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

‘the married world is better’

or whatever—no, sweetie, not in my case. Just ask my divorce lawyer.

I saw the poll results: Ninety-two per cent of the people wanted Akanksha to post the marriage pictures. I wondered who the other eight per cent were. Were they bitter, jilted lovers like me? Those who ran away from the wor.

‘marriage’? Who the hell knows?

I poured myself another drink. Then another. The rum bottle got over soon. Never mind, I had plenty of alcohol in the house. I went to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of vodka. But there was no Coke or ice left. Who cares? I drank the vodka neat, straight from the bottle.

I put on an Arijit Singh playlist. Every song was about heartbreak. Somehow, it felt like all the lyrics had been custom-written for me. How does Arijit get it?

A song from Aashiqui 2 filled my living room:

Sun raha hai na tu, ro raha hoon main …

‘Are you listening? I am crying,’

the song said.

But Payal wasn’t listening. She was probably shopping or getting her mehndi done.

I took a swig of the room-temperature vodka. It went down my throat like fire. I liked it. I liked any pain that diverted my attention from the Payal pain.

‘Fuck it. I don’t need her. I don’t need anyone,’

I said, taking another big sip of the vodka. More fire in my belly.

I walked to the window ledge—Payal’s spot. The exact place where she would sit every day, legs stretched out, laptop on her thighs, staring out the window in between work. I could see her—she was still sitting there.

‘Saket, come sit next to me,’

Payal said.

‘Yes, baby,’

I whispered, leaning forward to kiss the cold concrete wall.

That was the last thing I remembered.

‘Where am I?’

I said, blinking.

I’d woken up on a narrow bed with a stiff white sheet under me and a brown blanket over me. I saw wires attached to my chest and an IV drip going into my hand. Okay, this looked like a hospital. Was I dreaming? Was I dead? Was this where the newly dead first arrive? After all, even on earth, newborns generally arrived in a hospital first.

‘Patient woke up!’

someone shouted.

Okay, this was a hospital. And I was the patient.

My mother came running into the room. What was my mother doing here? More importantly, what was I doing here?

‘Saket,’

my mother whispered, hugging me tight.

However distant you might feel from your parents, a mother’s hug always feels nice.

‘How are you feeling?’ she said.

‘Why? What happened to me?’

My father entered the room at that moment, his face more emotional than I’d ever seen. A nurse followed him in, and she helped me sit up, propping the pillows behind my back.

‘Sorry, where am I? Which hospital is this?’

‘Holy Family Hospital,’

my mother said.

‘When did you come to Mumbai?’

I said, still puzzled.

‘Five days back,’

my father said.

‘Mudit called us.’

‘Where’s Mudit?’

‘He’s on his way.’

My parents didn’t tell me what had happened. They kept the conversation light, talking about how big the tomatoes had grown in their vegetable garden back in Chandigarh and how this winter was particularly cold.

Mudit arrived half an hour later.

‘Doing okay, bro?’ he said.

‘Yeah. Do I really need to be here?’

‘Yeah, bro,’

Mudit said.

‘You definitely did.’

My parents left the hospital to get some rest at my place, leaving just Mudit and me in the room.

‘What happened to me, Mudit?’

He told me the whole story.

I’d passed out drunk on the window ledge in my apartment, rolled over and fallen to the floor, hitting my head on the ground.

Even though it was just a three-foot fall, I’d hurt myself badly.

I remained unconscious for an entire day and night.

It was Mudit who found me the next day.

He’d come to check on me after I hadn’t answered my phone.

When I didn’t respond to the doorbell, he called a locksmith to open the door.

They found me lying on the floor, with a pool of blood around my head and a nasty gash on my forehead.

He rushed me to the Holy Family Hospital in Bandra, where they admitted me immediately.

I’d lost blood, was dehydrated and my system was full of alcohol.

Mudit donated his own blood and watched over me until my parents got there.

I remained in a near-coma-like state for five days, surviving on IV drips.

‘Wow, so much happened. I’m sorry, Mudit. I’m an idiot.’

‘This girl, man. And yeah, you really are an idiot.’

I stayed silent.

‘If I hadn’t come to check on you, I would’ve lost my best friend. Your parents would’ve lost their only son. But no, it’s all about that chick. We mean nothing to you,’

Mudit said.

I lowered my head.

‘Career, family, friends, your health. Nothing matters. It’s just Payal, Payal, Payal.’

‘No, it’s not like that,’

I said weakly.

‘It is. She’s married to someone else now, by the way.’

‘Is she?’

I said, looking around my bed.

