7. Cupids Can't Be Everywhere
"Himani, Can I have a T-rex dosa, please?"
Vidhyut apprised, peeping up at Himani through his glasses, as he nibbled on the last piece of dosa on his plate, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen countertop. Across him was Hrutvi, stalled as same as he was, silently dabbing her dosa on the puddle of chutney and jamming it in her mouth. "Could you please make me a red velvet dosa, Himani?" She piped out to Himani, munching on her token of dosa.
Himani cast a look out at them, beaming, as she flipped the dosa and turned the flame low, "One t-rex dosa and one red velvet dosa, coming right up!" she bucked up at them cheerfully steering herself out of the kitchen to the fridge.
She had rolled out of bed by half past five in the morning—unduly earlier than her usual time—she had a couple of eight-year-olds to be sent to school. Mythraeyi had told her that they'd have to go to IIT before going to school, as they had to change their uniforms, and swap books according to their class schedule, which were all in their residence at IIT. With that decided, Himani was so relentless in letting them go without fixing their breakfasts.
Hrutvi had altogether recouped to her resplendent, loquacious self—albeit, she had started talking last night, it was not how she would usually be. Now, she was prattling with no known boundaries—she had been questioning Himani—most of it about shifting to the house in the first floor from IIT. And Himani had been patiently answering all of it, with an indulgent laugh rumbling out her lips.
"But, we will miss watching the deer eat," exclaimed Hrutvi, gripping on Himani's arm as she aided her jumping down from the countertop. It was one of their favourite past times—watching deer.
Vidhyut's big eyes were now wilting unhappily. "Yes, Himani. And we will miss going to the park there—" he said, apparently, sullen.
"That's where all of our friends come to play." Hrutvi interjected, without any cheer.
Himani studied their naive, tender faces. They appeared ingenuously concerned—shifting from the place where they'd been ever since their birth was not going to be any less-terse one.
Ever since Mythraeyi's separation from Prasad, the three of them have been living alone—laying down that they'd been making numerous, precise weekend visits to Himani's. Living alone with two kids was not undemanding, but Mythraeyi had been carrying it out as smooth as she could handle. However, Himani tirelessly kept compelling the idea of moving out of IIT quarters, Mythraeyi had kept dismissing it by giving out reasons. Now that, Himani had grown stubbornly into her idea, her cousin could do nothing but come to terms with it.
Himani helplessly raised her lashes to Mythraeyi, who was just walking in by there to make sure the kids had taken their food. Minding the conversation that was spiraling around there, she filled in. "IIT is nearby from here. I am sure we can visit them often."
"Can we feed the deer, Maa?" Hrutvi chippered in, her eyes glinting hopefully.
Vidhyut blinked through his glasses. "Can we please feed the pigeons too, Maa?" he asked, locking his eyes with his mother's relying upon a convincing reply.
"Of course, we can do all the feeding. But right now, I think we should get going. Because of us, Chithi is also running late," Mythraeyi hustled, cramming her water bottle inside the handbag. "The cab has come, kids. Say bye to Himani; and to Raghav Anna."
"Raghav told no Anna, only Raghav," mumbled Hrutvi quickly, before sprinting off to his doorstep. Bidding good-bye to him, the kids returned to Himani.
"The Red-velvet dosa is so yummy, Himani." As Hrutvi conveyed vivaciously, Raghav's eyes widened at it.
What on earth is a red-velvet dosa?
"Thank you, Kutti. Himani can make more of them, when you're here by the weekend." Himani gushed back, grinning at them.
"Bye, Himani."
Sending them off in the cab Mythraeyi had booked for them, Himani pushed the gate back and got back to the living room.
"What is a red-velvet dosa?" With contorted expressions taking up his spectacular face—as Himani had noted—he queried her. He was still in last night's attire—hair messed up and his gaze narrowed, suspiciously, but looking no less magnificent.
Himani roved into the kitchen past him, with an ambiguous grin taking up her mouth erratically at his expressions. Intrigued more, he leaned across the hand rest of the sofa and strained his neck a little to take a peek into the kitchen, examining if she was going to respond to his righteous doubt.
She sauntered back to the living room her hands wrapped around two, tall glasses filled with rice porridge she'd whipped out of the leftovers—with that destructible grin still on, confusing him more.
She handed over his quota of breakfast, as she dragged the love-seat to his front and sat on it. "Take a guess?" Himani wiggled her eyebrows, playfully. Raghav, with still those uncertain expressions jiggling on his face, took the glass of porridge to his mouth, his eyebrows tethered contemplatively.
He sipped on it quietly for full two minutes, until the actual realization made him almost sputter his mouth of food. He rolled his eyes at her, "Don't tell me it is beetroot dosa," he burbled panicking, his eyes practically bulged in terror as he discerned what he had said—beetroot in dosa—it sucked to be heard and he didn't want to contribute more to that terror by doing anything like even starting to think about tasting it.
Himani gave him a lackadaisical shrug, taking a swig from her glass, "That's exactly what it is," she said, her friskiness manifested eyes at his dumbstruck ones.
Raghav had his jaw practically wide open competent enough to dare her to pat it close. "You have tricked them into eating dosa with beetroots, and made them ask for more by giving it a fancy name," he stated, staring, muddled, into her eyes, "You have conned them."
Himani half-smiled but it hinted downright devilment. "It's called being savvy—that's what people tell it," she exhorted. Raghav nodded his head, comprehending her words. "I must be very careful hereafter when you name something very exotic and fancy." he kvetched grimacing at Himani, who swarmed into the kitchen with her empty glass.
