cry. Staying angry was better.

‘Go inside, Payal,’

Anand said firmly.

‘We have guests. Yashodha, take her inside, and attend to the guests.’

‘No, Dad, let me talk to him,’

Payal said, her eyes locked on mine.

I could tell she still loved me. I couldn’t bear to be away from her for even one more minute. No, I would take her away with me, right now.

‘Go inside, Payal,’

Anand said.

‘The police will take care of him.’

‘Two minutes, Dad?’

Before her father could respond, Payal ducked under his arm, which was still blocking the door, and stepped outside.

‘This isn’t the best time and place, Saket,’

Payal said as she came towards me.

I swear I could’ve grabbed her face and kissed it right there. Somehow, I resisted.

‘Payal.’

Anand pulled his daughter back by her elbow.

‘Have you gone mad?’

‘Dad, leave me alone. You go inside. I’ll talk to him and then come in. I promise.’

‘No, I’m going to be right here,’

Anand said, peeking inside his house to ensure his other guests hadn’t seen us.

‘I love you, Payal,’

I blurted out.

‘Get out of here!’

Anand said.

‘Guards, take him away. Right now.’

The three guards pounced on me immediately. I could’ve pried them away easily, but I didn’t. My entire focus was on Payal.

‘Come with me,’

I said, even as the guards tried to pull me away.

‘I don’t have all the answers, but we’ll figure it out together. Come with me, Payal, now.’

‘Saket,’

Payal said.

‘what are you saying?’

‘I’m saying leave your house and come with me.’

‘I’ll make sure you rot in jail,’

Anand said, calling someone on his phone to see where the cops had reached.

‘How can I do that?’

Payal said.

‘And now? I have guests at home.’

‘You’re getting engaged, Payal. You’re fucking getting engaged! After living with me, sleeping in the same bed with me for a year.’

Anand came forward and slapped me hard across my face. He would’ve hit me more, but Mudit stopped him.

‘Uncle, we’re leaving. Saket, let’s go,’ he said.

‘Payal, please. Please?’

Both she and I teared up.

‘Please, Payal?’

I said again. I hoped my pleading would remind her of my tiny apartment, the ledge we spent countless nights on and how much I loved her.

A few of the guests came to the door. A young man in his mid-twenties was among them. Was it Parimal?

‘What happened, Uncle?’

he said, hovering behind Anand.

‘Nothing, Parimal. Guy’s a mental patient,’

Anand said.

‘Lives around here, gets drunk often and bothers everyone.’

Full marks for improvisation, Anand Jain. Are Jains even allowed to lie?

‘Oh, are you okay, Uncle?’

Parimal said.

‘Yes, yes. The guards are taking him away. His friend is also here,’

Anand said and turned to Mudit.

‘You’ll take him to a good hospital, right?’

Mudit nodded. Anand signalled to his guests to go inside. They complied.

‘I’m not mental, you’re the one who’s fu—’

I started, but Mudit covered my mouth with his hand.

I looked at Payal. She made eye contact with me for a second. Her father tapped her shoulder, and she turned away and went back inside. I had asked her to come away with me. She hadn’t answered me. No answer was also an answer.

‘We’ll take him, sir, don’t worry,’

one of the guards said.

‘The cops are coming. Hand him over to them,’

Anand said.

‘Yes, sir. But, sir?’

‘What?’

Anand said.

‘If there’s an engagement function, is there any chai and mithai for the guards?’

‘I told you, nothing happened. We just came to see Payal Jain, who’s in a relationship with my friend,’

Mudit said.

We sat in Inspector Patil’s room, in the Ghatkopar police station, on wooden chairs that threatened to collapse under our weight. The alcohol had finally worn off.

Inspector Patil was in his forties, balding and clearly not interested in dealing with this stupid non-case. He wore a police uniform two sizes too small for his wide girth.

‘Anand Jain alleges you were harassing him. Trespassing into his house,’

Inspector Patil said, cracking his fingers.

‘There was no harassment. We rang the bell and asked if we could speak to Payal,’

Mudit said.

‘I only wanted to see my girlfriend. And we never trespassed. We never entered their house,’ I said.

‘Did she want to see you?’

Patil said.

‘Yes,’

I said.

‘Her father’s not letting her talk to me. She’s an adult. She can do whatever she wants, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, and she’s gotten engaged. To someone else. Look, they sent mithai.’

Patil took out a box of kaju katli from under his desk and offered it to us. I was hungry as hell, but I still had enough pride to not eat the mithai from Payal’s engagement.

Mudit, however, took two pieces and stuffed his face. Traitor.

‘Probably the first time the police have offered anyone mithai. Thank you, sir,’

Mudit said.

I glared at Mudit. He looked at me, surprised. ‘What?’

he said, taking two more pieces of the sweet.

‘Sir is offering it to us, bro.’

The inspector burst out laughing.

‘Are you an idiot?’

he said to me.

‘Landing up drunk at her engagement. What did you expect? That she’ll run away with you?’