‘What are you looking for?’

‘My phone.’

‘See? Now you want your phone. Just to check that dumb Akanksha’s account and see if she’s posted Payal’s wedding pictures.’

‘I need my phone for other things too,’ I said.

Mudit took out my mobile phone from his pocket and handed it to me.

‘It’s out of charge,’

he said.

‘I’ll give you a charger. But I swear, if you check Payal’s wedding photos, I’ll kill you myself.’

He handed me the charger and helped me plug in my phone.

‘When do I get unplugged?’

I said, tugging at the wires on my chest.

‘They’ll do some tests first. But, hopefully, by tomorrow.’

‘I can go home then?’

‘Yes. But not to Bandra. You’re going home to Chandigarh.’

‘What? Mudit, why?’

‘Stop it. Your parents are worried sick. They haven’t slept properly in a week. They won’t leave you alone in Mumbai, not when you’re in this state.’

‘I’ll be fine here in Mumbai. Please, I don’t need to go back to Chandigarh. I want my space.’

‘You don’t get to decide these things right now,’

Mudit said.

On the flight from Mumbai to Chandigarh, my parents and I hardly spoke.

In our family, like most other Indian families, we dealt with conflict by pretending that nothing had happened.

If no one brings it up, it doesn’t exist, right? So, the default mode is either silence or small talk.

My parents chose small talk.

‘These Indigo cashew nuts are good,’

my mother said.

‘I miss Jet Airways though. Their imli candy was amazing,’

my father said.

Yes, their son had been found unconscious in his apartment, with his head split open, and had been in a near-comatose state for nearly a week.

All this, after going through a horrible divorce less than a year ago.

But none of that mattered.

‘Vistara has good food as well,’

I added. It’s funny how comfortably we can take on the dysfunctional patterns of our family.

My parents lived in a small independent house in one of Chandigarh’s better sectors.

Built on two levels, the ground floor had a living room, a kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom.

There were two more bedrooms upstairs—one of them was mine.

This was the room where I’d spent my childhood, prepared for IIT and returned to during college vacations.

One of my wedding functions had even been held here. In fact, Raashi’s parents lived just two kilometres away.

I remembered the first time my parents had gone to visit them about the prospective match, my mother had come back excited.

She thought Raashi and I were a match made in heaven—just as Payal’s parents now thought that she and Parimal were perfect for each other.

According to Indian parents, if the match is within the same community, then it’s a match made in heaven.

Maybe God checks the community status before making such matches.

‘Beta, come down,’

my mother said, knocking on my door.

‘Lunch is ready.’

‘Coming, Mummy,’

I said.

I got up and hurriedly followed my mother downstairs.

I’d been itching to check Akanksha’s Instagram account when my mother knocked on my door.

I knew there would be wedding pictures with disgustingly cheesy captions.

I don’t know why, but I felt like I just had to see them.

Thank God for the momentary escape that lunch provided.

My parents and I sat around the dining table—the one with a slightly creaky leg, present in every Indian middle-class household.

My mother had made gobi aloo, rajma, raita and parathas.

It was one of my favourite meals.

‘Thank you, Mummy, this is so good,’ I said.

‘I know you like rajma,’

my mother said.

‘Should I make matar paneer tonight? Or do you want paneer pakodas with tea?’

Punjabis talk about their next meal while eating the current one. In my family, food talk also serves to avoid real conversations.

‘Or we can go out,’

my father said.

‘Chawla’s Chicken, in Sector 17.’

‘Do you know what happened to me?’

I said. My parents looked startled at my sudden change of topic.

‘Yes, we do. You drank too much,’

my father said after a pause.

‘We’re not upset, beta. You made a mistake. It happens,’

my mother said.

‘But it’s okay if you’re upset. Or worried. That’s understandable. What’s not okay is you guys pretending like there’s nothing else on your minds apart from matar paneer and Chawla’s Chicken.’

‘I was just—’

my mother said, but I cut her off.

‘Mummy, the problem is that we never discuss our true feelings in this family. I’m guilty of it too. I don’t tell you what I feel about you.’

‘Like what?’

my father said.

‘Forget that. Did Mudit tell you why I ended up drinking so much?’

‘He said there was some girl. She left you, and you took to alcohol, to cope,’

my father said.

‘What else did he tell you?’

‘He didn’t give us any details,’

my father said.

‘And he said it was over now, so it doesn’t matter anyway.’

‘Yes, you don’t have to tell us,’

my mother said.

