Page 2 of 12 Years: My Messed-up Love Story

MUMBAI

‘No, Mudit, my brother, please. Next weekend. I promise,’

I said, folding my hands.

We were backstage at the Crayon Club, and I had three minutes left before going on stage.

Mudit, my best friend and the owner of the club, remained unmoved. His thin, wiry frame belied his strong, authoritative tone.

‘No, Saket. Listen to me. You go on stage. Now,’ he said.

‘Bro, listen—’

I said, sweat breaking out from every pore of my body.

‘Go!’

Mudit said, cutting me off and pointing at the stage.

I froze.

‘You’ve told me a million times that this is your passion. You left everything for this,’

Mudit said.

I looked at him, still unable to move.

‘Come on, Saket. You’re nearly six feet tall. Look at these biceps and these abs. And you are scared to crack a few jokes?’

‘Our next act, ladies and gentlemen’—I heard the emcee’s voice from the stage—‘is someone new. Well, he’s not exactly new on this planet. He’s thirty-three. This means, in the normal world, he’s middle-aged. But in the world of stand-up comics, he’s a senior citizen. So let’s all pay our respects

with a big round of applause for our newest and oldest comic today, Saket Khurana.’

I whispered a silent prayer and slow-jogged to the stage. The Crayon Club has a small, intimate auditorium, no larger than a college lecture hall, meant for shows like mine. An audience of about seventy people had their eyes on me. I took a deep breath.

Come on, Saket, you got this.

‘Hello, Mumbai.’

I opened my act.

Nothing in response. An eerie silence, equivalent to death for a stand-up comedian.

‘I know what you all are thinking. When did bouncers become stand-up comics, huh?’

I said, pointing to my muscular biceps.

‘Well, the management here is cool. The club owner said he no longer needed a bodyguard, so I could take a shot at the stage here.’

A few chuckles in the room. Okay, okay, not bad, keep going.

‘You know, talking of the stage, I was that guy in school who always got picked for the same role in the school plays: Bheem.’

A few laughs. Good, go on.

‘Did you guys ever take part in school plays?’

Some nods in the audience.

‘There are only two or three plays that are performed in our schools every year. One is the Independence Day type of play. There’s always one fixed Gandhiji—the same poor kid who’s chosen every year. Someone thin and scrawny, with a bald wig pulled over his head. He has to bend and walk and recite the same dialogues year after year: “Ahimsa is the best way. Non-violence is the right path.” They play patriotic music in the background—“Vande Mataram” mostly. It’s all awesome, India is achieving freedom, and it’s all happening on stage. But bro, behind the stage there is pandemonium. A teacher is going crazy. She has lost her freedom. She’s trying to coordinate all the kids and time their entry on stage. She’s screaming. I remember our dramatics teacher, Mrs Dutta, shouting, “Oye, Gandhiji kahan hai? Bathroom? Yeh time hai bathroom jaane ka?”’

Laughter in the audience. Phew.

‘Gandhiji arrives, Class III-B student Manish Verma, tackling a dhoti he’s clearly not comfortable with. Mrs Dutta pulls his ear. Slaps him. “Where did you vanish? Now go on stage or you’ll get one more thappad.”’

More laughter.

‘Clearly, nobody backstage cares about ahimsa or non-violence. Gandhiji, scared of Mrs Dutta, runs out onto the stage to show his fearlessness against the British. “Now where is Subhas Chandra Bose?” Mrs Dutta screams behind the curtains. “Arrey, button up your shirt quickly and wear your cap. And go.”’

And there it is, my first full-blown audience-bursting-into-laughter moment. Roll with it, Saket.

‘The other play we often did was the Mahabharata. And, like I said earlier, there’s that one giant kid in every grade’—I held the mic in one hand and, rolling up the sleeve of my T-shirt, flexed my biceps—‘who’s perfect for one and only one part: Bheem. That’s me, people. I am Bheem.’

Ha ha ha. Some of the laughs were louder than the rest.

‘You just know the batch Bheem. He’s an outlier in height and weight. Big and born for the role. No matter how sensitive he is, how funny he is, or how deep and emotional he is. Nobody cares about his acting skills. Nobody even cares if he wants to do the part in the first place—he simply has to do it. Because given his frame, he is Bheem. This year, next year and every other year until he leaves school. I was Bheem

for six years. It was my entire childhood. This one time, I went up to Mrs Dutta and said, “Ma’am, next year we’re doing Cinderella. May I take part in it?” And Mrs Dutta was like, “As what? The prince? Have you gone mad? You are Bheem. There’s no Bheem in Cinderella. Saket, you can take part in any play as long as you do the role of Bheem.” I protested. I yelled. I fought. But like all Bheems when upset, I was handed this universal line: “Shaant, gadadhaari Bheem, shaant.”’

The audience burst into laughter again. I had momentum now. I shifted acts.

