THE ONE YOU CANNOT HAVE (17 page)

If you follow the above methods, chances are he will get back to you soon. And if he doesn’t, you have to rethink whether you want a guy who can treat you so casually.

Good luck girls!

I read what I have written thrice. I correct the typos and the small grammatical errors that have crept in, and then hit the ‘send’ key to Jeena.

I get her reply just as I am about to leave work.

Anjali,

The piece you sent—it is good. You have captured it spot-on.

I think it will help thousands of women out there who wait to hear from the bastards who text back only when it suits them or when they want something.

Jeena

P S: It helped me too.

Praise from Jeena is like winning a grand-slam title when you are seeded 2000 in the world. It is next to impossible. I feel inordinately pleased with myself.

And yet, I cannot stop myself from checking my phone for the millionth time to see if there is a message from him.

There isn’t. I am very tempted to call him and ask him if he is all right, and what has caused this silence, but I force myself not to. It is so darn hard to follow your own advice sometimes. If he wants to get back to me, of course he will.

And for now, there is nothing I can do except cross my fingers and wait.

Chapte
r
21

Shruti

There are passersby rushing towards him and my mother-in-law and I join them. He has hit his head on a cement block and blood is gushing out like water from a tap. I am shell-shocked, terrified. I frantically take out my mobile and try hard to remember the ambulance number. What is it? 1001? 1002? I have no clue.

A small crowd has gathered around and my mother-in-law is now sitting next to my father-in-law whose eyes are shut. Someone has produced a bottle of water and he asks my mother-in-law to sprinkle some water on his face.

‘No, don’t do that. Move back please, give him room to breathe. Move back, move back,’ says a voice and I see a middle-aged man taking charge. The crowd listens to him and he whips out his mobile and calls a hospital.

‘There is a hospital just three minutes away. The ambulance will arrive in less than five minutes. Do not panic please,’ he says to me.

It is then that I notice him. He is tall and lanky and very fit. His t-shirt is covered in sweat and he wears Nike shoes, sports arm bands and knee pads. There is some sort of a strap on his arm in which he probably carries his phone and he must have been on his evening jog. His hair is peppered with grey and his eyes look kind. There is something very strangely familiar about him. Have I met him before? I am not able to place him immediately as I am too taken aback, scared and fighting hard to control my panic and take charge of the situation.

‘Thank you so much,’ I mutter, not able to think of what to say.

My mother-in-law has gone pale and she doesn’t know what to do. She is fanning my father-in-law frantically with her sari
pallu.

Then we hear the ambulance arrive and I heave a sigh of relief.

The paramedics rush out and check his breathing and pulse. They transfer my father-in-law to a stretcher and carry him in.

They ask if any of us want to be in the vehicle with them or whether we will follow them. I tell them that I will ride with them and the stranger who has dialled the ambulance says that he can follow the ambulance and bring my mother-in-law over. I gratefully agree. I don’t think my mother-in-law would have been able to ride in the ambulance.

Inside the ambulance, I realise that this is the scariest ride I have ever had in my life. I frantically dial Rishabh’s number, but he does not answer. I text him and all I say is,
Call me ASAP.
I don’t want to tell him in a text message that his father is in an ambulance on the way to the hospital.

The paramedics have now attached an oxygen mask to my father-in-law’s face. They clean up the blood, but it is still gushing out. I say a silent prayer begging the Gods to save my father-in-law. I have an inherent fear of everything to do with hospitals after frequenting them for my mother’s treatment and I try to calm myself by gazing out of the ambulance window. The stranger who helped us, is following us in his car. I can see my mother-in-law next to him but they are too far to make out her expression.

When we arrive at the hospital, my father-in-law is rushed to emergency care and I am asked to fill up some forms. My mother-in-law too arrives and is taken to the emergency room.

As I am completing the paperwork I become aware of the kind stranger who came to our rescue. I realise that I haven’t even asked his name and thanked him properly.

I go up to him.‘Thank you so much for your kindness, I am Shruti,’ I say as I extend my hand. I have to fight the urge to address him as ‘Sir’. Somehow his persona is one that commands respect and awe. But I resist the temptation as it feels odd to address someone I don’t even know as ‘Sir’. It would be ridiculous.

His handshake is firm and he says, ‘Sanjeev.’