‘Girls these days are bad. They trap boys for timepass and then—’

‘Her name was Payal. She didn’t trap me. Neither did I trap her. It wasn’t timepass either. We were in love. For a year. We spent a lot of time together. She practically lived with me.’

My mother looked at me, shocked.

‘She did,’

I said.

‘Living in isn’t that uncommon in Mumbai.’

My mother began to tear up.

‘Why are you crying, Mummy?’ I said.

‘You should’ve never left Raashi. It’s hard for you to be alone.’

‘Mummy, please, this isn’t about Raashi. We were totally incompatible.’

‘I don’t know these terms like “incompatible”,’

my mother said. Then, turning to my dad, she said.

‘Listen, you and I, have we ever used words like incompatible?’

My father didn’t respond, assuming the question was rhetorical. He just took another paratha and smeared it with extra ghee.

‘Mummy, stop it. My divorce is done. Please, don’t talk about Raashi ever again.’

‘How much money did she take finally?’

my father said.

I gave them the final figures.

‘2.4 million dollars? That’s like, what, twelve crore rupees?’

My father gasped, his spoon almost slipping out of his fingers.

‘She took twelve crores? That bitch,’

my mother said.

‘Yes,’

I said in a calm voice.

‘And I’m still relieved that it ended.’

My mother broke down in tears.

‘She’s taken all your money,’

she said in between sobs.

‘Then you left your job in the US. And now you’re living in a one-bedroom rental, doing comedy-vomedy.’

‘It’s okay, Mummy. I live in Pali Hill. The rent I pay there will get me a whole house in Chandigarh. And stand-up comedy is my passion. I’ve finally decided to live my life on my own terms.’

‘But you’re not happy. Look at what happened,’

my mother said.

‘That’s different. That’s because Payal and I couldn’t be together.’

‘What was this Payal’s last name?’

my father said. Last names are Indian parents’

two-factor security check: helps figure out the community, fast.

‘Payal Jain,’

I said.

‘And it doesn’t matter. She’s married now. The wedding happened last week,’ I said.

‘What?’

both my parents said in unison.

For the next half an hour, I gave my parents a summary of whatever had transpired between Payal and me, minus the super-intimate bits.

‘When she left, I felt pain. I drank to ease the pain, until … you know what happened.’

I finished my story. I waited for my parents to react. Nobody said or did anything for a minute.

Finally, my mother stood up.

‘I made gajar ka halwa as well. I’ll get it from the kitchen,’

she said and left.

A Punjabi mother’s best response to any crisis is an extremely high-calorie dessert.

My father remained silent until my mother returned from the kitchen. The beautiful aroma of ghee and caramelized sugar filled the room. I took a bowl full of the halwa and began eating. It tasted delicious. If there was a Nobel Prize for gajar ka halwa, my mother would get it, hands down.

‘There’s no shortage of girls for you. Even now,’

my mother said.

‘Even now, is it?’

I said, blowing air on a spoonful of halwa to cool it.

‘You’re young, handsome, educated. An only child. No kids. I still get rishtas for you.’

‘Please, Mummy. No more rishtas. I hate this rishta business.’

‘If you’re lonely, just accept it, beta. You’re still young. You can marry again,’

my father said.

‘No, Dad. I don’t want to get married. Don’t worry, I’ll get over Payal.’

‘Saket, beta, don’t drink so much,’

my mother said, genuine concern in her voice.

‘Yes, I’ll be careful’

I said.

‘I promise you. But you must also promise not to pity me. Or go on a mission to find another girl for me. Payal happened I don’t know how. I’ll never let myself go emotionally like that again with any other girl.’

‘You have a long life ahead of you. Don’t think like that,’

my father said.

‘I tried marriage, and failed. Tried love, failed again. All this isn’t for me.’

‘What is for you then?’

my mother said.

‘My work. My workouts. My fitness. My friends. My parents. There’s a lot more to life than having a partner or a wife or whatever,’

I said and stood up.

‘Where are you going?’

my mother said.

‘I’m going for a long run. I haven’t exercised in a month.’

‘Wow, look who’s back in town,’

Mudit said, giving me a long hug.

After spending two weeks in Chandigarh, I took an evening flight back to Mumbai, and came straight to the club from the airport.

‘Thank you for saving my life,’ I said.

‘You think I would’ve let you get away so easy?’

‘I love you,’ I said.

‘How are you, bro?’

Mudit said.

‘Surviving,’ I said.

‘You’ll be fine. My suggestion is that you sink yourself in work. Let’s line up an act for you. How about the coming weekend?’

