The First Time (Love in No Time #1) (6 page)

“Samir, this is Ms. Sharma, my third cousin. She is visiting from Hyderabad.”

What the fuck?!!

Cousin
?!!

Did he really introduce me as his
cousin
?

And what of all that kissing, and fondling, and biting, and seducing—of a
cousin
???! Where does this guy get off? What is he playing at, seriously? I am mad.

Samir says “hi” and I “hi” him back and maybe my being mad is splayed across my skin like blood rising up the skin under the bite of a flogger.

I stare ahead at nothing, waiting for this Samir or whatever to leave. He does.

I need to get out of here. Fuck him . . . and
him
.

I refuse to look at him as I slide out of my booth seat to literally run away from him and everything this evening was about or not. He blocks my slide out by standing in between me and freedom. I still refuse to look at him. He bends towards my ear and whispers “Sorry.”

I will not cry right now. I will not. I keep repeating in my head. This is so stupid and so fucked up. I push him away almost sprinting for the door. Outside I breathe in a little forcefully as I hail an auto. I run to the first one that stops and get in. I give him my address before looking over my shoulder.

I see him exit Berccos, looking around for me. His hand is sifting through his incredible mop with considerable force. He doesn’t spot me and I turn around in my seat, looking straight ahead at nothing in particular.

I have an insane urge to howl like beating the moon kind of howling. But my anger is considerably bigger than my urge to howl. It trumps it. Fine! I’ll go home and cry there. The night has settled onto Delhi. The dust haze is making it look ghost-like. It cooler now and the breeze has picked up a little. The dusty breeze whiplash feels welcome. The dust grinds at my face and the wind attempts to clean it away unsuccessfully. By the time I reach home, I have dust grains settled into every pore of my being. I feel grimy.

Chapter Ten

Something wakes me up. Its morning. I know. There is light in my room. But its not the light but voices outside my door that claim my subconscious to jerk her awake.

I think I hear Dipta talking on the phone. I hear her pause, listen in, talk, and pause again—a standard phone conversation. I want to ignore it but I can’t since the phone sits on a console table right outside my door. And Dipta has a voice that on its lowest register cannot be absorbed even by a five-inch solid oak door.

So here I am in bed listening in to someone’s conversation and hoping the end is near for I need another shut-eye on this Saturday morning. I need a goodbye, a click, and a walk away.

And then I hear my name—What? Why is she saying
my
name and to whom in her conversation?
Who
is she talking to? Now I am all attention and immediately sit up to deliberately listen in.

“Yes, I’ll tell her. Yes. You have a good day too. I look forward to meeting you sooner than later. Bye.”

And that is it. She is off the phone. I hear shuffling outside my door as shadows pass the door from left to right and then right to left. And then comes the predictable knock.

“Yes?” Even though I know who it is.

“Ms. Sharma, are you awake? We are going to be late for Jaya’s house. Remember the lunch today?”

“Oh, yes. Okay. Give me fifteen minutes to sort myself out.”

“And yes, lover-boy called.” And having delivered the piece-de-resistance I hear her shuffle away.

“Lover boy? Who? Him? HIM?”

I am up in less than a second and out the door in less than two. Damn, why is it so bright outside? I am blind now. And Dipta has disappeared into our small home. I finally find her in the kitchen.

“Lover boy?” I ask as I watch her pour our morning cups of tea.

“Yep. He called. He has a nice voice, by the way. And such good manners even on the phone. Why haven’t I met him yet? Forget that. Why don’t I know about him even?”

She has stopped pouring the tea and is standing facing me with a hand on her hip looking very much like my inquisitive third aunt.

“There is nothing to tell” so say I. I pick my mug of tea and cock an eyebrow at her inquisition of my love life, if you could call it that thus far.

“Who is he?” She is not giving up.

“Not telling you.” I say rather rudely. I take a sip of her strong ginger tea. I like it, though I am not liking her questions right now.

“So who, Ms. Sharma? Where did you find him?” As if he were a hundred rupee note that I found on the road and decided to keep for fun’s sake.

“I didn’t find him anywhere and there is nothing going on (yet, I add silently).

“I doubt very much that nothing is going on. Why is he calling this early and sounding kind of desperate to speak with you?” she counters.

