A Handful of Sunshine Read online

  VIKRAM BHATT

  A Handful of Sunshine

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  LONDON: TODAY

  VEER

  MIRA

  VEER

  MIRA

  VEER

  MUMBAI: EIGHT YEARS AGO

  MIRA

  VEER

  MIRA

  VEER

  MIRA

  VEER

  MIRA

  VEER

  MIRA

  VEER

  MIRA

  VEER

  MIRA

  VEER

  LONDON: TODAY

  VEER

  MIRA

  VEER

  MIRA

  VEER

  MIRA

  VEER

  MIRA

  VEER

  MIRA

  VEER

  MIRA

  VEER

  MIRA

  VEER

  VEER

  MIRA

  VEER AND MIRA

  VEER

  MIRA

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN METRO READS

  A HANDFUL OF SUNSHINE

  Vikram Bhatt is the grandson of film-maker Vijay Bhatt, one of the pioneers of the Hindi film industry. His father, Pravin Bhatt, is the acclaimed director of photography of over a hundred films in a career spanning more than fifty years. Vikram has had the good fortune of being under the tutelage of renowned film-makers, Shekhar Kapur and Mahesh Bhatt. In a career that spans twenty-five years, Vikram has directed more than thirty-five films and written the screenplays of over fifteen films. He has also produced a number of films and now heads the company Loneranger Productions Pvt. Ltd—a company that specializes in film, television and now also the Web. This is his first book.

  To her

  LONDON

  TODAY

  VEER

  Monday morning

  The leaf tried its best to fight the wind, lost, broke off the branch, glided sullenly through the air and perished on the pavement. I looked at it and wondered how long it would be before an uncaring heel crushed it. Not long, I guessed. Fallen leaves on busy pavements never stood much of a chance. Autumn was in the air. I hugged my jacket closer and buttoned it up. Shazia should have been here five minutes ago. She was seldom late.

  Early morning office-goers and late joggers with their headphones plugged in passed me by as I stood at the corner of Brompton and Hans, just off the iconic Harrods departmental store. I waited for Shazia there every morning. It was our thing.

  I had met Shazia when I first started working for Pearl and Grey Advertising. She was the Pakistani girl, the best client-servicing executive in the agency. I was the Indian boy, and, if I say so myself, the best copywriter. Fireworks were expected.

  We disappointed everyone when we became best friends.

  What was this about South Asians being the best of buddies in a foreign land and thirsting for each other’s blood when home? Inexplicable! Even after almost eight years in London, I hadn’t figured it out.

  Shazia pulled up in her Range Rover just as a 5-inch heel pierced the dead leaf. I tried to remember if we were taught anything in school about leaves still feeling once they fell off the branch. Seemed like a subject for some late-night Internet research.

  ‘Hello, V!’ Shazia flashed me her beautiful smile as I slid into the passenger seat, and handed me the much-needed cup of cappuccino. Another one of our morning rituals—drive to work together with the ample dose of caffeine before the stormy waves of advertising crashed against our underpaid, overworked, but resilient creative minds.

  Shazia was the quintessential beauty from the north-west province of Pakistan—creamy white complexion with smoky Afghani eyes and long, dark-brown tresses that fell like a low monsoon cloud over her shoulders. She looked like a knockout even on her off days.

  ‘How was the weekend?’ she wasted no time quizzing me. I did not want to answer, knowing Shazia would catch the lie. My mood suddenly dipped at the morbid reminder.

  ‘Let’s talk about yours instead,’ I retorted, trying hard to keep the grumpiness out of my tone.

  ‘That bad, huh?’ Shazia laughed.

  I sipped the coffee as my thoughts went back to Saturday, the quarrel with Kavita, the things I had said (only to regret them later) and the slamming of the doors. If wooden doors had feelings, I’m certain they would wish they could walk out of houses with troubled relationships. ‘Yeah, let’s not talk about it. How was yours?’ I probed.

  Shazia grinned, and with as much fanfare as was possible while driving a car, showed me her glittering emerald earrings.