‘Yes,’

I said, dead serious.

‘She wants to, I know it.’

‘Then why is she eating dinner with her fiancé right now while you’re sitting in a police station?’

Patil said, laughing again.

My face dropped. This crass inspector had delivered a truth I didn’t want to hear. I began to cry—horrible, embarrassing, loud sobs.

‘Abe chutiye,’

the inspector said.

‘stop it. And eat the mithai. I could’ve fed you lathis. But I’m giving you kaju katli instead. Eat.’

I obeyed him and took a piece. Damn, it tasted good.

The inspector continued speaking.

‘You seem to be educated, and from a good family. What are you doing? You’ve built such a big body, but don’t you have a little brain?’

I kept quiet.

‘Sorry, sir,’

Mudit said.

‘He just heard about her parents planning a ceremony. We were drunk and didn’t know what else to do. He loves her a lot.’

‘This love business will destroy you,’

Patil said.

Mudit and I remained silent.

‘Now, Mr Jain is an important member of the society here. I must oblige him. I have to put you in the lockup tonight.’

‘Sir, please,’

Mudit said.

‘Shh,’

the inspector said.

‘I’m not filing a report. That would complicate things and drag them out. But I have to tell him that you’re in my lockup tonight.’

‘Why the hell do I have to be in jail? I’ll marry that girl. I’m ready to do a court marriage with her. Right now.’

‘Is she though?’

the inspector said.

‘Is she ready to marry you?’

‘Ignore my friend, sir,’

Mudit said.

‘Is there a way we can leave without having to stay in the lockup?’

‘No. And if you want to leave tomorrow morning, you must promise me something.’

‘What?’

I said, as he was looking at me.

‘You cannot contact her. Or go near her.’

‘Is it illegal to do that?’ I said.

‘Don’t teach me law. I can still file three cases against you. Keep defending yourself in court for years then.’

‘No, sir. It’s fine, sir. We can stay in here tonight,’

Mudit said.

‘Good. At least you have one sensible friend,’

Patil said, signalling to the cops to take us to the lockup.

We were taken to an eight-foot-by-ten-foot cell that we shared with three other men who remained unbothered by the cramped and dank room.

I didn’t know what crimes they were in for.

Hell, I didn’t even know what crime I was in for.

I used to live in a multi-million-dollar house in Silicon Valley. I had a job in private equity. What the hell was I doing in a jail cell in Ghatkopar?

Mudit fell asleep soon.

The man next to me farted in his sleep.

It was disgusting on one level, and funny on another.

It felt like my own life had become one big dark comedy act.

My mental chatter continued even as I lay on the cold cell floor and tried to sleep: Was Inspector Patil right? Did Payal not want to be with me? How could that be possible? She loved me.

She’d told me so a million times.

Why didn’t she walk away with me then? Because of her parents? Should I have said something else? Should I have said.

‘Let’s go get married in court right now?’

Well, we couldn’t have gone to a court right away even if she’d agreed.

The courts remain closed on weekends.

But shouldn’t they keep at least a few courts open so that marriages can be registered on weekends? That’s usually when people decide to get married, isn’t it? Anyway, why was I thinking about judicial reforms?

Payal had not come with me.

End of story.

She had gone right back inside.

And her parents, they probably hated me now. At this point, they would rather their daughter was a lesbian than be with me. Are there Jain lesbians? There ought to be, right?

See, that’s how my brain works.

The most random nonsense mixed with some real emotions.

Mudit woke up at one point and looked at me.

‘Try to sleep, bro,’ he said.

‘Can’t,’

I replied.

He patted my shoulder and shut his eyes again.

‘Payal will come back to me no, bro? She won’t marry that stupid Parimal, right?’ I said.

Mudit didn’t answer. He only shrugged and went back to sleep.

I thought Payal would call or message me.

Five days—120 hours—had passed since her engagement. I sat on my window ledge in agony, staring at my phone, waiting for her text.

‘Hi baby,’

she would say, followed b.

‘Are you okay?’

an.

‘I’m so sorry about that day.’ I’d be upset, but I would ultimately forgive her. She would somehow sneak out and come over to my place. We would make love and promise to never leave each other. I would then tell her that my fears about getting married a second time were overblown. I would drive to the family court in the Bandra Kurla Complex right then and make her my wife. That’s it. No Parimal Jain, no Anand Jain or Anyone Jain could come in our way after that.

My phone rang. But it wasn’t her. I picked up Mudit’s call.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Fucked.’

‘She didn’t message, I guess.’

‘No.’

‘Oh, well.’

‘I have to meet her.’

‘Bro, remember what the inspector said?’

‘I don’t care.’

‘You’re on your own trip. Anyway, how’s the new act coming along?’

‘What act?’

‘Saket! We have an international comedy festival scheduled. White people are coming to perform at the club. You’re the desi act, bro. We need to top them.’

‘Oh, right. That. I have to get back to it,’

I said. I hadn’t even started.

