What I Would Give

I’m about to enter Café Ira when the sign on the door makes me stop.

Come in for an unforgettable time!

My nostrils flare. It’s mocking me. I’m sure of it.

Shaking the distraction out of me, I adjust my face to what it was before: cheerful and surprised. Emotions that I consider acceptable and appropriate for this meeting. I swirl the floral motifs of my dupatta in my fist and push the door open. The smell of freshly roasted coffee beans coats my senses. I pretend to search for him on my right, even though I am acutely aware that he is to my left, between an Areca palm and an empty chair. Waiting for me.

“Welcome to Café Ira!”

One of the staff behind the bakery display greets me. Perhaps he caught the smile plastered on my face. The staff gestures a long hand to the centre of the room, and I am politely shaking my head when a warning plummets my way, courtesy of my left peripheral vision. He is up. Coming towards me.

One deep breath. It’s all I have, until he slows down a chair-width away.

“You haven’t changed a bit.”

Aman’s familiar, playful tone makes me smile. Easing, I gather the courage to turn and take in the man I have been longing to see for fifteen years.

My heart almost leaps out of my chest.

To think that all this while, I was only dreading the conversation we were going to have. But the sight of him—his white shirt holding perfectly on his squared shoulders, the medium stubble that brought with it a bold ruggedness the younger clean-shaven look never could, and the wrinkles activating at the ends of his eyes as he beams at me—I could never have prepared myself for this.

I wring back my gaping lips together. “I can’t say the same for you, old man."

Aman chuckles. “Aging treats some of us more unkindly than the rest.”

He clearly needs to meet my husband. “You still have your hair."

“That’s thanks to all the water I’m drinking.”

I grin and lift my hand to give him a teasing pat on the arm. It is only halfway through that my brain recovers, and steers my arm away to my shoulder instead. A poor act of attempting to adjust the strap of my handbag. But one I must do.

I cannot touch him.

Not because it’s been fifteen years since we parted ways. But because I think I will fall apart if I do.

“Come on,” he says. The setting sun streams golden light through the large picture windows of the café, brightening our path as we cross two sets of tables to the one Aman picked for us. Offering me the menu card on the table, he asks, “Tea or coffee?”

“Tea would do,” I say, gently pushing the card away.

Glancing through it, he says, “What kind of tea? Ginger tea, Masala tea, Lemon tea, Turmeric… turmeric?” his eyes go wide as he reads it again. “Yes, it really is turmeric tea… would you believe that!”

“People drink all kinds of things these days,” I say. “I’ll have a regular ginger tea.”

“Alright.” Putting the menu down, Aman calls for the server and places an order for two ginger teas.

“Don’t you drink coffee?” I blurt out, instantly wishing I hadn’t said that. But he smiles.

“Smitha has me a changed man.” He leans back into the lounge chair, the shadow of the wall forming a layer over his face. “I’m a tea drinker now.”

I nod at that. “How—how is she?”

My question makes him pause. He is surveying me, and I wonder why. Did I flinch at the sound of his wife’s name?

“She is fine,” he says.

If I didn’t flinch then, I definitely did now. “And how is your son? Ved, am I right?”

“Absolutely. Ved… is growing fast.”

“Oh. How tall is he?”

The corners of his lips lift in a smirk. “He just needs an inch or so to meet me. But I meant it more from an emotional perspective.”

Heat rises to my cheeks. “Of course.” Bet Smitha didn’t say stupid things like that.

“Anyway!” Aman lunges forward, dropping his elbows on the table. “We are here to talk about you! Being acquired by one of the biggest companies in India! What an achievement, congratulations!”

My stomach twists in a knot. It was perhaps foolish to hope that he wouldn’t bring it up. “It’s not a big deal,” I say. “You have had way more achievements than I have.”

“None like this. Now tell me, how did it come about?”

I want to end this as quickly as possible. “The CEO of Diva Retail came by the office a few times when he was a client. I guess he had always wanted to expand into fashion jewellery. He gave me a good offer and I took it. Nothing much to discuss, really.”

Turning around, I pretend to check if our teas are ready. But with my pulse throbbing rapidly at my neck, I couldn’t tell where the counter was even if I was looking right at it.

“Hmm,” Aman says.

I glance at him. His attention is no longer at me, but instead on the small circles his fingers are tracing on the menu card. For some reason, this makes me even more uncomfortable. Why isn’t he talking? “Everything okay?” I ask.