‘Give me some time. Before doing stand-up again, I just want to get back to a normal life in Mumbai. I want to hit the gym hard.’

‘Take all the time you want,’

Mudit said, smiling.

Strange, dark thoughts ran through my mind on the cab ride from the club to Bandra. I wanted to end it all. I passed by the Bandra–Worli Sea Link.

Mumbai is a vibrant city full of options. However, it offers limited choices when it comes to committing suicide. You can do the usual—slit your wrists, hang from a ceiling fan or pop a handful of sleeping pills—but none of these have the essence of Mumbai in them. These options are also somewhat lame. Nobody would even notice. She wouldn’t notice. And neither would her parents.

I wanted to go out with a bang, literally. I wanted her to see how she had wrecked, shredded, ground and crushed my heart when she left.

Maybe the Bandra–Worli Sea Link? That’s dramatic enough to make the headlines.

‘Saket Khurana, thirty-four-year-old wannabe stand-up comedian jumps off the Bandra–Worli Sea Link after getting dumped.’

She’ll care then, wouldn’t she?

Except that the stupid Sea Link isn’t high enough. What if I don’t die? What if I fall those fifty-odd feet into the sea, and the Koli fishermen who live nearby rescue me? Then they would become the heroes of the story instead.

‘Koli fishermen save failed stand-up comedian, unsuccessful in his marriage, career, love and suicide attempt.’

No, that wouldn’t work. She’d probably become even more convinced that dumping me was the right decision.

Fortunately, the cab crossed the Sea Link and entered Bandra before I could contemplate further on my diabolical plans to make the headlines.

When I unlocked my Bandra apartment, the house felt like my own, even though it was a bit dusty and cold. I kept my luggage in the bedroom and came back to the living room. I went to the window ledge. Pain shot through my chest. Images of Payal sitting there flashed through my mind. They felt so real that I even lifted my hand in reflex, to touch her imaginary hair.

I went to the bathroom to wash my face. The sight of her little plastic toothbrush still in the toothbrush stand was enough to bring back another flood of memories. We would brush in the bathroom together. She would tell me that she had better teeth because she followed a cleaner vegetarian diet. I would argue that eating all that meat made my teeth stronger. I missed that morning banter. I missed talking to her. You can brush away at your teeth, but how do you brush away the longing to talk to someone?

This will get better, right? It has to.

People get over other people. Especially now that she was married.

She’s gone. The Payal chapter is closed. Accept it, Saket.

I brushed my teeth hard in frustration, hoping it would wipe away all thoughts of her from my mind. My gums began to hurt and bleed. I washed my brush for two minutes, listening to the water gurgling down the pipe. What else was there for me to do anyway? My life had become one of those slow Bengali art movies that win awards.

I went back to my bedroom and stretched out on the bed. I had zero motivation to do anything. It was a miracle I was even breathing and managing to keep my heart beating. Thank God for the involuntary respiratory and circulatory systems. Were it not for them, every heartbroken person would fall dead just from the lack of motivation that follows a break-up.

You have to lift yourself up. You have to get over this.

A niggling voice in my head continued to talk sense, even though it spoke in whispers.

Maybe I should look at Akanksha’s Instagram account after all. I’d resisted it so far, but perhaps it would show me, in stark and clear images, that Payal was now married to Parimal. It would help my brain register that she was well and truly gone.

I pulled out my phone and opened Akanksha’s account. She’d shared several new posts since I’d last checked her page. One post was about designing the best picnic for your family with healthy vegetarian Indian snacks.

‘Theplas instead of sandwiches,’

she wrote in the caption.

‘Far more nutritious, healthy and tasty, and in line with Indian culture and food habits. We don’t need to copy the West for everything.’

I wasn’t sure if theplas were actually healthier than sandwiches, but who cares? The comments praised her for upholding Indian traditions. One person wrote that her post proved how much smarter Indians were as compared to westerners, since we’d invented the thepla. He didn’t mention how westerners invented Instagram and the Indians hadn’t, but I guess that wasn’t the point.

Then I found the posts about Payal’s big fat Jain wedding.

The first couple of posts were pictures from Payal’s sangeet ceremony. It seemed to have been a grand affair held in the banquet hall of one of the city’s top five-star hotels. Payal wore a saffron lehenga and looked prettier than many Bollywood starlets.

There was a picture of Parimal posing on a bent knee, handing Payal a red rose. I thought it was corny, but that’s Ghatkopar chic for you. Another picture showed Payal touching her in-laws’

feet, while her mother-in-law tried to stop her from doing so. The mother-in-law had perfected the I-love-that-you’re-doing-it-and-you-better-be-doing-it-but-

please-don’t-do-it pose. One more picture showed all the guests dancing, and Payal dancing with them.

