Page 8 of 12 Years
‘What? No.’
‘She gave you her card. Message her.’
‘Iaskedfor her card.’
‘Fine. So, you’re keen. That was my original point anyway. You like her.’
‘I just wanted to add her to the broadcast list. The bigger our list, the better.’
‘Really? Why don’t you go up to all these other men in the bar right now and add them to the mailing list?’
I threw up my hands in frustration. ‘Bro, I just had my first show. Let me enjoy that? And you’re right. I did ask for her card. That was a weak moment. She’s history. Fuck it,’ I said. I took Payal’s card and put it in Mudit’s shirt pocket. ‘Here, you keep it,’ I said. ‘Or better still, just throw it.’
‘Shh,’ Mudit said, placing Payal’s card back in my hand. ‘Keep it. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Not everyone is Raashi.’
I covered my ears. ‘Don’t take her name. Please.’
‘Fine. Anyway, let me check on some of the other guests. You enjoy the success of your first show. Okay?’
I stood at the bar, holding my tequila glass in one hand and Payal’s card in the other.
Payal Jain
Analyst
Blackwater Capital
I ran my finger over her embossed name a few times. The card had her Nariman Point office address. It also had her email, office landline number and mobile number.
Should I message her?
‘No, absolutely not,’ a stern voice screamed inside my head.
‘You were great,’ a girl’s voice interrupted my thoughts.
I turned around to see a young couple standing in front of me.
‘That bit about the school plays was good. I was also Bheem in all the plays in school,’ the guy said. He was well-built, six feet two and many more inches wider than normal people.
‘Welcome to the Bheem club.’ I laughed.
‘Can I take a selfie with you?’ the girl said.
Wow, my first-ever selfie request.
Mudit sat a few tables away from me with some of his regular customers. He looked at me and smiled, lifting his glass to show his support for me.
Maybe, just maybe, a tiny bit of my life was working out after all.
‘Listen, Kushal. She needs to sign the final agreement now. I’ve agreed to everything,’ I said.
My lawyer, Kushal Devraj, sat in his drab office in San Francisco, with a virtual background of a beach on our late-night Zoom call. He wore a suit, making him look totally out of place compared to the fake tropical paradise behind him. Despite my terrible mood, I wondered if I could put together a comedy set on Zoom calls. On workaholics like Kushal whose idea of a vacation was changing their virtual background on Zoom.
‘She’s refusing to sign it. She wants more. Eighty per cent of all your assets if you want to forgo the monthly alimony.’
‘Eighty? Has she gone mad? We already agreed to sixty-six. We had a verbally locked deal.’
I sat on the ledge of my living-room window, in my one-bedroom apartment in Pali Hill, Bandra. I took a sip of my black coffee, which I shouldn’t have, not at midnight. The caffeine and this high-stress divorce-settlement call would surely keep me up all night.
