Page 168 of 12 Years
‘Intimacy sounds better.’
‘There’s nothing intimate about it at all. It’s like a trip to an incompetent gynaec. And you know the worst part?’
‘What?’
‘He always asks, “Did you come?” Like, seriously, bro.’
‘What do you tell him? Just say yes. Always. That’s what I do.’
‘No. I said no.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘Because that’s the truth.’
Akanksha shook her head. ‘You’ll hurt his feelings like this,’ she said.
‘What about my feelings? We’re going on our honeymoon in two days. What will happen then?’
‘Is it just him, or is it also you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You say he’s bad, fine. But what about you? Haveyoumade an effort to want him?’
‘How? I don’t feel any desire for him.’
‘Okay, I would never advise this under normal circumstances. But try this—get drunk.’
‘What?’
‘You’re too wound up. I never advise alcohol. I don’t even drink. But a few times, Suraj and I had wine before being intimate. It really helped.’
‘I don’t know if wine can fix this. Plus, Parimal doesn’t drink.’
‘You’re going to Paris, the land of good wines. Tell Parimal to have some, like a tourist experience.’
Paris is beautiful. When you see it for the first time, it feels like you’re in a dream. I might’ve come to Paris with Parimal, but wherever I went, my thoughts drifted to one person—Saket.
We would’ve walked down the Seine, hand in hand. And stopped at that cute bakery, the boulangerie, as they called them here. I would’ve stared at the chocolate croissants greedily. Saket would’ve fussed, arguing and explaining to me just how much sugar, butter, carbs and calories each croissant had. I would’ve told him that Parisian calories don’t count, and then gone ahead and stuffed myself with pastries and croissants. I smiled as I imagined Saket’s shocked face watching me eat.
‘What are you smiling about?’ Parimal said as we made our way to the Eiffel Tower.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Can we go to that boulangerie on the corner of the street?’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘What is that place? A bakery?’
‘Yes.’
Parimal and I picked up four chocolate croissants. He ate one. I ate the remaining three as we walked in silence towards the Eiffel Tower. In between, Parimal held my hand, as he often liked to do. When we reached the Eiffel Tower, there was a massive queue to go up.
‘Not worth it,’ Parimal said. ‘Thirty-six euros per person just to go to the top. Plus, you have to stand in line.’
‘I agree. Let’s do a nice dinner instead,’ I said.
‘Okay. Where do you want to go? There’s Rasoi. It’s Indian, so it’ll have Jain options.’
‘We didn’t come to Paris to eat at Rasoi, Parimal.’
