A Handful of Sunshine Read online

  ‘I could be of service, should the lady desire?’ he said from behind the door.

  I said nothing.

  He pushed the door, a little at a time, then, encouraged by my restraint, let himself in. Not that he was scared, not by a long shot—just playing at being a charmer. He succeeded.

  I put my head on his lap and he gently massaged my head with the balm. This was a good man, a very good man. I looked up at him and smiled. He blew me a kiss. I closed my eyes.

  And there he was again. Veer. He had brought it all back today—the anger, the hurt, the bitterness and, more than anything, the pain.

  Slowly, but surely, a rage began to grow within me. I wanted to hurt him, like he had hurt me.

  VEER

  Monday evening

  I had messed things up even more. My talent for complicating things remained unparalleled, particularly in the realm of human interaction. In my defence, I have to say that I was having the worst day of my life.

  Shazia had sensed something was amiss the minute I ran away from the meeting and sought refuge in the men’s room of the club. To add to the great escape, I did not come out of there till I was certain the meeting was over and there was no chance of having to face Mira again.

  Mr Weston gave me a look of compassionate concern, the kind one reserves for someone who is socially challenged. I bid him goodbye and shut myself up in Shazia’s monstrous vehicle. I heard her promise to send him our pitch as soon as it was ready before she joined me in the car. We drove out of the club without a word to each other, like the club had ears and would relay the conversation to Mr Weston and Co., or worse still, to Mira.

  ‘What the hell was that about?’ she finally brought the question out into the open.

  I remained impassive.

  ‘You did not say a word in the first ten minutes of the meeting and then disappeared for the rest of it like you had seen a ghost!’ she reproved.

  That was it! I had indeed seen a ghost! The ghost of my past.

  I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to confide in her at that moment. Not that I couldn’t trust her to listen. It was just that I couldn’t trust myself to speak, at least not coherently, at least not now.

  ‘I think I have just had a horrible weekend—that dubious Thai takeaway that I ordered in yesterday has made me really sick.’ I tried to sound as convincing as I could. I don’t think Shazia bought what I said, but she let it be. We drove the rest of the way in silence.

  By the time we got to the office, Mr Weston had already called Jim Jonas. He stood waiting to pounce on us by the bank of elevators. He shook our hands with enough enthusiasm to rip them off their sockets and told us that Mr Weston had relayed on behalf of the Indian Food Company and the CEO, Mrs Varma, that they would be happy to see a presentation from us.

  Then he looked at me, narrowed his eyes, and said, ‘Make it work for us, boy, it’s India, your backyard, your home turf and all that. Make it sparkle so that we have them eating out of our hands.’

  I smiled and nodded.

  ‘A food company—eating out of our hands. That would be something!’ Jim laughed the loudest at his joke. Shazia managed a grin while I completely failed the attempt. There was nothing I could do to come even close to the Jim Jonas kind of effervescence.

  Jim Jonas was not a friend at the office. He was quite clearly the boss and made sure you understood that. I had heard something about him being a rugby player, and when one saw him standing at his full 6 feet 2 inches, it wasn’t really hard to believe.

  He liked to get the work done and the money rolling into the company coffers. Funnily, he did know a thing or two about advertising, and that usually was my problem.

  ‘They are eager to get a presentation from us as early as Friday. Wave your wand at them!’ he said with a cheer that would have scared me on most days, but on that day, I was too shattered to care about Jim Jonas and his expectations of me.

  I promised him my best, made half a see-you-later kind of gesture at Shazia and hastily disappeared into my office cubicle.

  I shut the door behind me, and crashed on the black leather couch—the one I had cracked many a concept lying on. The stunning view of the Thames winding under the Tower Bridge from the floor-to-ceiling office window did nothing to soothe my tortured soul. I had to just allow the pain to seep out. That was the only way.

  As the minutes ticked by, the fog in my head cleared. I began to see things a little more clearly.

  Why did she want Pearl and Grey to pitch a concept? Oh! She knew I would make the pitch. Was she trying to figure out how good I was? Was she just looking for an excuse to see me again? Well, I could scratch that last one off my list. I doubted that she would want to see me ever again.

  So, was it to see if I was capable of coming out with something worth her while? Did she want to have the pleasure of sitting down at the head of the boardroom table and watch me sweat it out trying to please her? She wanted to have some fun? Yes, that was it!

  It would be barely an hour of her time, but she knew I would have to research, conceptualize and work hours to make the right pitch. She was playing a little power game and I had no choice but to fall in line. So be it! I would make a presentation that she would find hard to reject.

  I drove home with fervour, ready to tear the Internet apart, research everything there was to research, and then brainstorm till the copy almost wrote itself.

  My energy was, however, short-lived.

  I got home to find Kavita already there. Kavita and I had been dating for a bit and living-in for a bit. Much ado has been made about the difference between marriage and live-in relationships, but on a day like this, both seemed laboriously similar. She was watching a television show about suited lawyers who win every case they take on. To me it sounded like a fantasy. Wishing Kavita to be in good spirits after the dark weekend was an entirely different kind of fantasy, one that I hoped was a reality.