I don’t know what else to say. He has been so kind, this man.

‘Your parents?’ he asks.

‘No, my in-laws. I am trying to reach my husband,’ I say.

‘Where is he right now? In India or abroad?’

‘He is very much here in Mumbai, but he is probably in a meeting. I have texted him and he should be calling back soon.’

‘I can stick around till he gets here,’ says Sanjeev. That is kind of him. I mean, getting us to the hospital here is one thing. But sticking around till Rishabh gets here—that is the kind of thing a friend would do. He has a manner that is easy and reassuring. And somehow very familiar.

On the one hand I want to accept his offer but on the other I do not want to take advantage of his kindness. I am terrified and having this guy around would be a relief rather than waiting outside the emergency with just my mother-in law for company who is as panic-stricken as I am.

‘That would be very kind of you indeed but I hope I am not holding you up,’ I say.

‘Don’t worry about it. I have nothing to do anyway,’ he says and his eyes twinkle.

It is then that I recognise him. It is an ‘Oh-my-God’ moment for me. I just can’t believe it. He can’t be—or is he? I look at him once more and I am certain now of who he is. I am not making a mistake. He
is
Sanjeev Adani, the founder of
Sneha Kutir and a few more organisations which are involved in the betterment of society, improving the quality of life, empowering street children, helping destitute women and many such things. He is extremely well known, respected and has even won a Padmashri Award for his services to society. I had met him many years back, while still at college under different circumstances. No wonder he seemed so familiar! No wonder I had this crazy urge to address him as ‘Sir’. It all makes sense now.

‘Oh my God—sir. We have met a long time back, a few years back. In Bangalore,’ I blurt out, unable to contain myself and now that I have recognised him, unable to address him as anything but ‘sir’.

His eyebrows knit in furrowed concentration as he tries to remember.

‘You were the key speaker for the entrepreneurial summit organised at STC college. I was the corporate interface of my college. and had come to escort you from Oberoi to my college,’ I say, the words slipping out in a rush in my excitement, now that I know who he is.

He breaks into laughter, ‘Yes, I remember, Shruti Srinivasan, corporate interface—and your friend Aman and the spinach sandwich too,’ he adds.

I am surprised he remembers the occasion and even our names. Those were days when Aman and I had been inseparable. When I had been nominated from my college to escort Mr Adani, Aman and I had found the perfect opportunity to bunk college and hang out together. I had left college at eleven in the morning, ostensibly to be with Mr Adani. I had contacted him from the hotel lobby and said that I was around if he needed anything and that a car was waiting and available at his disposal in case he wanted to go around anywhere in Bangalore. Mr Adani had arrived from Mumbai just for this event at our college, and to get him to speak for our summit had been a huge feather in the cap for us. He had replied that he was fine and that he had some business meetings scheduled and we would leave by five-thirty pm, as the talk was scheduled for six-thirty pm. That suited Aman and me perfectly. It was one of the best times we had had. We had gone to Ulsoor Lake for a while and hung around there, sitting on a bench, gazing at the calm serene water and I had leaned on his shoulder as he put his arm around me. We had talked a lot that day. He had told me about his mother, her passion for gardening and how much he admired the sacrifices that she had made in raising him and how she had never remarried. We had talked about how both of us were the only children. I had confessed that I longed for a sibling and he had said that every now and then, while growing up, he had felt that way too. Then, after a while, we had eaten lunch at a nearby roadside joint and then hung around in Cubbon Park till it was time to go and escort Mr Adani. I had met him at the hotel lobby. Aman and I had earlier agreed that I would ride in the car with Mr Adani and Aman would follow at a safe distance, on his motorbike. Aman had hung around inconspicuously (or so we thought) so that he could follow us, but Mr Adani was sharp. He had spotted Aman in a jiffy and I had been forced to confess that he was my ‘friend’ and I had to introduce Aman to him.

Mr Adani had been a good sport about it and had insisted that Aman ride in the car with us. Both of us had been too embarrassed to say no and that Aman had a motorbike. So Aman had got into the front seat and I at the back with
Mr Adani. Aman had said that he would have to get off much before we reached college. ‘Yes, yes, you don’t want to get caught in your girlfriend’s official car. We too have done all this in our college days. Don’t worry,’ he had said.