He looks up. The glint in his eyes has gone. My chest sinks. Does he know the truth about the deal?

“I wanted to apologize,” he says.

My eyebrows pinch together. “For?”

“For leaving things the way I did.”

Oh, no. No, no, no. This is way worse. “You did nothing wrong.” My voice trembles. “It was a mutual decision.”

He shakes his head. “You promised me you were going to stop associating with those horrible people at the bank. I wanted to believe it, but they seemed to have such a hold on you with all those fake invoices and the extra money–” He trails off, and I’m glad.

Because it tells me what he doesn't know. That all I did was move from one embezzler to an even bigger one. “You did what was right for you. You had a new business and a—” I bite my lip before adding, “—a new family to look after. You didn't have it any easier.”

He brushes a hand through his hair and says, “I could have at least trusted you would do the right thing.” His gaze on me intensifies. “I am ashamed and sorry that I didn’t.”

I gulp. This is why he called me yesterday, out of the blue, wanting to catch up. He thought I had changed.

“But I’m glad to be proven wrong,” he continues. “It’s incredible what you have achieved. Taking control of the reins of your business, expanding, transforming…” His stubbly cheeks broaden into a smile. “I am so proud of how far you have come.”

My eyes start to well up. A day doesn’t pass without my husband calling my business a glorified shell company. I can’t seem to get used to it; it hurts every single time he says it. What I would give to hear that now. Because somehow, hearing Aman say he is proud of me, hurts ten times more.

Tears stream down my face. I have never felt so disgusted with myself. “Thanks, Aman,” I force myself to say when he hands me a tissue.

He nods. I try to get a handle on myself, but it is hard to do that with his gentle eyes on me the entire time. Thankfully, the server arrives at the table with our ginger teas, distracting me enough to halt the tears. I rip open the sugar sachet and pour it over my steaming cup.

“Only one sugar?” he asks as I pick up the stirrer. He adds two sugars to his. “What happened to your sweet tooth?”

What’s sweet is his effort to divert the conversation. I’m grateful for it. Sniffing, I say, “Non-existent now.”

He drops his stirrer abruptly. “You’re kidding me! You used to eat ten kaju katlis a day!”

“Yeah well. Sushanth doesn’t like sweets, so.” I shrug and pull the cup to my mouth.

“So, what?” he asks.

I take my first sip. I’m drawing my tongue over the few drops of tea that smear the corners of my lips when I notice his eyes following my movement. I let my tongue linger just a little longer. “So, it means our house is a no-sweet zone. Plus, this was better for my health anyway. I am forty-three. I can’t still be eating the way I used to. This keeps me—”

“Did he talk to you first before enforcing a rule like that?”

The snort bursts out of me before I can control it. Drops of tea flutter out of my nose, and I instantly throw a tissue onto my face. I hate my luck. This has to happen two seconds after I try to be all sexy. Wiping my nose and mouth, I glance at Aman. His face is rigid. Turns out my reaction wasn’t enough of an answer for him. “If I started discussing every one of his rules, I would never get anything done.”

I suddenly realize how that sounds. “It’s not like Sushanth is a bad person or anything,” I explain. “It’s just that I would rather go along with it than talk about it. Besides, I’m rarely at home. I’m always busy at work or on tour.”

“And how does Nisha deal with it?”

I blink in surprise. He remembers my daughter’s name. “She… rebels.”

Aman’s shoulders finally relax. He takes a sip before saying, “Like all teenagers do.”

“Not this much.”

“What do you mean?”

I sigh. Downing my tea, I place my empty cup back onto the tray. “In simple terms, she hates me.”

His eyebrows lift. “You mean, she hates Sushanth.”

“No, I mean me more than Sushanth,” I correct him.

“Why?”

“What’s there to like, I guess? People around me generally tend not to like me. I’m bossy, dominating, and all that.” I force a chuckle and add, “But you already know that.”

“What? I have never called you that.”

“Yeah, you haven’t,” I say and lean forward with a smirk, “but you have to admit, when you left, a small part of you was happy about not having to work with someone like me anymore.”

“That’s bull shit, Vani,” he replies, his jaw tightening. “Is that what you’ve been thinking about me? All these years?”

