A Forgotten Affair Read online

  To Bapi and Ma, for fostering my love for the written word by surrounding me with books, the best companions one can ever have

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About The Book

  About the Author

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  New Year’s Eve, 2006, Mumbai.

  Rishab stands in front of a huge closet lined with rows of neatly ironed shirts. Whites, blues, stripes and checks hang in sequence one after another. The trousers hang separately, as do the suits. Not a single piece of clothing appears out of place. It’s the wardrobe of a man who likes order. Everything is arranged to facilitate easy and quick selection. Rishab doesn’t like spending too much time pondering what to wear.

  But today he is unable to decide. He stares blankly at the open closet. He doesn’t want to dress up. He never understood the big fuss about a New Year’s Eve party.

  Every month has an end, so does December. So what’s the big deal? What’s with the compulsion to party?

  Had it been any other invitation he would have flatly refused. But he couldn’t say no to Subodh Seth. His global CEO was hosting a party and he had invited only a select few. It would be professional suicide to decline such an invitation.

  Rishab, however, is in no mood to party and socialize. He is worried and angry.

  None of this would have happened. None of this should have happened. What got into you? What? Why?

  He tightens his grip on the closet door and feels a wave of anger surging inside him. He grits his teeth, purses his lips and shuts his eyes, holds his breath for a while and exhales loudly through his nostrils and mouth at the same time. Usually it helps ease the tension. But today it doesn’t make any difference.

  He makes his selection from the closet. He looks fine on the outside. But inside, his mind screams.

  WHY? WHY DID YOU DO THIS?

  He walks out of the room, turns towards the living room and then pauses, interrupted by a thought. He turns around and walks towards the small room at the end of the corridor. The door to this room always remains locked. He fishes out a key, unlocks the door, enters the room and switches on the light. He shuts the door behind him with a quiet, determined snap.

  Faces stare back at him. Mute. Some coloured. Some barely sketched. Some pensive and some laughing with the head thrown back in gay abandon. He looks at each of them. The sketches are quite good.

  She got better with time. Not so naïve as before.

  He observes each of them carefully.

  Then he begins ripping them apart. One by one. He smashes some against the floor. Some he kicks and then stamps on with his heavy shoes. He destroys every painting in the room, switches off the light, bolts the door and walks out, his feet treading silently on the exquisite Persian carpet in the hallway.

  He realizes he isn’t so angry any more.

  New Year’s Eve, 2006, Rishikesh.

  Akash leans against a boulder on the riverbank, stares at the starry sky and breathes in the cool night air. Sipping quietly from a bottle of beer, he looks at his cellphone. No new messages or pings.

  What the hell? Don’t you miss me … at all!

  The familiar feeling, the dull ache jabs his heart.

  Cheeni. You’ve never gone silent for so long. Have you left?

  ‘Akash! What the hell are you doing sitting here? Uff! Always staring at the stupid stars and the moon…’ the voice pierces through the still night. He turns to look at Sunaina. Dressed in a flimsy shirt fluttering in the breeze and a pair of cropped shorts that barely cover her butt cheeks, she stands with her legs slightly apart, irritation writ large on her face.

  ‘Don’t you feel cold?’ Akash shouts back. ‘And couldn’t you get any smaller shorts, Su?’ He playfully tugs at her hair as he walks past her. She squeals a little in mock pain; it bugs her that he never reciprocates to her intimate overtures. In her mind, there’s only one thing worse than being treated as an object of sexual desire: not being seen as one by the guy you like.

  Don’t think about her. Akash reminds himself for the hundredth time that day. But he knows it is only a matter of a few minutes before he would think of her again. His Cheeni. Silly, sweet, gorgeous. How much he missed her wild, dense curls!

  A huge bonfire crackles nearby. A handful of couples are slow dancing to the soft lilting music, and there are some who are scattered around, cuddling, making the most of the night. Some girls are giggling and dancing, nonchalant and carefree. Everybody seems to be having fun. But not Akash. He watches them for a while as he finishes his beer.

  I used to like hanging out. Music, camping, parties. What has happened to me? Why do I no longer enjoy this? Why do I nowadays like being alone?

  Quietly, he slips away from the party. The countdown to the New Year begins. He looks at the moon again.

  Su is right. Lately, I do like gazing at the moon. Are you looking at it too, Cheeni?

  Whoops of joy and shouts of ‘Happy New Year!’ jolt Akash out of his thoughts. He walks further away from the group, once again checking his mobile for a message or a missed call from Cheeni.

  Su searches for Akash. She had decided to kiss him on the pretext of wishing Happy New Year. She shoves away another fellow who makes a dash at her. She finds Akash at the edge of the riverbank. There’s something about the way he’s sitting, half bending over, tense and fidgety. She is about to call out to him, when he suddenly flings the beer bottle aside and dials a number on his cellphone. He begins pacing around impatiently, waiting for the call to be taken. After a few minutes, he throws the mobile on the sand nearby and collapses near it.

  Sunaina watches him for a while and then turns away, realizing her presence is neither desired nor welcome. Akash almost seems oblivious to her presence.