  ‘Woah! Those must be worth a fortune!’ I exclaimed, doing my best to hide my abhorrence of the flamboyant design.

  ‘They are, I’m sure, but Theo says I really am the fortune and that the earrings are fortunate to be adorning the fortune.’ Shazia giggled like a schoolgirl.

  ‘What are the chances of a Paki landing a “copybook romantic” Greek millionaire?’ I teased.

  Shazia laughed and jabbed me in the ribs.

  ‘Jealous Indian emotional miser!’

  She could be right about the emotional miser bit.

  Shazia had come back from a trip to Loch Ness about six months ago and announced that she had met the man of her dreams. Not only did he look like a Greek god, he was also a Greek millionaire! The kind of man every woman dreams of, I was certain.

  Shazia swerved past the Marble Arch on the A5. ‘Office moved over the weekend? Don’t remember it being outside the city,’ I quipped sarcastically, draining the last drops of my coffee.

  ‘It hasn’t moved, smart-arse, we have a meeting at the Middlesex country club today.’

  ‘A country club meeting on a Monday morning? Must be an important client for Jim to have us go there before paying homage to him at the office,’ I mused.

  Shazia nodded. ‘An Indian packed foods manufacturer and distributor—solid for years. They worked out of Mumbai and Singapore earlier, but now have a London-based CEO.’

  I gestured for her to go on and she continued, ‘So they are coming out with a brand of Indian snacks for the UK market and looking for an advertising firm to launch the product. Big-ticket client—television, print, Internet—the works.’

  Shazia swerved to switch to the fast lane.

  I was already feeling the pressure. ‘So this is a must-happen for Jim, I suppose?’

  Shazia nodded and my heart plummeted. I was now as scared of Mondays as I was of Fridays.

  ‘I will shoot you if it does not happen . . . Must happen.’ Shazia pulled off an exact imitation of our CEO, Jim Jonas, and I laughed out loud.

  It was the first time I had laughed heartily in the last few days.

  My mind went back to that leaf on the pavement.

  Shazia’s check with the club security was over in a minute and we were ushered through the gates. The driveway curved to reveal a well-maintained Tudor-style structure. Clubs have always filled me with a dull rage. They lure you to want to be a part of their culture and then tell you that you are not good enough for them. A bit like the high-school girls’ cliques, which, in turn, reminded me of bubblegum in pretty mouths. My stream of consciousness was interrupted as Shazia pulled up at the porch and handed over the keys to a uniformed valet.

  ‘Miss Shazia Sharif and Mr Veer Rai, I presume?’ I heard the man’s voice before I saw him, natty in a blue pinstriped suit. ‘I am Henry Weston, assistant to Mrs Varma.’

  Shazia and I shook hands with Mr Weston. Shazia zipped through our well-rehearsed introductions.

  ‘Mrs Varma has just finished her game of squash and is waiting for you in the members’ lounge. Please follow
me,’ he gestured towards the red-carpeted corridor and took the lead.

  We followed obediently.

  I glanced at Shazia, raised an eyebrow and mouthed, ‘Mrs Varma? Like Lady Boss?’

  Shazia gave me the don’t-mess-the-meeting look and reprimanded me in a barely audible whisper, ‘Don’t be an ass!’

  I looked away with a half-smile, pretending to be chastised.

  ‘The Mahogany Lounge’—a brass sign informed us, as we entered the heart of the club. It was polished wood and black leather. Typically English. I glanced at the seating by the window towards which Mr Weston was guiding us. And two things happened in quick succession. One, I saw the back of her head. Two, my heart stopped beating.

  It was her!

  How the hell? Mrs Varma? What was going on? Was this some kind of celestial joke?

  Mira.

  As I settled down on the couch to her right, I realized that I had a full five seconds over her. It was unfair but then I was clearly not heading the department of destiny here. I saw her glance at me, and freeze. She had no idea how to react. Neither did I.

