Page 106 of 12 Years
‘Akanksha? And it’s Home Diva.’
‘Yes. Don’t look at her feed, bro. You aren’t in the right place.’
‘Why can’t I see it?’ I said.
‘Trust me. Don’t,’ Mudit said and hung up.
I immediately opened Instagram on my phone. I saw why Mudit had warned me. Akanksha had posted a congratulatory post about Payal and Parimal’s upcoming wedding, with a professionally shot picture of the two.
For the first time, I got a proper look at Parimal—fair, reasonably slim (even if not super fit), clean-shaven except for a light moustache, and a few inches taller than Payal. He had a wide grin on his face as if he’d hit the jackpot. Well, he had.
Payal and Parimal both wore light-beige traditional outfits. Payal held Parimal’s forearm and looked down with a shy smile on her face. I searched for some sadness in her eyes, any hint that she wasn’t happy on the inside. I couldn’t find it.
You know what’s worse than a break-up? A break-up where you can see your ex is happy and has moved on.
Back in the pre-social-media days, it was hard to see that happen unless your ex was your neighbour or something. Today, social media has made it possible for you to watch your ex act coy with their new partners, even as you gulp your sixth rum and Coke in the middle of the afternoon. Did the inventors of social media ever realize this? Mark Zuckerberg, do you know your apps are causing pain to all the men and women who’ve been dumped?
I read the caption under the photograph: ‘Big congratulations to my bestie Payal and her super handsome, super cool bae Parimal for getting engaged. They’ll be having a full-on traditional Jain wedding soon, and I’m doing a poll here to ask you all, my followers, this question: Should I post regular updates and pictures from the wedding or not? Thiswill be a deviation from the typical Home Diva content, but gosh, I’m so excited! Welcome to the married world, bestie—it’s better out here!’
Even in my drunk state, I could tell that the caption was wrong, on multiple levels.
One, Parimal was not super handsome. Fine, he didn’t look awful in this picture where the lighting, the make-up and the photographer were all on point. But super handsome? Come on. He could pass off as a doorman at one of those posh heritage hotels. If Parimal was super handsome, what would she call Hrithik Roshan?
Two, Parimal was definitely not super cool. He was a chartered accountant. How can a chartered accountant be super cool?
Three, what was with calling Parimal ‘bae’? Parimal was an arranged match. The Jain seniors had worked out the whole deal. Like farmers arranging to buy goats at the village fair. He ain’t no bae, babe.
Four, why the manipulative clickbait poll? Indians are obsessed with weddings. They’ll never say no to seeing regular updates and pictures of any wedding.
Five, saying ‘the married world is better’ or whatever—no, sweetie, not in my case. Just ask my divorce lawyer.
I saw the poll results: Ninety-two per cent of the people wanted Akanksha to post the marriage pictures. I wondered who the other eight per cent were. Were they bitter, jilted lovers like me? Those who ran away from the word ‘marriage’? Who the hell knows?
I poured myself another drink. Then another. The rum bottle got over soon. Never mind, I had plenty of alcohol inthe house. I went to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of vodka. But there was no Coke or ice left. Who cares? I drank the vodka neat, straight from the bottle.
I put on an Arijit Singh playlist. Every song was about heartbreak. Somehow, it felt like all the lyrics had been custom-written for me. How does Arijit get it?
A song fromAashiqui 2filled my living room:
Sun raha hai na tu, ro raha hoon main…
‘Are you listening? I am crying,’ the song said.
But Payal wasn’t listening. She was probably shopping or getting her mehndi done.
I took a swig of the room-temperature vodka. It went down my throat like fire. I liked it. I liked any pain that diverted my attention from the Payal pain.
‘Fuck it. I don’t need her. I don’t need anyone,’ I said, taking another big sip of the vodka. More fire in my belly.
I walked to the window ledge—Payal’s spot. The exact place where she would sit every day, legs stretched out, laptop on her thighs, staring out the window in between work. I could see her—she was still sitting there.
‘Saket, come sit next to me,’ Payal said.
‘Yes, baby,’ I whispered, leaning forward to kiss the cold concrete wall.
That was the last thing I remembered.
‘Where am I?’ I said, blinking.