  Why is your phone switched off? Maybe you are in Paris … or New York, your favourite city. Have you gone to Iceland? Always wanted to see the Northern Lights…

  The thought disgusts him.

  I mean nothing to you. Nothing. You just walked away. So can I.

  Yes, Akash. You can walk away too.

  Akash switches off his cellphone, locates Sunaina and walks towards her.

  ‘Su!’ he calls out. ‘Happy New Year.’ He jogs across the sandy riverbank and grabs her by the waist. Pulling her towards himself, he kisses her long and deep.

  1

  Laughter filled the air. The room was warm enough to allow Pashmina stoles and leather jackets to be casually thrown aside. The scent of faint perfume and the aroma of fine wine mingled merrily with the sound of amicable, light-hearted banter. Well-manicured fingers held delicate stems of Murano wine glasses while finely cut scotch tumblers swirled in some others. Muted mo
od lighting threw shadows of figurines, statues on the walls. Men gaily flirted with the women and the latter sportingly returned the favour. The sharp bitter cold outside didn’t bother anyone. Central heating and the company of friends kept it at bay.

  Sagarika stood away from all of them and gazed outside the French window overlooking Golf Course Road. It was a Saturday evening and the road was bereft of the serpentine vehicular traffic that clogged it on weekdays. The twenty-eighth floor of Sky Heights offered a sweeping view. The black road, snaking its way through darkness and beyond, seemed desolate. Almost sad. Bereft of the usual vehicular traffic entombed in quiet darkness. The early January fog was descending slowly, shrouding the city and giving the neighbourhood an ominous look.

  In the distance, breaking the darkness of the night was a small bonfire. Even from that height, she could see some people seated around it. Perching herself gingerly on the wide window sill, Sagarika stared at the bonfire. Her palm rested on the cold glass of the window; the faraway bonfire, flickering feebly in the darkness, beckoned. She desperately wanted to feel the warmth of those flames.

  ‘Why are you sitting here alone?’ Shekhar, the host, stood near her.

  The sudden intrusion startled her.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to surprise you. Sagarika? Are you okay?’ he said.

  ‘I’m okay, I’m okay,’ she said, smiling back awkwardly.

  ‘Why don’t I get you some wine?’ Shekhar offered and signalled to a uniformed waiter who promptly walked up to him holding a bottle of Bordeaux in one hand and a white napkin neatly folded on the other.

  Shekhar Gupta loved his wine. He painstakingly collected the choicest of flavours from around the world.

  ‘Yeah, I think I’ll have some more of the wine. It’s very good.’

  ‘Allow me to pour you some.’ Shekhar took the bottle from the server, came closer and bent down to pour into her glass. As he did so, she got a whiff of his perfume.

  She breathed in sharply and instinctively closed her eyes.

  That smell. It’s familiar. I know it. Where have I smelt it before? Where is it from? I love the smell. I love it!

  She wanted to bury her face in the woody, sensuous fragrance, with a citrusy top note. Breathe it in deep gulps. Drown in its comfort. Nothing else mattered but the smell. Her hand trembled. She could feel her heart beating fast and eyes closing at the memory of that smell. It was an almost fading memory, which had returned with a gush. A frown creased her brow as she struggled to remember.

  ‘Are you fine, Rika?’ A hand touched her elbow. It was Rishab, her husband.

  He sat down next to her and looked at Shekhar.

  ‘Huh? I … I’m fine,’ she mumbled. She wanted to smell that scent again. She cast an annoyed look at Rishab and Shekhar. All she wanted to do was remember where she knew that scent from. It didn’t just seem familiar – it was something she loved intimately and knew very well. But her memory aided her only in small doses. This process of recollection frustrated her, and when others interrupted her thoughts, it annoyed her even more.

  If only they would leave me alone.

  ‘Rika, do you want to go home?’ Rishab asked, looking concerned. He held her hands and gently rubbed them.

  ‘No. I’m fine.’ Sagarika stood up and smoothened the pleats of her midnight-blue dress. Tall with a broad frame, she looked frail. Her collarbones were visible and her cheekbones stood out prominently. This wasn’t a woman who sculpted her body with rigorous hours in the gym and then chewed on carrot and celery sticks all day. She was in convalescence. Her face, sunken eyes and pale appearance spoke of the hardship which her body had undergone. Her silk and wool dress hung loose on her. She walked away towards a group, a smile pasted on her lips, making an effort to mingle, yet couldn’t.

  The memory of the perfume haunted her.

  Rishab looked at her.

  How much weight she has lost! Not long ago the same dress fit her snug.

  ‘Thank God, she’s slowly recovering,’ Rishab said to his friend, as they looked at her.

  ‘The worst is behind you. Trust me,’ Shekhar said, putting an arm around Rishab reassuringly.

  Sagarika noticed the two men looking at her and offered a weak smile. ‘Really, it’s nothing. I am fine,’ she said.

  Slightly bored with the company around her, she turned away and saw her reflection in the glass. Her dense curly hair was cut very short, hugging the nape of her neck. ‘When will they grow?’ she thought, touching her hair.