  She did not look a day older than when I’d last met her—the long dark curls, the intense, deep brown eyes, the pert nose and the full lips set in that fair, almond-shaped face. The large English armchair made her petite frame look even more petite and the sweater tied carelessly around revealed how tiny her waist still was.

  Did she fly out of my dreams and materialize in front of me or was this a horrible nightmare?

  Mr Weston made the introductions and I saw her recover her composure quickly. I was, however, beyond any kind of recovery. I had always been a case of late or no recovery for that matter.

  Shazia, being the client-servicing person, embarked on a verbal presentation on what a great advertising agency we were. I decided to use the time to kick-start my heart again.

  It did, and began to beat with such ferocity that I was convinced I was headed for a cardiac arrest.

  Now, her lips were moving. Now, she was smiling. Now, she was running her fingers through her hair. Now, she was offering us something. Through it all she never looked at me, while all I did was stare at her like she was a miracle.

  My heart was showing no signs of slowing down while all my other senses were shutting down. Shazia turned to me and said something with a broad smile. I smiled back and nodded in agreement to that something. I was finding it difficult to breathe!

  She looked even more beautiful than when I had last seen her, if that was possible. Her slender form looked so delicate in the plush leather armchair probably meant for oversized army generals, or large squash players for that matter. Her sense of fashion, as always, was exquisite—boots, figure-hugging jeans, a plain white shirt, tucked in, with a tan belt running around her waist.

  I needed some air . . . but there was clearly enough ventilation in the room—everyone else was breathing with considerable ease! I was going to be the first person to asphyxiate despite ample oxygen!

  I got up suddenly—too suddenly for Mahogany Lounge kind of manners—and drew some frowns. Not important when you are having a major anxiety attack. I asked Mr Weston to direct me to the men’s room.

  A right, a left and another right later, I crashed through the doors of the men’s room and collapsed on the ugly granite.

  ‘Granite is so downmarket!’ she used to say.

  So much she had said, so much I had said—the memories came crashing back like the sadistic waves of a thunderstorm hitting a hapless shore.

  A voice in my head advised me to splash cold water on my face. I obeyed. The water wet my £ 300 suit but it managed to slow my heart down to a steadier rhythm. I would probably survive the day, but there was no way in hell I was going to be able to make a pitch to her company.

  I had never managed to become whole again after we ended, and now here I was, shattered all over again, quite like the leaf on the pavement—crushed!

  I had not seen her for eight years. We were practically strangers. But then again, we were not. ‘Intimate strangers’ . . . yes, that’s what we were. What I did not know at the time was that under her calm, collected exterior, Mira was as much the autumn leaf in the wind as I was. And the storm had begun.

  MIRA

  Monday afternoon

  It hit me like a freight train hurtling down a slope with no brakes. There was Veer, sitting in front of me, after all these years, and I was supposed to behave like it was business as usual. Had I moved into a dreamworld? Or was it that I had never known him? Had I just imagined a past with him that never really happened? Perhaps, he was some stranger I was supposed to work with and this was our first meeting? Was this supposed to be some kind of test? Was I going mad?

  My mind and body warned me against glancing at him, but my heart remained treacherous. I chose to ignore the warning and shot him a glance. He looked older; there was a little grey in those well-clipped sideburns. He still lived with that awful stubble. And he still wore Acqua di Gio.

  Nothing had changed . . . and yet, everything had changed.

  I could see that Veer was having a tougher time than me in dealing with this sudden onslaught of cosmic sadism. I had to be in control. Mr Weston introduced me to the lady as Shazia, head of client servicing for the advertising company. She looked like it, but I hated her earrings. Was Veer sleeping with her? I had a vision of Veer and her in bed—it came out of nowhere and I felt a deep stab of pain. I could not let this affect me!

  I took a deep, shaky breath and looked at Shazia. She was giving me the usual marketing spiel. I did not want to be here, sitting in front of Veer. I felt a rage slowly building inside me; I was going to be sick.

  Veer stood up, suddenly, abruptly. He asked to be excused, did not wait to be excused, but just fled from the room, from me.