I blush, diverting my eyes. “Um, no.” Although the idea has helped keep me sane. Kept me company through all those months of crying, wondering how I could move on from the man who was supposed to be mine.

“Good,” he says. “I had my reasons to leave but not wanting to work with you was certainly not one of them.”

“Right.”

He falls back, exasperated. “Don’t do that,” he complains.

I’m confused. “Do what?”

“That! What you do with your husband. Pretending to agree so you don’t have to talk about it!”

“I didn’t—” I start but the sullen look on his face doesn’t let the lie progress any further. “It’s just… not something I want to talk about.”

“But you were the one who asked me if I was happy leaving you!”

Curses on Aman’s ability to trap me with my own words. Finally, there’s something I don’t miss about him. “Yes, I did. But I realized there is no point in discussing what happened years ago. We’re going to forget all about this meeting when we go back to our homes and our lives. It’s not going to make a difference to either of us.”

His Adam’s apple travels the length of his throat as he swallows. “It will… to me.”

My fist clenches my dupatta on my lap. I don’t know why, but what he says sends a shooting pulse through me. I don’t like it. Trying not to grit my teeth, I say, “Okay,” and check my watch. “It’s getting late. I’d better leave now.”

His question is instant. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” I say impatiently and search my handbag on the table.

Aman moves to rise. “Let me drop you.”

Pulling out my car keys, I say, “Not required, but thanks.” I find some money and toss it on the tray.

He lets out an awkward chuckle. “I know you earn way more than I do, but I’m certain I can pay for two cups of tea.”

I narrow my eyes at him and wait until his expression changes. Until he realizes exactly what I think of his statement. His grin fades.

Standing up and zipping the handbag on my shoulder, I muster my formal tone, the one I have reserved for meetings and my husband. “Thanks for the call, Aman. It was good to catch up after so long. Take care.”

I don’t hear a reply, nor do I wait for one. I force my tremoring knees to walk away from him, wanting him to hate me. To never call me again.

My insides churn at the most ironic thought of them all: Perhaps if he hadn’t left me, I might have changed for the better after all. And not gone ahead and married someone who dangles my self-worth like bait for our dog.

I’m already outside and stomping on the pavement to my car as a horrifying realization comes crashing on me.

I’m never going to move on from this one.

I grip my arms, shutting my eyes tight on old tears that are welcoming me again. His face flashes in the darkness in front of me. His beautiful, flawless face. Tears fall on my folded arms. I dab them away, my thoughts and fears dwindling on how he could look even more handsome now than when he was younger.

Gosh. I should never have met him.

I pinch my eyes to wipe them dry, but my fingers are wet. I lift my sleeve, but it's wet too. How much am I crying?

My eyes open to the drenched air around me, the raindrops reflecting the light from the street lamps everywhere. I freeze as the skies thunder, water sliding through my hair, cheeks and clothes, echoing how I feel.

A useless obstacle. That’s all I am.

The storm intensifies. I shouldn’t stay here. In this rain, it’ll take me hours to get home. I look around but I realize I can no longer identify which car is mine. I fumble with the remote in my hand, pressing the unlock key, searching for a car that beeped, but I don’t find it. And then a panic creeps through me—I can’t remember where I parked. Was it on the other side?

I turn so swiftly that I bump into someone right behind me. “Sorry—” I try to be loud over the patter of the rain when I look up.

My heart races as I see Aman towering over me, clothes soaked, eyes darker than the sky above. My lips fall apart at the sight. Words however, fail me at the moment.

“I had many reasons to leave,” he says, his voice somehow clear and firm despite the noise. “Only one to stay. That should have been enough. You… are enough.” He lifts his hand to my hair and slowly tugs it away to cup the back of my neck. The keys slip from my fingers. “I'm sorry I didn't see it then.”

His lips press into mine. I feel my self-control melting at the familiarity of them. My hands, aching to touch him all day, slide to his face. His muscles relax, and he deepens the kiss. My body burns as I take in just how much he has missed me.

When the rain stops, I realize I’m still clinging to him. I don’t want anyone we know to catch us this way, and I attempt to release my arms, but his elbows firmly sink into mine. I lift my chin to protest, but my eyes follow the beads of water trickling down his forehead to eyes gazing at me. Eyes filled with overwhelm and… love.

I don’t tell him I’m not who he thinks I am. That I am undeserving of his love.

Nor do I tell him that this love

is going to break me.