  Rishab walked towards her. His tall and lean frame showed signs of regular exercise. He wasn’t strikingly handsome, but something about him left quite an impression on others. He had the look of someone determined and focused. Unlike his best friend Shekhar, an architect of repute who wore his prosperity with easy élan, blending effortlessly in the group of the elegantly rich, Rishab had to make an effort. No one noticed it though.

  He put his arm protectively – she sensed a hint of possessiveness – on her shoulder and led her towards a group.

  ‘So, Rishab! This is the wife you’ve been hiding away for all these months?’ a woman in impossibly tall heels said in a cultivated tone of nonchalance.

  Sagarika looked at the woman’s off-shoulder gown, with a long slit on the side that came up till her thighs. She responded similarly, sizing her up: disapproving the conservative pick but approving of the label, which she recognized immediately. But so last winter, she smirked to herself.

  ‘Hi, Sagarika. It’s good to have you in Gurgaon,’ a man came up to her and said. ‘How are you liking it? Rishab says you paint? Wow! That’s awesome. Would love to see your work.’ Sagarika noticed that his shirt’s top three buttons were open and revealed a clean-shaven rippling chest.

  ‘Oh! Yes. She paints,’ said Rishab, butting in, sensing his wife’s reluctance to speak. ‘She’s from J.J. School of Art and is very good with portraits.’

  Sagarika, by now, was fed up of all the small talk. Seeing that her husband was managing the conversation about her rather well, she released herself from his arm and quietly moved away towards the dinner table.

  The spread was exquisite: Mediterranean, Italian and Lebanese, all beautifully presented on expensive platters. The soft bread was delicately sliced. The silverware gleamed as though a maid had polished them all day. Everything was perfect.

  Sagarika spooned in some moussaka and grilled vegetables on her plate. Neither the food nor the company of these people interested her. She wanted to be alone. To think about the perfume.

  She didn’t notice a woman stop Shekhar.

  ‘That’s quite a sexy cologne you’re wearing,’ she teased him. ‘The women in the room are in a tizzy over it.’

  ‘It’s a new favourite of mine. Essenza Di Wills Mikkel,’ Shekhar replied.

  Sagarika didn’t overhear the conversation. She thought about asking Shekhar, but was afraid it would be a silly thing to do. But she couldn’t forget it. So she hung around near him, hoping to get another whiff.

  Later that night, as she sat at her dressing table, combing her curls, Rishab lay propped on his side of the bed watching her.

  ‘Do you want to straighten your hair? Then you’ll struggle less with it.’

  ‘No. I don’t. I’m just waiting for it to grow,’ she said.

  He changed the topic. Her curly hair had always been a sensitive issue between the two.

  ‘It was a nice gathering, wasn’t it? Did you enjoy yourself?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she replied, mechanically. ‘It was.’

  ‘Rika, these people are your friends. Remember, I showed you pictures of Shekhar and Anahita. I know Shekhar from college. You should allow yourself to relax when you are with them.’ He sat up and looked straight at her.

  ‘I don’t feel normal with them. And neither do you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, frowning.

  ‘You say they are your friends but you seemed to be making an effort to keep the conversation going. Why?’
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br />   ‘That’s not true, Rika, and I have no idea why you feel that way,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, how do you like Shekhar?’

  ‘He seems nice and warm. I wouldn’t say the same about his wife, though. What’s her name?’ asked Sagarika, sliding into her side of the bed.

  The icy tone in her voice surprised him. The Sagarika he knew never spoke like that.

  ‘Her name is Anahita … Anyway, just give yourself some time, Rika,’ he said. ‘You will remember everything. It will all come back to you.’

  As he flicked off the bedside lamp, waiting for sleep to come, he thought, ‘I think we can start over. Make a new beginning. Sometimes she seems to be a different person . . . Maybe, I’m just imagining. She has been through a lot. She will be fine. We will be fine.’

  2

  ‘Madamji, such a huge cut on your head!’

  Sagarika’s personal attendant, Vina, had just begun to massage her hair with warm olive oil. The slow, circular motion of her fingers relaxed Sagarika.

  Married to Rishab Mehta, senior partner in a leading investment bank, Sagarika – everyone called her Rika – lived in the lap of luxury. A rich and successful husband, a sprawling bungalow with elegant furnishings in every room and expensive paintings on every wall, a helping of maids to attend to her every need – it certainly seemed like she lived the perfect life. However, she was in a situation no one would ever want to be in. Sagarika had lost something very precious.

  Vina worked her fingers down to the base of the neck, then languidly rose to the spot behind the earlobes, exerted pressure and folded the ears inwards and gently massaged them to release the tension. She proceeded to move her thumb and forefinger down to the base of the neck till just the beginning of the spine, and Sagarika moaned with pleasure.

  Those were a good pair of hands, Sagarika thought. She was almost drowsy, when Vina’s question about her wound made her start.

  ‘Yes. That’s from the accident,’ she told her. ‘Don’t press on it. They had to shave my head for the operation.’

  The accident, which had happened a year ago, in Mumbai, wasn’t something Rishab liked to talk about. Every time she asked him about it, he changed the topic abruptly.