‘Please do. The performance is in a week. Next Saturday.’

‘Yeah. I’ll do it.’

After the call ended, I sat and stared at a blank Word document for over an hour. It’s hard to write comedy when your life’s turning into a tragedy. Why the hell hadn’t Payal messaged?

I had to shift to Plan B: Get new SIM cards. I left my apartment and went to the Airtel shop on Linking Road in Bandra. After furnishing a dozen ID proofs and filling in even more KYC forms, I finally obtained three new SIM cards.

What’s the deal with KYC—Know Your Customer—forms anyway? Do they really think having a copy of my Aadhaar card or electricity bill means they know me? They have no fucking clue. Do they know that my heart is in a million pieces right now? That my girlfriend, who used to sleep inches away from me, has now blocked me? That I need new SIM cards just to message her because I’m that desperate? If they don’t, how can they claim to have done my KYC? You have no clue, dude—shove that Aadhaar-card copy wherever you want to.

I put the new SIM card in my phone and set up a new WhatsApp account. Then I messaged Payal.

‘Hi, this is me. Can we speak?’

She read the message, but didn’t respond.

One hour later, I sent another message.

‘It’s me, S. Please reply.’

I saw the blue ticks. Someone had clearly read the message.

‘Payal, are you there? It’s me,’

I sent a third message.

Finally, I got a response.

‘Me Sunita. Payal ki didi.’

What? Before I could respond, I got a call from Payal’s number.

‘Payal! Finally! Where have you been?’

I said, quickly picking up the call.

‘This no Payal. This Sunita. I working Payal house.’

‘Oh. Where’s Payal?’

‘I don’t know. Morning went to office.’

‘How do you have her phone?’

‘This my phone. She give her SIM card. Payal madam take new number.’

Not only had Payal’s diabolical parents made her block me everywhere, but they’d also changed her number. They’d anticipated that I’d try to call from other numbers. Jains are smart. No wonder they’re richer and more successful than most other communities.

‘Who speaking?’

Sunita said.

‘Nothing, wrong number,’

I said, which was a totally idiotic thing to say because literally half a second earlier, I had asked for Payal.

‘Your good name, please?’

‘Do you need a bank loan?’ I said.

‘No.’

‘Car insurance? RO filter? Property in Panvel?’

‘No, not needing anything.’

‘That’s a shame. I can give you good deals.’

‘Who this? S for what?’

‘S for Salman Khan. Okay, bye,’

I said and disconnected the call.

‘Payal,’

I said. ‘Hi.’

I stood in the Express Towers lift, which I’d been taking up and down for two hours. I’d arrived at 5.30 p.m.

I couldn’t wait in the lobby because her SWAT-team-like mother would come to pick her up. I couldn’t show up directly at her office either.

I didn’t want her to feel embarrassed in front of her colleagues. So I decided to wait for her in the lifts.

This meant going up and down non-stop until Payal left work and entered one of the lifts to go down to the lobby.

There were two lifts serving her floor, and Payal could take either of them. In other words, this dumb approach of mine had a one-in-two chance of working.

But I still did it. I took one lift up, then came out and went down in the other. Once on the ground floor, I switched back to the other lift and went up again.

I was ready to keep doing this until I bumped into Payal. Does this sound ridiculous? Yes. But love makes men do ridiculous things.

It makes them scale walls, climb mountains and, I’ve heard, even fight wars. I was only taking the elevator.

It took me two days to finally see her. On the second day, at 7.30 p.m., Payal entered the same lift that I was in.

I had a minute, quite literally, to make my elevator pitch to save my love life. Apart from Payal and me, there was one other person already in the lift—a distinguished-looking man in his sixties.

Payal took a few seconds to spot me in the lift. ‘Saket,’

she said in a hushed voice.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘What do you think I’m doing here? Trying to meet you.’

‘I can’t. Mom’s downstairs,’

Payal said, fear on her face.

‘She can’t see you here. Please, Saket, understand my situation.’

‘Are you serious? What about my situation? Do you have any idea what I’m going through?’

I said, my voice loud enough for the other man to look up from his phone.

He looked at Payal and me in quick succession. I ignored him.

‘Payal, I need ten minutes with you. Alone,’ I said.

‘Saket, if my mother sees us, she’ll make me quit my job—the only semblance of sanity I have in my life.’

‘She won’t see us, don’t worry. That’s why I’ve been going up and down in these lifts the past two days.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Can we get off at the parking level? Or any other level? We can just stand somewhere and talk.’

‘I already told Mom I’m coming down.’

I checked the display panel—we’d already reached the tenth floor.

‘Can you tell her you forgot something in office?’

‘Fine, I will. But where do we go?’

‘The parking? We can stand and talk.’

‘It’s dark and smelly there,’

Payal said.

‘with drivers all around.’

‘Do you think I care about all that at this point?’ I said.

‘Excuse me,’

the old man said, startling both of us.

‘Yes?’

I said, somewhat irritated.