  She turned the television off as she spotted me sauntering in. I tried to sneak into the bedroom, pretending to have something on my mind, but she stopped me short.

  ‘We need to talk,’ she said with some degree of gravity.

  ‘We need to talk’ does not augur well for any man who comes home after an emotionally devastating day.

  ‘Not today, Kavita, not now, please,’ I implored.

  ‘We can’t keep pushing things under the carpet, Veer. We have to face the reality of the situation, sooner rather than later,’ she shot back, sounding like she had thought about us all day. I was not sure I could take a discussion on our relationship on a day such as this one.

  Kavita and I had met at an Indian wedding in Birmingham. The groom was a second cousin of mine and the bride was her friend. A dinner party had been hosted by some fat Indian man in an Indian restaurant and I remember the place smelled of garlic.

  I remember reaching the limit of my olfactory endurance and taking my drink and stepping out to grab a quick smoke. I found her standing on the pavement, apparently escaping the same garlicky-ness of the evening.

  The first thing I said to myself when I saw her was, ‘God, she is leggy!’ There are two kinds of men: the breast admirers and the ones that revel in hindsight, so to speak. Me, I have no particular preference, but her legs kind of did it for me.

  Standing there in her high heels, a dress and a black jacket, her long legs covered in black leggings, she was a sight for sore eyes. Her hair cascaded to her shoulders and had clearly seen some salon treatment recently. Her light brown eyes and full lips on a lean face would have easily got her a chance on a catwalk in any fashion capital. Our common distaste for garlic became the reason for our bonding. We did make a joke about blessing garlic later.

  Back in London, we continued to stay in touch. She ran an art gallery in Soho. I couldn’t understand art to save myself from terrorists. She seemed to like that and we soon began dating.

  The sex turned out to be really good and she actually got my unfunny jokes, even laughed at the
m. She came from a rich family that leased out earth-moving equipment, which I found strange and intriguing, as a choice to earn a livelihood, to say the least.

  Six months of dating, and she moved in with me.

  ‘We have been living together for almost two years now,’ she popped up again, having decided to embark on the conversation, whether I was ready or not. ‘Yet, whenever I ask you to meet Mom and Dad, you always have a ready excuse.’

  ‘Please, Kavita, let us not talk about this today?’ I said softly.

  ‘It’s today or never, Veer! I am really sick and tired of your games,’ she followed me into the bedroom, not allowing me the space I needed to escape her onslaught. I was beginning to feel cornered and that was not a good thing. I was trying really hard to keep calm.

  ‘My parents aren’t fools. They know you are making excuses to not see them. Mom had made dinner herself for you on Saturday; she is really hurt.’ She was beginning to slowly draw me in and I was trying hard to stay out of it. ‘I must know if you are ready for the next step—it’s only fair.’

  Break point!

  ‘Screw it! I am not ready! I don’t want the next step. Does that bit of information help you?’ I did not want to shout as loud as I did but I had. I was all drawn in now.

  She looked at me, shocked.

  There was a long silence as I tore my shoes off my feet and threw them into a corner.

  ‘Do you mean that?’ Tears were rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘Why the hell do we keep talking about the next step? What is wrong with the step we are on? Are you not happy?’ I did not look at her as I said this; I studied the carpet instead.

  ‘Do you not want to be married?’ she sobbed. I said nothing.

  ‘Do you not want to have children . . . a family?’ Her tone was making me feel like a terrible person and that was making me angrier. I closed my eyes and sighed.

  ‘Answer me, Veer!’ she shouted.

  I did not want to say the vicious words in my head. She came to me and turned my face towards her. I had no choice but to look at her face.

  ‘Tell me, Veer!’ I saw the look on her face and it broke my heart. Why was she doing this to herself, to me? Why could she not let things be?

  ‘Veer!’ She was halfway between pleading and anger.

  ‘No, I don’t want to be married, I don’t want to have kids, I don’t want to meet your parents, ever! I don’t want to do anything that I don’t want to do. There is no next step. This is the next step. This is the only step. Steps just stop after this step! After this step you just fall into the abyss of nothingness!’ I pushed her hand and looked away.

  She was staring at me through her tears. I could see that she couldn’t believe that I had said that. I put my cell phone on charge and went into the bathroom, avoiding her angry eyes that followed me. The door once again bore the brunt of domestic discord as I banged it shut. I looked at my face in the mirror. Who the hell had I become? This was not the man I was. I did not like hurting people.

  She stood outside the door and spoke clearly so that I could hear every word, ‘Veer, you really are the jerk my friends warned me you were. I am leaving you. Will come and get my stuff tomorrow when you are not around. I don’t know who it was but someone really messed you up. One day you will know that you screwed up your entire future for the past.’

  I could not hear any tears in her voice. They seemed to have disappeared.

  Here’s the thing. When a woman leaves you in a calm, collected way, know that she is not coming back.

  I had messed things up. I really had.

  MIRA

  Friday morning

  I found myself staring at the contents of my wardrobe for the longest time in a long time. The black dress or the blue suit? Heels or flats? Then again, did it matter?

  It did.