‘You guys take flights, right?’

Many in the audience nodded and said yes.

‘Which class? Business or economy?’ I said.

‘Economy,’

most of the audience said in unison.

‘Business,’

a female voice came from somewhere in the first row.

‘Wow, who’s this rich princess over here?’

I said, my eyes searching for her in the dim light.

Giggles from the audience.

She sat in the front row, fourth seat from the left. A young, attractive woman in her early twenties. Long hair, glowing complexion and deep-brown eyes that gleamed even in the low light. Her beauty distracted me.

Crowd-work time. Focus, Saket.

‘So, madam, you travel business class?’

‘Sometimes,’ she said.

‘You’re a princess then. Let me guess, daddy’s princess? Papa ki pari?’

Everyone laughed, except her. She looked annoyed.

‘No, I travel business class for work,’

she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

‘Oh, work. Okay, well, someone has a real job here. What work do you do, young lady?’

‘I’m in private equity,’ she said.

Collective sighs of admiration.

‘What?’

I laughed.

‘I used to work in private equity earlier. I ran away to do comedy to avoid meeting private-equity people. And here we go.’

The sweet sound of laughter from the crowd.

She shrugged and half-smiled.

I turned to speak to the entire audience.

‘Apart from a few special people, we all fly economy, right? Yes, I do too. I’m a cheap bastard. Plus, my soon-to-be ex-wife bankrupted me, so I have no choice.’

Chuckles in the audience.

‘Here’s the weird thing—if you’re flying economy, they make you walk through business class, and even first class, before you get to your seat. And when you reach your seat, you know it sucks. Because you’ve already seen the fully reclining seats and the pomegranate juice and the champagne. You imagine the business-class people doing their hot-towel facials. Meanwhile, you’re struggling to put your backpack in the overhead bin, fighting for space with aunties carrying ten-kilo atta packets to their destination. I mean, why make us, the

poor economy-class types, walk through first and business class? It’s like living in Dharavi and having to pass through Antilia to get to your house. “Hello, rich people. Nice fluffy blanket, people. Amazing champagne, people. Enjoy. Now bye-bye since I can’t afford this. And yes, I’m poor.” I mean, what the hell. Can’t it be the opposite? Make the business-class folks walk through that narrow aisle, past those cramped seats, so when they reach their own seats, they find them extra amazing? Right now, it’s like walking through a five-star hotel to get to your Oyo room, bro.’

Audience laughter.

Mudit, standing in the corner, gave me a thumbs-up.

I proceeded to the concluding part of my act.

‘Now, what’s the deal with Jain food? Any Jains in the audience here?’

A man in the fifth row and the same private-equity girl raised their hands.

‘You? Again?’

I said, turning to her.

Scattered titters in the crowd.

‘They’re going to think I planted you,’ I said.

‘What to do? I’m Jain,’ she said.

‘Me Tarzan, you Jane?’

I said. Okay, that was a bad recycled joke.

Nobody laughed. I deserved that deathly silence.

‘What’s your name again?’ I asked.

‘Payal. Payal Jain,’ she said.

‘Like James Bond. Imagine if he was Jain,’

I said, and switched to a James Bond impersonation.

‘Hi, I am Jain. James Jain. One Martini, shaken not stirred, with no onion and garlic, please.’

This unscripted line wasn’t the best joke. However, the audience still laughed.

‘Jains definitely go to heaven, by the way. Yes, they do. Just hear me out on this,’

I said.

‘See, we Punjabis eat non-veg. We’re surely going to hell. Then there are the vegetarians, who get the lower levels of heaven. The vegans are above that. And then there are the purest of the entire lot—the Jains—who get the best spots in heaven. Like sea-view apartments, with the top heaven contenders as neighbours. Maybe like right next to Anna Hazare and Mother Teresa.’

Payal giggled. The audience did as well.

‘So, Payal, congrats on getting prime heaven real estate. However, you do realize that most of the fun people will not be in heaven, right? The party people will be down in hell. Drinkers, gamblers and the gossips. All us fun people will be hanging out in hell. Sure, we won’t have air conditioning. The food and the booze will be low-quality and awful. But boy, we will party. The Jains, meanwhile, they will have to hang out with Anna Hazare. He’ll be like, “Come, beta, it’s pravachan and satsang time again.” Dude, hell sounds way better.’

Someone in the audience clapped. I proceeded to my closing.

‘I’m definitely going to hell for tonight, and so are many of you for laughing at my jokes. Okay, that’s it from me tonight. This is Saket Khurana, and I love you all for being a wonderful audience and encouraging me in my first show.’

Applause and cheers erupted as I left the stage.

Mudit high-fived me as I reached backstage.

‘Let’s go to the bar and celebrate this,’ he said.

‘You did it,’

Mudit said, handing me a glass of tequila and soda.

