Page 11 of 12 Years
Again, this is my version of things. If you ask Raashi, she’ll tell you that her affair with the rakhi brother was ‘not what I think it was’. It was more about ‘her finding herself’. I’ve never really understood how some people ‘find themselves’ by fucking another person, but let’s leave that aside for now.
When I confronted Raashi about the affair, she claimed that she felt lonely and alienated in San Francisco and couldn’t fit into its NRI culture. She felt that I neglected her since I was always busy with work. Several thousand dollars’ worth of marriage therapy later, we agreed to give the marriage another shot. But Raashi continued to keep in contact with the rakhi brother—in more ways than one. Meanwhile, I sank deeper into depression. Alcohol became my best friend.
On a boys’ trip to Vegas, I got smashed. I woke up in a hotel room with hookers that I may or may not have called. Anyway, someone in our boys’ gang snitched and Raashi found out about the hookers. Another round of hell ensued. I tried the same I-was-finding-myself argument to justify why I had hired a Colombian whore who didn’t speak English. Somehow, though, this line doesn’t work as well for guys as it does for girls. I apologized multiple times, but it made no difference. Raashi hired lawyers to get a good divorce settlement and squeeze the last red blood cell out of me.
California law worked in her favour anyway.
Long story short, here we are. She gets eighty per cent of everything. The total wealth I had was three million dollars. Raashi will get 2.4 million. I get six hundred thousand dollars. Net of legal and other fees, I’ll be left with half a million. It’s still decent money, especially in India, where it translated to about two and a half crore rupees at current exchange rates. I could rent a small place, invest what I had and then make some money from comedy. It would be enough. That was the rough plan in my head.
‘You know what, Saket?’ I said out loud to myself. ‘It’s okay. You have less money, but you’re free.’
Yes, I’m finally free. To do stand-up comedy, to walk away from a bad marriage—free to do whatever I wanted to.
All my life, I’ve done what people expected me to do. Parents, relatives (maasis and buas and chachis who have an opinion on everything), friends and neighbours. I’ve wanted their approval all my life.
You’re smart? Try for IIT.
You’re in IIT? Go to Silicon Valley.
You’re in Silicon Valley? Open a start-up. Or get a job in a prestigious tech company.
Get married.
I did all these things.
Tick marks—that’s what we need from people. We live our lives collecting all these damn tick marks.
College, tick.
Job, tick.
Money, tick.
American dream, tick.
Marriage, tick.
Yet, life fucked me over. And my wife fucked somebody else.
Maybe that’s the expected outcome when you live your life trying to please others and conform to social norms.
Raashi seemed sweet when I had first met her. I had even found her stubborn nature cute. But I suppose that’s what happens when you take a female-deprived guy from an Indian engineering college and put him out in the world—the first girl he meets becomes a living goddess.
In retrospect, I deserved my fate. Raashi had red flags that I never even spotted. She never opened up to me emotionally. She never laughed at my jokes. She liked spending money, particularly on designer handbags, watches, clothes and shoes. It was the only time I would see her smile. She was on her phone all the time. She never initiated physical intimacy. Damn, Raashi had more red flags than a Chinese Communist Party parade. I should note that down. Decent joke for a show.
I discovered comedy during my marital crisis. Comedy club bars became my escape in San Francisco. They give youalcohol and make you laugh. What better way to run away from your problems, even if for a few hours?
Right around the same time, Mudit quit the traditional corporate path in Mumbai to make a career in live events, eventually specializing in comedy. We connected while I was still in San Francisco. He saw my interest in comedy and told me to give it a shot someday.
I tried a few jokes at some NRI parties, one of the most boring gatherings of human beings on earth. Each NRI party, no matter where in the world it takes place, follows a predictable pattern. First, the men and the women segregate. Then the men discuss cricket, the stock market and whisky. If it’s Silicon Valley, they also discuss who sold their start-up and got rich. The women, meanwhile, discuss part-time-helper woes and where to get cheap waxing done and source the best idli batter from.
Finally, I unplugged the computer of my US life. I did a full shutdown to end it all—my job, my marriage, my life in San Francisco, everything. Now, here I am, drinking bad instant black coffee and staring out of my window at one in the morning. Alone, broken, jobless and directionless, but free.
I got up from the window ledge and walked to my bedroom. I turned off the lights and lay down on the bed. But the coffee and all the memories of San Francisco made it difficult to sleep. The problem with the brain is that it stores the past in its entirety, especially the painful bits.
No, you’ve got to move past this. San Francisco is history. You are here now. Think about what you’re going to do tomorrow. Think about the big show next weekend.
I checked my phone. I had a message from Mudit: ‘Up?’