  I had to look my best, which was part of the plan. There was half a bottle of Chance by Coco Chanel lying somewhere . . . that was part of the plan too.

  I was at the office five minutes early for the meeting with the executives of Pearl and Grey. Mr Weston informed me that the Indian gentleman and the Pakistani lady were ready and waiting for me in the conference room. I asked him to offer them tea and said that I would be there in a few minutes.

  I acted like I was in control.

  Then I closeted myself in my office. I had to steady my breathing and look the professional that I was. The London outside my office window was dull and grey. In the distance I could see the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, barely visible in the fog. Winter was coming, fast and thick.

  I sat down in an effort to relax myself. I heard the high-pitched squeal of an ambulance tearing down the streets in the distance. I have always wondered if ambulance drivers did that even when they were not answering an emergency call. It would be a neat way to sneak through the traffic.

  I have also wondered if I would ever get over my trust issues.

  And trust issues reminded me of Veer. All thoughts led to him. Veer would be nervous by now. He would be going through the pitch, again and again, in his mind. I knew that my account would make a nice packet for any advertising agency, and that Veer would be under a lot of pressure to make it work.

  Good.

  I watched the second hand on the wall clock tick away, slowly. My business experience had taught me that all corporate exchange is about power. If you want to clinch the deal, often you have to appear like you don’t really need the deal even when you are dying to close it. This was the one for me, but more than that I wanted to see Veer powerless—helpless in every way.

  Like I had been . . .

  I made the Pearl and Grey team wait a full twenty minutes before I made my way into the conference room.

  Outside, the grey sky had given way to a light drizzle. Veer sat silhouetted against the window, the Pakistani girl on his right. What was her name? Yes, Shazia. They had a team of juniors with them who did not inspire my confidence or warrant my attention. I greeted Shazia, and then my eyes fell on Veer.

  In that one moment, in that one look, a lifetime passed between us. Shattered dreams, dashed hopes, so much anger and resentment. He looked me in the eye.

  I found myself mechanically saying, ‘Hello!’ and he responded likewise.

  I noticed that the time I had taken that morning to dress had worked. I had worn a black, knee-length Prada with a thin, tan Gucci belt and tan heels. It had the desired effect on him. His eyes lingered on me for longer than usual and, if I wasn’t mistaken, they softened a bit. Did I want that? I had no idea why I wanted to have an effect on him! Perhaps I did have an idea and did not want to accept it? Well, this was not the time to think about it.

  As I seated myself, I asked Shazia to tell us what they had in mind for our company. Shazia went on to give us a presentation about market shares and target groups. Veer seemed to be in deep thought.

  Shazia elaborated on how they wanted to capture the Indian diaspora as well as the English consumer in general. As she droned on, I wondered what Veer was thinking about. Why was he not looking at me?

  I knew most of the stuff being said, but being part of the corporate set-up, I had to nod my head through it, acknowledge that they knew what we thought they should know. Shazia then handed over to Veer.

  Veer looked at all of us on the other side of the table, then stood up to embark on his vision. He completely avoided looking at me.

  ‘India and Britain have had a long history that we know about, but the idea here is to look at it as a marketing device and reintroduce the taste of India . . .’

  His voice had a deep, rich tenor, and I noticed that he had worn his favourite white shirt and a stylish black suit which was neither too formal nor completely casual. The collar of his shirt was unbuttoned at the top. Something about the leisurely way he carried himself made me angry, I had no clue why.

  ‘So imagine this English girl who lives in a pretty country house. She is rummaging in the attic one day and comes across a chest full of rel
ics that belonged to her great-grandfather. Her great-grandfather had been part of the English in India during the Raj and had brought back from India, amongst other things, a collection of recipes for delicious Indian food,’ he continued.

  I could see that he was good at this. I could also see that my team, including the otherwise poker-faced Mr Weston, were listening with interest.

  I turned back to him. He was still not looking at me.

  ‘The girl comes to the kitchen with the recipe book and begins to gather the ingredients together. Then she begins to cook. Her parents enter the kitchen, drawn by the rich aroma . . . Then her grandmother, the family, the neighbours come . . . They begin to taste the dishes. Then, we see in a shot from outside the house that the entire town is there for a taste. I have a copy in mind that reads, ‘East is east and west is west, and Lo! The twain have met!’

  The gathering broke into spontaneous applause; I could see genuine approval on their faces. Then, they all looked at me. I had to decide.

  Veer had no choice but to look at me.

  I took my time, let the tension in the room rise to a high, then spoke as politely as I could, ‘This is the most ridiculous idea that I have heard in my entire experience of running this company.’

  There were audible gasps from a few, but I did not let that deter me. After all, this was my plan.

  ‘I am surprised that an advertising agency as renowned and marketing-savvy as Pearl and Grey would come up with an idea that is so amateur. I have tried my best to like this but I find myself at the losing end of the battle,’ I affirmed calmly.

  Shazia was looking at me like her eyes would fall out of their sockets. The others in their team were pretending to take notes. My corporate warriors were taken aback, I could tell.

  Veer was the only one who continued to look at me. He had a wry smile on his lips. It was as if he knew this would happen.