Page 61 of Red Flags and Rishtas
‘Uuuuuugh.’ My frustration escaped me in a sound of muffled agony. ‘Fuck him. Fuck her. Fuck this whole wedding. Fuck my job and fuuuuuuck my boss.’
I stayed bent over the tabletop, taking a few minutes to regain my composure in solitude. When I straightened up, I realised I was not alone.
Aadar was sitting across the table from me, watching me curiously.
‘Rough day?’ he asked, taking a puff from his cigarette.
‘What the hell, man?’ I demanded, scowling at him. ‘Are you a ghost or what?’
He had this extremely irritating way of materialising out of thin air, especially in my most inelegant moments.
‘I was having lunch at the pool cafe over there,’ he chuckled and offered by way of explanation.
The mention of food caused my stomach to make a loud, unattractive noise. I’d not been very kind to my tummy in the past few days, and it sounded like it was ready to rebel.
‘I don’t remember the last time I ate lunch at lunchtime,’ I mumbled, patting my stomach in consolation.
‘Hard worker, huh,’ he said, taking another drag. ‘You must really like your job.’
That made me snort.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Can I bum one off you?’ I asked, gesturing to the smoke in his hand.
He regarded me with a raised eyebrow. ‘I thought you didn’t like smoking … or smokers.’
‘Just give me one.’ I leaned forward, snatching the box he’d placed on the table.
He didn’t say anything to stop me, but I could feel his gaze on me as I brought the thin paper-wrapped cylinder of cancer to my lips. I lit it and took a deep drag – my first in two years.
‘I think I hate my job,’ I said, relying on the high of the cigarette to vocalise my inner monologue.
‘Don’t we all?’ he offered. ‘In one way or another.’
I shook my head. People around me had always despised their time at work. Vrinda bitched about her boutique because her mother didn’t let her explore her own instincts as a fashion designer. Saurav loathed the work culture of his cut-throat multinational company. My dad resented his finance profession, dreaming of a life where a career in research would’ve been possible for a middle-class man like him.
But me? I’d always prided myself on following my dreams. When I’d first gotten a job at TheManJournal, I’d been over the moon. My excitement had nothing to do with the pay, which waspassable at best. I was happy because I knew I would wake up every morning looking forward to going to the office. And for years, that’s exactly what had happened. I liked my work, and I liked that I liked my work.
Aadar nodded as I vented, telling him how difficult it was for me to acknowledge that the enthusiasm I had for my job was waning.
‘What about that interiors thing you did for your friend? Does that get you excited?’ he asked, sounding genuinely interested.
‘I don’t know … yeah, I guess,’ I admitted. ‘But it’s not like I can throw myself into that. I have a career that I’ve invested in … and I can’t just give that up for a shot in the dark, you know.’
I expected him to lecture me about chasing my dreams, but he gave me a sad smile instead. ‘I get that. Change is not easy to come to terms with.’
I returned his smile, wondering if he was thinking about her. The Dead Girlfriend. My mind conjured the image of the woman from his Instagram. I had no way of knowing if she was the same girl, but I liked to believe that she was. Simple, sweet and beautiful, she seemed like the kind of girl whose loss would throw a man off the idea of love forever.
‘So anyway,’ he said, pulling me out of the mental maze I was navigating, ‘what happened today that’s got you smoking with and venting to the enemy?’
I laughed at his characterisation of himself before answering his question. ‘This couple, man. Harsh, in particular.’
I started filing the many complaints I had against the groom, who had left no opportunity to make my life hell.
‘It’s a wedding, Ananya. People act a bit crazy in the pursuit of the perfect day of their lives or whatever. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept of a Groomzilla,’ he said, shrugging.
‘But that’s the thing,’ I said and sighed. ‘I’m bending over backwards to organise and celebrate a marriage that’s obviously not going to last.’