On the way Mr Adani said that he hadn’t had lunch and was hungry. He had wanted a sandwich and Aman had told the driver to pull over at Hot Bread and Bagels. Aman had recommended the spinach sandwich which was the speciality of that place and Mr Adani had loved it. He was easy to talk to, unassuming and very down-to-earth. He behaved more like a lovable college professor than a renowned personality who had founded so many institutions. Aman and I had warmed up to him instantly. Mr Adani had quizzed us about our relationship and we found ourselves telling him about how we planned to get married soon as we finished college and got a job, how we felt lucky to have found each other and how good it felt to be in love. He had laughed and agreed and wished us the very best and after that Aman had got off.

Much later, Aman and I had laughed about the whole episode as Aman had to take an auto and go all the way back to the hotel to fetch his motorbike. Aman had told me that the reason Mr Adani had spotted him in the lobby was because I kept darting love-filled glances in his direction and I had ‘given him away’. I am stunned how easily all these memories come flooding back. I am able to remember it all so clearly like it happened yesterday. A single meeting with someone from what seems like another lifetime has actually catapulted me right back into that very time.

A much happier and simpler time. A time which was one of the happiest times of my life.

My time with Aman.

‘Yes sir, the same Shruti. Guilty as charged. I am just so amazed that you even remember our names and even more amazed that I ran into you here,’ I finally manage to say.

‘I have an excellent memory for details my dear girl and as for running into me here, I always go for my jog along Worli sea-face around this time. Today in fact, I was a little earlier than usual. Maybe our paths were destined to cross again,’ he says.

I have no idea whether he is teasing me or not as the twinkle is back in his eye. Whatever it is, I am grateful for his help and I tell him so.

‘It is fine. You can repay me when Aman arrives and then you both can buy me coffee,’ he says.

For a moment I don’t get what he is saying. Then I understand. Mr Adani has presumed that Aman and I have got married. I wince.

‘Umm…Things changed, sir. I married someone else,’ I say. I feel so strange standing in a hospital corridor and blurting out personal details of my life to someone as eminent as Mr Adani. It feels surreal. Like I am in a dream.

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘If you pardon my asking, what happened? You guys were so sure of each other.’

‘It is a long story, sir. Circumstances changed.’ I don’t know how else to explain what happened.

‘You sure are making me curious, but now isn’t the time for stories. I would love to know though. Come, let’s first figure out how your father-in-law is doing,’ he says as he accompanies me to the emergency section.

‘My mother-in-law is panicking, the poor lady. I wish Rishabh would get here soon,’ I say.

Mr Adani asks me to stay calm. He visits this hospital often as there are eight volunteers from his organisation working here. They do not have a medical background but they help and guide patients fill up forms, assist the elderly who are alone and soothe the anxious with a kind smile and take care of all their needs. They also volunteer in the cafeteria and the non-medical administrative work that keeps the hospital functioning smoothly. Mr Adani offers to assign a volunteer to my mother-in-law, just in case she needs anything. But I tell him that I will take care of her.

After a while, Mr Adani takes leave of me. Before going, he hands me his visiting card and tells me to let him know of my father-in-law’s progress.

Mr Adani has a heart of gold. I remember reading somewhere that his foundation has set up twenty-three public secondary schools in association with the Uttar Pradesh government. Here the underprivileged have access to world-class education and amenities. His venture has been very successful and he wants to extend it to other states.

But more than anything, I am thoroughly impressed by how down to earth he is despite all his success. Moreover, I am astonished at his sharp memory. I also recall reading that one thing common in most successful people is their eye for details, a sharp memory, and a genuine interest in people. He seems to have the right combination, for sure. He tells me that he has now retired and the organisations he has founded have able people who run it well. He visits Sneha Kutir regularly, however, as he is a trained counsellor and enjoys counselling people on life-skills and emotional problems. He also nurtures and motivates over 200 volunteers to give free service in about twenty hospitals all over Mumbai.

As soon as he leaves, I call Rishabh once again and this time he picks up my call. He is just out of a meeting and he hasn’t seen any of my messages nor has he heard my previous calls as his phone has been on silent mode. As soon as he hears what happened he says that he will come right over. He sounds frantic with worry. I tell him that it is all under control and not to panic and that I am taking care of everything.