  He didn’t return and the rest of the meeting was a blur of feigned responses and heartbreaking memories.

  The migraine came in full force, as I had known it would. I would have to give the office a miss. There was no way I was going to be able to get through another meeting. I decided to take the quickest exit towards Richmond. Thankfully, the roads were traffic-free at this time of the day, but the traffic lights slowing me down were getting to me.

  Everything was getting to me. Everything had to be somebody’s fault! Someone had to be blamed for today. If God was running the show, then he was on a long coffee break. Damn the afternoon sun! Where was the London murkiness when you needed it?

  The house we owned was large, very large for just two people. I know Akhil had bought it for me and that made me happy on most days, but not today. Today was not a happy day. His car was in the driveway; he was home early. I wished he were away. I wanted to be on my own. I had to process all the conflicting emotions set off by this sudden meeting with Veer. Pretending was not my thing.

  Akhil was in the study going over some files. He saw me and smiled. I tried hard to keep it together. ‘Hello baby!’ he greeted me with chirpy good humour that grated on my highly strung nerves.

  I opened my mouth to say something but an aeroplane flying overhead jumped into the contest. The loud, ear-splitting sound of the jet was the last straw.

  ‘You are the goddamn CEO of the biggest financial institution in Europe and they give you a house in the flight path of one of the busiest airports in the world? What amazing luck!’ I did not realize that I was screaming at the top of my voice till the sound of the aeroplane faded away and I was surrounded by the silence of a London suburb. I sounded like I had lost my mind. I probably had.

  ‘Are we fighting?’ Akhil wore a look that reminded me of a WhatsApp emoticon, the one with the big, surprised eyes.

  ‘I have a migraine,’ I told him softly.

  He was immediately concerned, ‘Did you take a painkiller?’

  ‘No!’ The monosyllabic word shot out like a bullet.

  Akhil was unfazed by my abrupt tone, ‘Are you planning to take one?’

  ‘Are you planning to be this
talkative for the next few hours?’ I snapped, glaring at him.

  Akhil’s face had the hint of a smile and his niceness aggravated my rage. He made me feel like a lesser being for feeling human emotions like anger. I chose not to reply to his query and stalked off to the security of my bedroom.

  Akhil is the nicest man I have ever met. He makes me so happy that at times I catch myself knocking on wood like a woman possessed, muttering ‘touch wood’ under my breath. It wasn’t a very dramatic love story that led to our marriage; in fact, it was so mundane that we ourselves found no joy in reliving it in our intimate moments.

  I was working at turning around my father’s company in Singapore. Akhil was the newly appointed East Asia head of finance for Peter Price. He wouldn’t grant a loan to my company. I met him over lunch to seduce him. He did get seduced, but did not grant the loan despite my charm setting being on high. I fell in love with him and got the loan from elsewhere.

  I was angry and bitter; he was pleasing and calm. I was a bundle of all the loose, sparking wires life had left me with; he was collected and unruffled. He loved me with all my faults. He was a man so rare that there was no way I was letting him go. But why would he marry an emotional rollercoaster like me? I had no answer.

  After a six-month courtship, we met the parents. They were happy and readily assented. Six months later, the big, fat Indian wedding took place in Mumbai. That was five years ago. Akhil had since then become my anchor, my go-to guy, my confidant and, sometimes, my punching bag, as was the case today.

  I drew the curtains, popped the painkiller and crashed face down on the pillow. My head was bursting, a thousand drums beating erratically, a cacophony.

  Veer.

  Why did he have to show up like this? A sob escaped my throat, and I was sure a tear had wet my pillow. I should not, must not, let this get to me. I must breathe, deeply. I must try to sleep. I should also get a frontal lobotomy to end this barrage of unchecked feelings.

  The deep breathing helped—a bit. The birds chirping outside were less annoying. A knock on the door, I was still in the throw-the-pillow-at-husband mode when I saw Akhil’s hand make its way through a narrow opening of the door. It held out a balm for migraine.