I Didn't Expect to be Expecting (Ravinder Singh Presents) Read online

  ‘Look at those poor people,’ I confessed, jerking my head in the direction of the next table. ‘They look …’ The shriek we heard next can best be described as emanating from someone who had been to a screening of Friday the 13th, The Exorcist, Evil Dead and Vikram Bhatt’s latest horror venture, all at once.

  After the initial commotion, we realized it was coming from Sania, who had clearly declared herself as the source by standing on her chair and waving her napkin at the servers. ‘I felt a rat on my leg! Under the table! Disgusting!’ This pretty much heralded a panic tsunami. Abhi knew how I felt about rats, so before I could even react, he swooped me up in his arms. Shoma jumped on her chair and in under a minute, there was hardly anyone left standing on the ground.

  An apologetic manager came running to our table and spoke to Sania. ‘I’m extremely sorry, ma’am. Please let me check. I can’t imagine how this could have happened.’ He got down on his hands and knees and disappeared under the table. Seconds ticked by and we heard some shuffling under the table. This was followed by the sound of laughter and out came the manager. Close behind him was the ‘rat’, which turned out to be the pyromaniac kid from the next table. He had an impish grin on his face, which was decorated with some mushy food. The crimson-faced mother, with an embarrassed-looking husband in tow, dashed onto the scene and started babbling her apologies. ‘We are so sorry. He’s just a child. Do get back to your dinners. So sorry again!’

  After a lot of huffing and puffing and muttering, everyone got back to their dinners. I couldn’t help cracking up, nor could Abhi. ‘That was actually quite hilarious.’ Sania was still staring at the kid, now back at his table and looking for the next object to set on fire. Her expression reminded me of the movie Independence Day; this was exactly how the characters had looked when they saw the aliens for the first time. Awe, wonder, fear, fascination and disgust, all at once.

  ‘I can’t understand for the life of me why people would willingly do this to themselves,’ she ranted. ‘I mean, look at so many of my friends. Ever since they’ve had kids, they don’t have a life. And people who try and have a life and take their little critters out with them end up in this sort of mess.’

  Shoma looked appalled. ‘What a generalization! Do you think socializing is everyone’s priority?’

  Not pleased, Sania retorted, ‘Since when are you so in love with kids?’

  Abhi waved his napkin like a truce flag. ‘Guys! Relax. You know this topic can be debated eternally. Let’s just agree that none of us at this table are going to have kids except Mani and Shoma, who are going to have six and make up for the rest of us.’

  Shoma started laughing. ‘Hey, why don’t I just have a whole litter to make you happy!’

  Globetrot Restaurant. 12:15 a.m.

  As we were paying the bill, the occupants of the ‘table of terror’, as we’d been calling it, passed by. Remembering our discussion about children, I suddenly put myself in the hot seat and asked myself if I ever wanted kids. I got the answer in a split second. No! Why would you want to change your perfect life, you fool?! That was it, then.

  4

  Dham Dhaam. 27 February. 8:30 a.m.

  The phone rang and just like every morning, it had to be from my mother in Allahabad. I could imagine what she was wearing, where she was sitting, and that Dad would be doing pranayam in the puja room. Her slender fingers, encased in colourful, planetarily aligned stones, would be shuffling through the pages of the morning newspaper. The result was that when my mother called me every morning, she would be crammed with more news than Arnab Goswami and Rajdeep Sardesai put together.

  ‘Good morning, beta,’ she chirped.

  ‘Morning, Mumma. So what’s new today?’ I asked her with a smile playing on my lips and then braced myself for the onslaught.

  ‘Beta, I just read that some scientists have found undeniable proof of cellphone radiation and its effect on the human brain. Please don’t talk so much on the phone. Tell Abhi as well. Also, I’ve read another article about everyday milk being poisonous. They add paint and chalk to increase the quantity and to make it look whiter and creamier.’

  ‘Veena,’ Dad’s voice suddenly piped in. ‘Do you expect her to go hire a private detective to investigate her doodhwala? Isn’t there enough anxiety in the world already?’

  ‘Why don’t you go stand on your head elsewhere? I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter in peace. This is what happens when sixty-two-year-olds do too much yoga!’ she muttered under her breath. An ex-NCC cadet, my mom came with some pretty strong ‘don’t mess with me’ credentials.