The Crayon Bar is located right outside the auditorium, for the audience to hang out in after a show. According to Mudit, the bar brings in more revenue than the actual gigs do.

‘Was I good?’

I asked Mudit as I took a sip of the tequila.

‘I thought I could’ve done better.’

‘We all think that way. But not bad at all for your first show.’

‘That girl,’

I said.

‘I tried crowd work there. Not sure if I should’ve.’

‘That was good,’

Mudit said.

‘You got lucky. She was sporting enough. And the audience liked your spontaneous banter. The James Jain bit was made up on the spot, right?’

I nodded.

‘I hope she’s not too upset.’

‘It’s okay. She’s come to a comedy club. She can’t be that thin-skinned,’

Mudit said.

‘Oh, there she is.’

Mudit pointed to the other end of the bar. Payal stood there, three or four inches over five feet, petite and gorgeous in a black dress. Two guys in formal suits stood with her.

‘She didn’t like the daddy’s-princess comment, I think,’ I said.

‘Let’s ask her. Never hurts to check on the customers,’

Mudit said.

Before I could respond, he pulled me by my hand and made his way to the trio. I followed him along.

‘Did you guys enjoy the show?’

Mudit said, walking up to Payal and her companions.

The three of them turned around to look at us.

‘Hi, I’m Mudit. This is my club. And this is Saket; you just saw him on stage,’

Mudit said.

‘Hi Mudit. And hi Saket,’

one of the men said.

‘We had a great time.’

I tilted my head, keeping it cool.

They introduced themselves. The younger-looking one was

Nimit, and the older one Jagdish. All three of them worked at Blackwater, a major global private equity firm.

‘You sure made Payal famous today,’

Nimit said, smiling.

I turned to Payal.

‘Hi Payal. I came over to say thanks,’ I said.

‘For what?’

Payal’s pleasant voice was neither too high nor too low.

‘For being a sport. And for not getting offended,’ I said.

‘I’ve come here before, and I’ve seen audience roasts. This was tame,’

Payal said.

‘Ouch,’

I said.

‘Clearly, am not that good.’

‘You were pretty good,’

Mudit said, slapping my back.

‘So, Nimit, any investing interest in comedy clubs with an F&B angle?’

‘Ooh, business time,’

I said, pretending to look at my watch.

‘Always,’

Mudit said.

Everyone laughed. As Mudit ushered everyone towards an empty table, I saw Payal clearly for the first time. Could a person’s skin be made of jasmine petals? I tried not to stare.

‘Scalable?’

Nimit was saying to Mudit.

‘Definitely. And scalable to various cities. Would you guys like me to show you the club? I’m planning a restaurant too,’

Mudit said.

‘I have to leave, actually,’

Jagdish said.

‘Nimit can have a look. Bye, guys, see you in office tomorrow.’

After Jagdish left, Mudit turned to Payal and me and said.

‘We’ll return in just ten minutes, okay? Come, Nimit, this way.’

Without waiting for a reply, Mudit whisked Nimit away, leaving Payal and me alone at the table. In the silence that followed, Payal took a sip of her white wine. I smiled.

‘What? Some joke about Jains not drinking or something?’

Payal said.

I shook my head.

‘Wine is veg. No onion, no garlic either, so it should be okay,’ I said.

‘True that,’

she said. We lifted our glasses and did a ‘cheers’.

‘I used to work in private equity too,’ I said.

‘Which firm?’

‘Yellowstone Capital.’

‘Oh, they have an office in Mumbai?’

‘In San Francisco. I moved to Mumbai only recently.’

‘How come?’

‘Personal issues,’

I said after a pause.

‘My marriage ended. I wanted a fresh start. Live my own life, finally.’

‘Hence stand-up?’

‘Yes, stand-up is my passion. I’m not that great though.’

‘Why do you say that? The audience laughed quite a few times. Just build on that. You’ll only get better.’

‘That’s supportive of you. Thank you.’

‘Even though I was the scapegoat of the show today.’

‘Sorry about the daddy’s-princess comment. Unnecessary.’

‘It’s okay. It’s comedy. One can’t get offended over little things.’

‘Thank you.’

We took a few sips of our drinks in silence.

‘How long did you work in private equity?’

she said after a while.

‘Too long. Around ten years. How about you?’

‘Ten months.’

‘Ah. You’re a baby.’

‘Here we go again.’

‘What?’

‘I get that a lot. I finished undergrad and they hired me right off. What can I do if I’m young? Everyone at work calls me the office baby. But I’m not a baby.’

‘How old are you?’

‘I’m twenty-one. Nearly twenty-two.’

‘Well, I’m thirty-three. Compared to that, you’re a little kid.’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes, you’re twelve years younger than me. What’s incredible, though, is that you had an offer from Blackwater straight after college. Where did you study?’

‘Stanford.’