If she’s dancing, she’s happy, right?

The next two posts were about the actual wedding. Payal wore a red zardozi lehenga, which, according to the caption, belonged to her grandmother. Parimal wore a bandhgala. I swear, if Payal wasn’t standing right next to him, I would’ve thought that he was a scrawny waiter who’d photobombed all the pictures.

I saw a picture of the jaimala ceremony, where Parimal and Payal exchanged garlands. Another picture showed them doing the pheras. In the kanyadaan picture, Payal sat in her father’s, or rather, in my life’s villain’s lap.

Every time I moved to the next picture, it felt like I was stabbing my own heart. I felt numb at first, but then an excruciating pain shot through me.

All of this didn’t actually happen. These people just got dressed up for a photoshoot for Akanksha’s Instagram account.

A drone shot showed the expansive wedding arrangements. For all the austerity, simplicity and minimalism that Jains generally display in their daily life, some Jain weddings can be lavish, over-the-top affairs. There were more than fifty food stalls, possibly serving every dish imaginable—in a Jain variant, of course. There were statues, fountains, lights and flowers, all arranged in a kitschy mismatch throughout the venue. Again, a bit tacky in my opinion, but definitely Ghatkopar chic.

The wedding post caption read.

‘Blessings to #PaPa, my favourite new couple in the world. May God bless you on this amazing journey together, and may you achieve all the happiness and success in life. Congratulations, Payal and Parimal!’

Wow. They had a hashtag now. #PaPa.

Akanksha had posted one more update about Payal and Parimal. It was a picture of #PaPa in Paris. Both Payal and Parimal were carrying a ton of shopping bags from designer stores like Louis Vuitton, Hermès and Burberry, to name just a few. They wore matching white puffy jackets and stood in front of the Arc de Triomphe.

The post caption read.

‘So, #PaPa sent me this picture after I told them my followers are begging for an update. Looks like they’re having a great time on their honeymoon in Paris. P.S. Coordinated white jackets are a win-win. #PaPa are truly couple goals.’

Dozens of comments had poured in, expressing their best wishes for the newlyweds. One comment, however, did have this to say.

‘Where’s the mangalsutra? It’s not good for a newlywed bride to not display her mangalsutra.’

What would India do without our tradition enforcers? Thank God for them.

I spent the next two hours going through the pictures. I zoomed in on each one of them. If I had a compound microscope, I would’ve put them under it. I noted down every single detail possible—the earrings, the necklaces, the outfits, the hand-holding, the food, the facial expressions—whatever I could see before the pixelation kicked in.

The wedding pictures, the matching jackets and the wor.

‘honeymoon’

kept swirling around inside my head even as I switched off the lights and hit the bed. Of course, I couldn’t sleep. Here’s how the dumb chain of thoughts in my head went:

Is she on her honeymoon now? What time is it in Paris?

They must be out for dinner. Is she eating with him right now? Will they even find Jain food in Paris?

Will she be drinking with him? Does Parimal know she drinks? Maybe they already had dinner and have gone back to their room.

They could be having sex right now. It’s their honeymoon, after all. But … Payal … having sex? With someone else? How’s that possible?

That’s not someone else, Saket. That’s her husband. But how can Parimal touch her? I’ll kill that Parimal. I’ll run that bastard over with a car.

What would she be wearing to bed in Paris? Some new honeymoon lingerie? Some tacky Ghatkopar-chic night suit that her parents gave her? Will she be missing my T-shirts?

S hould I send one of my T-shirts as a gift to her? That’ll make her melt, right? That’ll make her run away from Parimal. Isn’t it?

No, she won’t. She’s married to him now. He’s buying her Louis Vuitton and Hermès …

‘Stop!’

I screamed at my neurotic mind. I sat up in bed and took deep breaths.

‘Saket Khurana, get a grip. You have to stop this,’

I spoke out loud.

But I didn’t get a grip. For it was the same story every night. I would open Akanksha’s Instagram, look at Payal’s wedding and honeymoon pictures, and let my brain go into overdrive.

I couldn’t work either. Without Payal, I felt zero desire to be funny or create new material. Nothing had made me happier than having Payal laugh at my jokes.

Payal was definitely an essential ingredient in the joke-generation factory inside my head. What do they call them? Muse?

‘Working on a new set?’

Mudit messaged me one day.

‘Can’t do this. I’m quitting comedy,’

I responded.