  ‘Sure, Mumma, I’ll be careful,’ I reassured her.

  ‘By the way, I’m going to see Panna Wala Baba next weekend. Would Abhi and you like to come? He shines his panna stone on people’s foreheads and blesses them.’ This was where all the published material she subscribed to and her otherwise logical mind failed. My mother’s fascination with all kinds of babas had surfaced in the last couple of years and she had a knack for sniffing out a new one with new and improved powers every few months. ‘Umm. Next time for sure, Mumma,’ I refused tactfully.

  8:45 a.m.

  I pulled on my pink pencil skirt as Abhi came out of the shower, coughing.

  ‘What happened? Not feeling well?’ I asked him, feeling his forehead. It felt a bit feverish. ‘Don’t know where I caught this stupid bug from,’ he told me in between coughs. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be up and about in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Abhi, I know you’re He-Man and by the powers of Grayskull, you will always be disease free, but please go see a doctor. You know we have a visa appointment tomorrow morning. Do you really want to risk our Italy trip by being a stubborn, unwell mule?’

  ‘Fine!’ Abhi relented, throwing his arms up in the air. ‘But on one condition. You come back early and we watch a movie with early dinner.’

  I smiled at him. ‘I’ll try. And there will be burnt dal and burnt bhindi without any masalas for lunch. Enjoy!’

  Richard & Davis Advertising Agency. 12:15 p.m.

  ‘Boss, I have bad news,’ announced Nakul, my second-in-command who handled one of the two teams I headed. He looked visibly shaken.

  ‘Spill it, Nakul, what happened?’ I prodded.

  ‘We presented the animated cow film to the dairy clients yesterday. They have dropped five whole seconds of the film!’

  The tussle between clients asking for a shorter film and an agency fighting for a longer, better one is possibly as old as the one between the first cat and dog on earth over a treat. Yes, this was bad news. ‘Those misers.’ I sighed.

  ‘When the cow dances, facing the camera on the close-up shot, they think the pelvic thrust is obscene and unsuitable for family viewing,’ explained Nakul.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

  4:00 p.m.

  The saving grace for the day had been a late lunch with Sania, but I felt a headache coming on and went out to get some tea. Also getting himself some tea was our MD, Raman Vohra – also my boss.

  With a cherubic once-handsome face, he was always dressed well, but no one knew why he was partial towards cravats, especially in Mumbai weather. Come rain, hail, sweat or ridiculously hot weather, there it was every single day, growing out of his neck and changing colours like a chameleon. Something else that kept changing was his personality. He would switch between angry and happy in the blink of an eye, which would lead to call signs of ‘Saada Vohra’ and ‘Military Vohra’. And then there was the wig. There are good wigs and there are bad wigs, and then there is a category which doesn’t deserve to sit atop anything human. Vohra’s wig could be best described as something that remained after a stampede. And it moved around on its own, as if possessed by an evil spirit. As a boss he was okay, but there was one habit of his that drove me up the wall. He spoke about my leaves all the time. He never launched a direct attack, but always made sure to put his point across in a subtle way every time we met.

  As I r
eached for the sachet of green tea on one of the upper shelves, his face rose like the sun from behind the boxes of teabags, ready to scorch me with his words.

  ‘So, Tara, when is the bank pitch fixed for?’

  ‘Hi, Mr Vohra. Next Friday.’

  He smiled. ‘Great! So all your research and strategy is in place? I would like to run through the pitch deck.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ I responded.

  ‘So Tara,’ he continued. ‘I heard you’re going to Italy?’

  I gave him a perfunctory smile.

  ‘Yes, Mr Vohra. You possibly heard about it from me.’

  He goaded further. ‘Didn’t you just go to Vietnam?’

  ‘No,’ I shot back, keeping the smile constant. ‘That was six months ago.’

  ‘Then chop-chop. Lots to finish off before you go, Tara,’ he advised me, like I was a toddler. I pictured myself throttling him viciously but kept my composure.

  6:30 p.m.

  My evening seemed like it was clearing up pretty fast when Nakul came running to me, looking like he had just hopped off a treadmill.

  ‘Tara, so sorry to disturb you. Are you leaving?’

  ‘I was just about to, Nakul. Now what? You look ill!’