“I don’t know” even as I think to myself “desperate”—why would he be desperate to speak to me—oh! Yes—yesterday—the fiasco it was and how I had run from the situation without getting him a chance to explain or apologize. Yes, an apology was in the offing. But Dipta doesn’t need all these details or any other detail for that matter. She is just goading me to spill and I am not spilling anything.

“He is not desperate. You are desperate to hear what you think might be dirty, juicy details of my semi-existent love life, right?” I am being a little harsh now.

And she sounds indignant when she says, “No, I am not desperate but as your friend I would like to know where all is your pussy dragging you these days!” Oh, she didn’t just voice that! OMG. I have never heard her talk this way.

“And yes, I would say he is desperate too because he asked me to tell you to call him back ASAP and he must have said this at least three times. And if he didn’t hear back from you before the evening is over, he was going to pay you a visit.” Her eyes are now bright with anticipation of what she might hear from me now.

“What, he said what?” She smiles but says nothing. She knows I heard her and that my question is purely rhetorical. No, absolutely no. He cannot come here. I am not ready for this. I am really irritated now. All this early morning inquisition is making me feel on the edge and I haven’t even finished my tea!

“Dipta, thanks for taking the call. I will call him when I have a chance and he is certainly not coming over this evening or any other evening. So if you get a chance to talk with him again do convey my sentiments to him.” I leave the kitchen. The conversation was over as far as I was concerned.

“No, its not. And you know its not.” Dipta is not one to give up so easily on mushy details of her friends’ lives. She is not bothered by my irateness or my reticence. She is patient like a hungry alligator—who waits and baits and then bites when no one is looking. Well, I will just have to be more patient than her and not take the bait. Maybe I should be answering all the phones from now on. This way I will prevent cross-connections. Right now I am just too damn angry with him to bother with Dipta’s agenda. Let him sweat. He deserves to after what he pulled on me yesterday.

Chapter Eleven

It turns out to be a very hectic day at work. I have three separate reports to file and two lessons to write. So its almost 2:30 p.m. before I come to and realize that I am a little hungry and a little brain-fuzzed. So I take a break, eat a sandwich I brought from home, drink half bottle of water, and take deep breaths. The air is heavy with dry heat making it difficult to not sweat or breathe heavy in the confines of a claustrophobic office space. “Sharma!” Some one is calling me by my surname again.

What happened to first name references?

Too formal for some?

Or is some one really fucking with me again?

I turn around, irritation writ large on my face when I see Dipta at the doorway, a smile writ large on hers. And there is a huge bouquet of pink roses in her hands. Wow! The flowers are really beautiful. Someone must really, really like her.

“Ms. Sharma, these just arrived for you.”

For me?!!!!!!!

There must be something wrong with this order. I don’t know of anyone who likes me that much. Do I? And then it hits me. Its
him
!

“There is a note here. Don’t worry I didn’t read it. Here take these and happy smelling!”

She hands me the bouquet, gives me another one of her signature smiles and walks away to continue harassing someone else.

I open the note and it says:

“Ms. Sharma. I don’t know how else to apologize for yesterday. I am hoping these flowers will do so in some measure if not entirely. I really am very, very sorry. Please call me. I do want to hear your voice and I do want to make it right for you, us. Just tell me how and I will do your bidding.

In bated anticipation, AD.”

“Do my bidding?” Who writes like that? Which Shakespeare play did he swipe this from, I wonder? But even I have to admit it is kind of novel and kind of sweet. Reluctantly, I smile and bend down to smell the flowers. They smell as sweet as his apology. There, I said it. I can do Shakespeare too. But then I hark back to yesterday and I cannot forget the moment or what it made me feel. Anger incinerates happy. I want him to squirm some more. The flowers have helped his cause but not entirely. I take the flowers to my desk and for a moment just admire them. I take his note and read it again and again. Yes, I am quite a sucker for romance and all the make-up stuff that makes romance delicious. I am starting to feel better, even gooey inside and cannot decide whether this is a good or bad thing. What I do know is that he is forgiven. Just like that.