‘Oh,’

I said.

‘California … I used to live in California too.’

‘Ah, I see. And you’re right, by the way. I’m a bit of a daddy’s princess. He paid my college tuition fee.’

‘But you cracked Stanford. And now Blackwater. He must be so proud.’

‘I don’t know. He doesn’t even know Blackwater. Most people don’t, actually.’

‘Only three hundred employees worldwide. But Blackwater manages a hundred-billion-dollar-strong portfolio.’

‘One hundred and twenty billion now,’

Payal said.

‘but I’m a rookie. And the problem with there being so few employees is that nobody’s got the time to teach you anything. They expect you to hit the ground running, be an expert in private equity and evaluating companies from day one. It’s crazy.’

Here was my chance. And I was going to take it.

‘If you ever have any doubts or questions about private equity, no matter how stupid they might seem to you, feel free to ask. I do stand-up comedy now, so I may not know the latest stuff, but I can try to help.’

‘You worked at Yellowstone for a decade—’

Before she could finish her sentence, Mudit and Nimit came back to our table.

‘Nice set-up,’

Nimit said.

‘Definitely has potential.’

Translation: You’re too small for us to invest in right now.

‘If you guys come in—’

Mudit said but Nimit interrupted him.

‘Not now. It needs critical mass for Blackwater to consider it,’ he said.

There you go. Too small.

I looked at Payal again. Our eyes met, as if we were thinking the same thing—that Nimit was just politely turning Mudit down.

She had a cute round face and, now that I knew about her education, a super-sharp brain as well. After how my marriage had ended, I had sworn to never ever fall for a woman again. No, wait, I wasn’t falling for Payal.

‘Bro, he’s talking to you,’

Mudit said, waving his hand in front of my face.

‘What?’

I said in a bit of a daze.

‘Nimit asked you a question,’

Mudit said.

‘Sorry,’

I said. ‘What?’

‘I said, how did you end up at Yellowstone?’

‘Ages ago, I had a small tech start-up. After a few years, I sold my company to a bigger tech company, where Yellowstone was an investor. During the negotiations, Yellowstone asked me what I was going to do after selling the company. I had no plans. They offered me a job, and I took it.’

‘Oh, so you’ve been a founder too?’

Nimit said.

‘From founder to private equity investor. Impressive.’

‘Yes. It was a tiny company though. I’m not one of those unicorn founders.’

‘Still a founder,’

Payal said.

Why was I experiencing this strong urge to be alone with Payal and talk to her again?

‘You built and sold a company. I can see why Yellowstone took you in,’

Nimit said.

‘He’s a bright fucker,’

Mudit said.

‘We’re buddies from IIT Bombay. Roommates for four years.’

‘Oh, you mean you’re also—’

Nimit said, but Mudit interrupted him.

‘Yes, I’m also a wasted engineer. Like Saket. No wonder we’re best friends. Misfits in this world of corporates and big deals. Engineers wasting their degrees and doing comedy. That

itself is a comedy.’

Everyone laughed.

‘We better leave. Have work tomorrow,’

Nimit said.

‘But tomorrow is Sunday,’

Mudit said.

‘Doesn’t matter. We have a new IM due on Monday,’

Nimit said.

‘IM?’

Mudit said.

‘Investment memorandum,’

I said.

‘We make those to evaluate any new opportunity.’

‘You guys are too smart,’

Mudit said.

‘Not really,’

Nimit said.

‘Anyway, see you guys. Our driver is waiting. Come, Payal.’

‘See you guys,’

Payal said.

I realized then that I did not have her number, and that I had ten seconds to come up with something. Else, she would be history. And none of the craziness that transpired later would happen either. But, as luck would have it, destiny had other plans in store for us.

‘I don’t have your contact details, guys. I could add you both to our broadcast list,’

I said.

‘in case you want to attend any of my future shows. Bad comedy can be contagious.’

‘Sure,’

Payal said, laughing. She opened her black Tumi laptop bag, took out her business card and handed it to me. Nimit gave me his card as well.

‘We won’t get spammed, right?’

Payal said.

‘Never,’ I said.

Mudit and I stayed back at the bar after Payal and Nimit left. Mudit kept staring at me.

‘What?’ I said.

‘You like her,’

Mudit said.

‘Who?’

‘Stop the bullshit. You know who.’

‘It’s nothing like that, bro. She was just a guest at our show.’

‘She’s pretty. Round face, long hair, delicate-looking. Your type completely. And same industry too.’

‘She’s twenty-one, Mudit. Too young.’

‘That’s what’s stopping you? Really?’

‘Yes, really. Firstly, you know what happened with my marriage. I’m out of the relationship world. For the next five years at least. Or fifty. Secondly, I don’t know if she’s keen.’

‘She’s keen.’

‘What? No.’

‘She gave you her card. Message her.’