  ‘Well,’ he continued. ‘Mr Vohra has rejected the strategy deck for the bank pitch.’

  ‘Relax, Nakul,’ I said. The poor chap looked like he was going to pop a vein in his head. ‘I’ll go speak with him.’

  When Mr Vohra had requested to see the deck earlier, I knew we would be in for some rework. What I now also knew for sure was that there was a sweet, unwell Bengali gent who would be coughing and watching a movie alone over dinner this evening.

  5

  Dham Dhaam. 28 February. 10 a.m.

  ‘T, you have got to come and see this. It’s hilarious!’ croaked Abhi.

  ‘I’m coming, Abhi. Making breakfast,’ I shouted from the kitchen. The pitch fiasco had finally got over only by around 1 in the morning. I came back to see Abhi asleep with his mouth open and the TV blaring away with one of those late-night shows on, in which voluptuous girls wear skimpy bikinis and prance around in the ocean. Feeling bad, I had decided to work from home the next day.

  Arriving with the breakfast tray, I found Abhi cackling away.

  ‘So what’s so funny?’

  ‘ABV news,’ he said, sniggering. ‘This reporter is covering a miracle goat found in Patna. They believe it’s a reincarnation of Lord Shiva. It’s that small tuft of black hair between its eyes which looks like a third eye. People are lining up for miles to see this goat. This reporter even put the mike in front of it! This is just priceless!’

  While wolfing down his breakfast, Abhi began making plans for lunch.

  ‘T, Radha isn’t in today, right? Let’s order.’

  I looked at him suspiciously. ‘You know, you look rather well. Maybe I should’ve gone to work!’

  ‘Oh come on,’ he cajoled. ‘Live a little! By the way, I’ve pushed today’s visa appointment to next Monday. I know we are cutting it too fine but there isn’t any other option.’

  I looked at him with furrowed brows. ‘If anything happens to this trip, I swear I’ll …’

  Abhi planted a long kiss on my lips, which shut me up instantly. It worked like a charm every time! I laughed and pushed him away. ‘Keep your germs away from me.’

  I fetched the menus and placed them in Abhi’s hands. ‘Let’s order from Petuk?’

  ‘Sure! So mutton chaaps, and a biryani and some fish fry? Just to be safe.’

  ‘Sure Abhi. Let’s host a neighbourhood langar while we’re at it!’

  1:00 p.m.

  We were sifting through our DVD collection when the bell rang. Before I could even reach the door, I heard someone yelling from behind it. ‘Tadi! Open up. Why are you taking so long?’

  That unmistakable voice belonged to Mira, my younger sister. The super-intelligent, vivacious, talented and gorgeous Verma sister, who was also as impatient as a mewling hungry toddler at all times. She had always called me Tadi, short for Tara didi, which she found too long and cumbersome.

  I opened the door with an exasperated look. ‘What’s the hurry, you nut! I’ll …’ I paused, noticing a man standing next to her. A tall handsome-ish guy, wearing a white linen shirt with khakhis. But the highlight of his attire was a chequered scarf around his neck. He also sported a wave of hair that rose and froze right on top of his head, cocooned in large amounts of hair gel. He reminded me of Johnny Bravo, the cartoon character. As if acknowledging my scrutiny, he flashed a disarming smile.

  Remembering my manners, I smiled back at him and reached out to Mira to hug her.

  ‘Tadi! Hey Bee!’ she called out to Abhi as well, who’d just entered the room. He waved to her with a smile.

  ‘Please meet Rahul Bhalla, a friend of mine.’

  ‘So this is your latest muse, eh?’ Abhi ragged her.

  ‘Bee!’ she chided, glaring at Abhi.

  Meanwhile, I was listening with rapt attention as Rahul helped me with the pronounciation of his name after his initial ‘Myself Rahul’ introduction.

  ‘You see,’ he explained, as Abhi and Mira joined us, ‘it’s simple. Ra-ool.’ This was accompanied by a handshake gesture, which started with a flicking of his nose and then came at me at a forty-five-degree angle. Abhi swooped in before my bemused grin could metamorphose into a dry one-liner.

  ‘Come in, Raool. Make yourself at home. So what do you do, Raool?’ he said hurriedly.

  I realized that Raool never stopped grinning. ‘I do electronics import-export, uncle.’