Chapter Twelve

It is my favorite time of the day. I am sipping some lukewarm Darjeeling green tea and watching TV rather mindlessly. In other words I am idling or in Dipta’s words rejuvenating. Dipta and Jaya are on a date. They need to catch up with each other after all the crazy traveling they have been doing. So they are in CP, heart of Delhi’s business district, eating and drinking at their favorite hole in the wall. They planned to spend the night at Jaya’s parents’ home in the heart of CP. So I have the apartment to myself. Goody!

I am flipping channels when the phone rings. For a moment I think it is the TV. I lower the volume. It is my phone. I pick it up after its tenth ring. “Hello,” I say in my very bored voice. “Hi,” a voice replies. Its him! Shit! I should have expected this and yet I didn’t prepare myself well for the unplanned attack. Silly, silly.

“Ms. Sharma are you there?” I don’t respond.

He sighs audibly and then says, “I know you are and I know you are still angry with me. Sorry. I can keep saying it till you accept my apology. I have no problem with that.”

He pauses. “Did you get the flowers?”

I croak a feeble, “Yes.”

But do not add a “thank you” and he is aware I know that I don’t and says rather sarcastically, “Why, you are very welcome, Ms. Sharma.” Hmm! Whatever.

“Look, I want to see you again, if you’ll let me. I want to apologize in person, is what I am saying. Can I see you again, please?” A question and a request all rolled into one joint for me to smoke or not. The choice was mine. But I remain silent, giving him no clue to what I am feeling or thinking as he is speaking. My silence is not by design. I really don’t know what to say to him in the face of all this remorse he is expressing.

“God, you are really frustrating!” He finally admits as more silence greets him from my end.

“Ok, have it your way. I am leaving for Jaipur tomorrow morning for a meeting. I will be back Friday afternoon. Can I invite you to lunch near my office in CP then? Please say you will come.”

It is my chance to sigh audibly. “I’ll think about it.” I manage to spit out eventually. “Ok,” he says too quickly as if he is afraid that I will say no and right now he will take the maybe any which way and run to Jaipur with and back.

“Ok” he repeats. “I’ll call you Friday then to confirm?”

“Yes,” I confirm. I really need this one-sided conversation to end so I can go back to my idling. But I also know that after this call there will be no idling.

“Okay then. I think my work is done here. I hope you had a good day and will have another one tomorrow. And, Ms. Sharma I will be thinking of you and I look forward to our date. Have a good night, Ms. Sharma.”

And I don’t know why I blurt, “I am alone at home tonight.”

Did I just say that?! I slap my palm to my forehead. Of all the things to finally say after all that heavy silence on my end. Absolute silence except maybe for a small static. Maybe he hung up before I hung myself from a virtual ceiling with that inappropriate sentence. I begin to sag with relief. I am safe. My confession has no takers. But then I hear him. He is breathing in long and slow.

And then he says, “Are you?” “Why Ms. Sharma how would you like me to process that?”

He continues, “I could ask—is that an invite? But then you just shut me down so I doubt it was one.”

He stops as if still considering my statement and then with a touch of concern in his voice, he asks, “Are you scared to be alone in that apartment? Are you? You will tell me if you are, right?”

Oh dear! How did we get to this conversation from that one!

“No, I am not scared. Sorry, I don’t know why that shot out of my mouth. It was a mere statement of fact. There is no need for interpretation of sorts here. Let it be.”

I plod on.

“So I hope you have a good trip.” My good manners show up now that I have committed a boo-boo.

“Ok, Ms. Sharma. If you say so, if you say so. Though I might have to torture the truth out of you on Friday. Till then, sweet dreams, baby.” With that he hangs up.

I am left stupidly looking at the phone. “Baby?” Wow! My whole body is starting to sing. Every muscle, every sinew is alive. God! This man is making my body betray the hell out of me. It is reacting to everything he says, does, sends, insinuates, calls out to, demands—oh! The list is getting longer. I groan and cover my eyes to shift my frames of reference and return to an existential state. But that state doesn’t exist anymore. It has been shot into oblivion. I agitatedly pace the room. Ok! Time to shower and maybe go to bed. Sleep is what I need, desire—really? My inner devil mocks me. I ignore the she-devil. I grab a clean towel from the clothesline on the verandah and head to my final destination for the day. A cold shower on this balmy evening made hot by a certain someone is not what I want but it is what I need.