Page 112 of 12 Years
All of this didn’t actually happen. These people just got dressed up for a photoshoot for Akanksha’s Instagram account.
A drone shot showed the expansive wedding arrangements. For all the austerity, simplicity and minimalism that Jains generally display in their daily life, some Jain weddings can be lavish, over-the-top affairs. There were more than fifty food stalls, possibly serving every dish imaginable—in a Jain variant, of course. There were statues, fountains, lights and flowers, all arranged in a kitschy mismatch throughout the venue. Again, a bit tacky in my opinion, but definitely Ghatkopar chic.
The wedding post caption read:‘Blessings to #PaPa, my favourite new couple in the world. May God bless you on this amazing journey together, and may you achieve all the happiness and success in life. Congratulations, Payal and Parimal!’
Wow. They had a hashtag now. #PaPa.
Akanksha had posted one more update about Payal and Parimal. It was a picture of #PaPa in Paris. Both Payal and Parimal were carrying a ton of shopping bags from designer stores like Louis Vuitton, Hermès and Burberry, to name just a few. They wore matching white puffy jackets and stood in front of the Arc de Triomphe.
The post caption read:‘So, #PaPa sent me this picture after I told them my followers are begging for an update. Looks like they’re having a great time on their honeymoon in Paris. P.S. Coordinated white jackets are a win-win. #PaPa are truly couple goals.’
Dozens of comments had poured in, expressing their best wishes for the newlyweds. One comment, however, did have this to say:‘Where’s the mangalsutra? It’s not good for a newlywed bride to not display her mangalsutra.’
What would India do without our tradition enforcers? Thank God for them.
I spent the next two hours going through the pictures. I zoomed in on each one of them. If I had a compound microscope, I would’ve put them under it. I noted down every single detail possible—the earrings, the necklaces, the outfits, the hand-holding, the food, the facial expressions—whatever I could see before the pixelation kicked in.
The wedding pictures, the matching jackets and the word ‘honeymoon’ kept swirling around inside my head even as Iswitched off the lights and hit the bed. Of course, I couldn’t sleep. Here’s how the dumb chain of thoughts in my head went:
Is she on her honeymoon now? What time is it in Paris? They must be out for dinner. Is she eating with him right now? Will they even find Jain food in Paris? Will she be drinking with him? Does Parimal know she drinks? Maybe they already had dinner and have gone back to their room. They could be having sex right now. It’s their honeymoon, after all. But … Payal … having sex? With someone else? How’s that possible? That’s not someone else, Saket. That’s her husband. But how can Parimal touch her? I’ll kill that Parimal. I’ll run that bastard over with a car. What would she be wearing to bed in Paris? Some new honeymoon lingerie? Some tacky Ghatkopar-chic night suit that her parents gave her? Will she be missing my T-shirts? Should I send one of my T-shirts as a gift to her? That’ll make her melt, right? That’ll make her run away from Parimal. Isn’t it? No, she won’t. She’s married to him now. He’s buying her Louis Vuitton and Hermès…
‘Stop!’ I screamed at my neurotic mind. I sat up in bed and took deep breaths.
‘Saket Khurana, get a grip. You have to stop this,’ I spoke out loud.
But I didn’t get a grip. For it was the same story every night. I would open Akanksha’s Instagram, look at Payal’s wedding and honeymoon pictures, and let my brain go into overdrive.
I couldn’t work either. Without Payal, I felt zero desire to be funny or create new material. Nothing had made me happier than having Payal laugh at my jokes. Payal was definitely an essential ingredient in the joke-generation factory inside my head. What do they call them? Muse?
‘Working on a new set?’ Mudit messaged me one day.
‘Can’t do this. I’m quitting comedy,’ I responded.
‘What? What will you do then?’ he replied.
‘Have to figure that out. Let’s meet and talk.’
Mudit and I met at the Yoga House café in Bandra. Located inside a yoga studio, the pure vegetarian café offered a variety of salads, porridge, soups and all things organic and good. We sat on floor cushions, facing a balcony, with a low wooden table in front of us.
‘Could you have picked a healthier place?’ Mudit said sarcastically as he scanned through the menu.
I ordered a porridge and a superfood salad for the both of us.
‘Thanks for coming,’ I said.
‘No worries. How are you?’
‘Better. But not fully there yet …’
‘Still thinking of her?’ Mudit said.
I kept quiet.
‘You do, right? How often do you think of her?’
I let out a huge sigh. ‘Let me put it this way—I never not think of her.’
‘Wow,’ Mudit said. ‘Like, even now?’