  It looked like a sudden cloudburst had occurred right on Abhi’s face and his smile drooped. Mira and I burst out laughing.

  ‘I’m not nearly old enough to be your uncle, Raool. I’m only thirty-four!’ Abhi spluttered.

  I interjected, ‘Before Raool reduces me to auntie status as well, let’s get ourselves some coffee, Mira. Come. Everyone okay with coffee?’ They all nodded, and Mira and I made our way to the kitchen.

  As soon as we were out of earshot I turned to Mira. ‘Seriously? He is decent to look at but what in God’s name is with the Ra-ool? And what’s with the hair gel? And the puffed hair? And he “does” electronics? Like he fornicates with them?’

  Mira started laughing. ‘I knew you’d do this! Chill, Tadi. I’m not marrying him or anything. He is pretty sweet, grammar and styling notwithstanding.’

  I gave her a wary look. ‘I’ll take your word for it. Your boyfriend choices have stupefied me every single time. An IIM Kolkata graduate and entrepreneur first dates someone who was almost a mini gangster, then an insufferable know-it-all shmuck from some village, and now someone who “does” electronics. Gee!’

  ‘Haha. You’re too funny, Tadi,’ she laughed and said as she opened up all the biscotti and biscuit packets. ‘I’ll work on his grammar, but honestly he isn’t all that bad. Anyway, I’m just glad I got lucky and caught you both together. Thank God I spoke to Mom and found out you guys were home today. I have a flight back to Bangalore tonight.’

  1:20 p.m.

  Raool was explaining to us why he hated cats when the bell rang once again.

  ‘That must be the food we ordered. Guys, I hope you’re staying for lunch. We’ve ordered food for a whole army anyway.’

  I winked at Abhi as I reached the door. It was the Petuk delivery boy, carrying with him that familiar comforting smell of freshly cooked delicious curries and fish fry. Right next to him was Kabir, who wrapped me up in a bear hug, much to the astonishment of the delivery boy. This would surely be pakora and chai-time conversation at Petuk later that evening.

  Abhi called out to Kabir while walking with his wallet. ‘It’s quite the party going on here. Come and join us for lunch.’

  ‘No dude,’ Kabir said. ‘I dropped into your office to leave these PS3 games and then found out you were unwell.’

  ‘Well now that you’re here,’ said Abhi while peeling open the biryani and waving it in f
ront of Kabir’s face. There was silent capitulation in Kabir’s eyes as he slowly walked over to the sofa and eased his tall frame onto it.

  ‘Hey Mira!’ Kabir smiled when he saw her. Then he looked at Rahul. ‘And you are?’

  ‘I’m Raool.’ As Kabir raised an eyebrow, looking at Abhi and me, we shook with silent mirth, waiting for the entertainment to begin. My unintentional prophesy had come true and this late meal had slowly but surely turned into a happy langar.

  6

  VFS Visa Application Centre. 6 March. 3:00 p.m.

  The VFS office at Santacruz was housed in a tall, austere building just off the highway. US and Canada offices were on the ground floor and European visas on the first floor. Abhi waved to me from the queue and I joined him after giving him a quick hug.

  The queue was flooded with a sea of faces sporting a wide variety of murderous expressions, owing to the heat and the length of the line. All I knew was that this was our ticket to a holiday I’d been waiting for, and this little piece of information was making my heart dance. As if reading my mind, Abhi took my hand, squeezed it and shot me the biggest and brightest smile in the world.

  Then looking at my papers he told me seriously, ‘Love, I don’t mean to be rude, but we might be disqualified on the grounds that you look like an alien. Look at your passport photograph!’

  4:45 p.m.

  Grinning, we both stepped out, hand in hand, ready for our next trip. We had registered for the fast-track option, so hopefully we would get our visas in three days. Abhi suddenly looked at me with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Baby, are you getting that butter chicken feeling inside?’

  I stared at him as I suddenly realized what he meant. Tony Da Dhaba, admittedly one of our favourite out-of-town haunts (located in Lonavala) served the best butter chicken in the universe, but going there on a weekday?

  ‘Abhi,’ I started to reason, then suddenly my mouth worked of its own volition, blocking any pragmatic processing in my brain. ‘Oh what the hell, c’mon!’