It took ten minutes for her to finish washing the used vessels and change to a pair of jeans and a sleeveless, off-white khadi tunic top, comb her hair in a neat, deft knot of bun and grab her backpack.
When she was ambling across the living room to the TV stand, Raghav was holding the almost empty glass in his hand, bottoms up at his mouth, his head resting on the hem of the couch's backrest. Himani pursed her lips, restraining herself from laughing at it—and gloriously failed.
"Raghav, if you want more of it, I still have some in the kitchen. What are you trying to do dunking your head in it?" she snorted, lurching her phone in her pants' pocket.
Raghav reclaimed his head from the sofa's backrest, and blinked at Himani. "Nah, I was just figuring out to get this little bit of it stuck to the bottom," he said, nonchalantly, looking into it with an eye opened.
She scoffed. "And that's how jobless you are."
He gave out a rakish grin at it, making her want to—need to focus on her breathing. Feigning to be not, she led away her gaze to the gate as she mumbled a quick bye to him. She slipped into her icy white crocs, and walked over to her two-wheeler.
"Himani."
When she was just about to throw her legs on her bike and steer it out of the gate, Raghav's rich voice halted her. She glanced at the doorway, scrunching her eyes at the glaring, the sun was propelling down on her with.
"What?" Himani questioned plainly.
"I know work is important—but keep your phone in your pocket, just to attend incoming calls," he tipped off, softly. It was perhaps self-reproachful when she had not done it totally, yesterday—and somehow her guilt ridden heart had been roughing it up by reminding it every now and then.
Himani utilized a couple seconds to blow out a long breath, a gentle simper touching the corners of her lips. "I will make sure of it hereafter, Raghav. Thank you for reminding." He gave her an insightful smile with a nod.
Himani was not quite herself when she was on her ride from her home to the workplace. She had no idea how did she even manage to stay sane on the road, whilst she had as good as a dozen tabs opened and driven in her mind. She was not—and never been the person who had had life at its happening. She was contemplative; and mostly, resolute when it came to her profession.
It was the same when it came to life—there was no vast difference. Which was why she was beginning to feel distinct, but super-eminent. With the just out entry of this guy in her life, showing a variety of weird, zestful emotions that she had never been through, for once, seemed dangerous.
And Himani hated to think that she had been living an uninteresting life—silently, raising the scale of danger.
Himani worked about forty-five hours in a week, at her workplace. And when she was not in the hotel's kitchen, she was inspired to deplete the time by working in her kitchen—by taking up pastry orders for humble parties, by demonstrating pastry making or baking over skype, or by indulging herself in putting new recipes to test or by cooking by some means.
She happily belonged in the kitchen.
No, it did not sound sexist to her.
It was her passion, afterall—and profession, too—and it was a deadly combination.
Basically, Himani loved cooking, and it loved her back, which was the only, nonstop, unfailing happening in her life. It never made her think the otherwise—like, she should, may be, wrap it up and get out of it, and live a little—and it was all she was lured to do now by letting herself feel what she was really going through for Raghav.
It, sure, was an attested risk.
It, sure, was an anomaly from the Himani she'd known all along, because Himani never took risks.
She had once talked back at the head chef who was visibly wronging inside her kitchen, hoping not to lose the job she loved. She had chosen to throw the breads that came untouched from eaten plates back to her kitchen, to be reused, much to her head chef's dismay. She had been in the verge of almost losing her job, for having slapped a guest chef who'd come to their kitchen and had misbehaved to her. She had.. Never mind. Just get an idea where this was going.
Everything was about either her work, or cooking, or both—risks included.
Again, do you see where the problem is?
Life risks were never been ventured into. Himani wanted to take that risk now, or she would never be able to do it.
It might end up in disaster. And collateral damage would be tremendous.
It might, as well, end up favourable—like Raghav liking her back.
Taking in all that she had to skillfully screen how she felt—the feeling of slight ruffling in her chest at the sight of his morning face, the constant plummeting of her stomach, giving her the feel of being constantly teased, just like when teased him aloud, the immense happiness that brimmed in her heart when she went home to his face, the time she could spend listening to his silly, lame jokes and throwing her head back laughing the unrestrained, life's best laughter—were all the synonyms that fun could have.
But going through everyone of this, selfsame unsure of how to handle was no fun.
It was a damn adventure—the one she had never ventured on, the one she never saw it coming—now that she did, the one she could not wait to leap into.
Rest of Himani's mid-morning went in a daze with all the thinking, amidst the working, on her fledgling risk-taker avatar.
She almost flinched when a brisk hand tapped her shoulder, just lightly.
"Chef, you're being called."
Wordlessly, she glanced at the young intern over her shoulder, who stood as disoriented as she was. "Huh?" she blinked, stupidly.
The intern guy beckoned his thumb at the door of the kitchen, "You're being called, Chef."
Himani twisted her head a little more, that she could get a glimpse at the door of their kitchen. Varsha's head was popping in, waving her hand frantically at Himani. She couldn't completely get what Varsha was mouthing, but with her eager and mad hand waves, Himani could somewhat extort that she was calling her out for lunch.
Himani gestured back she would be there in ten minutes.
And she was there in five.
"Why do you look flustered? Are you okay?" pried Varsha, scrutinizing her friend's face attentively. Himani pulled the chair out and inserted herself into the interval between the desk and the chair. She did not look Varsha in her eyes, while she responded, mechanically. "I don't know."
Space between her eyebrows writhed together, Varsha jived. "Aye, Himani, what's happening?" It was a grill again, but with a dash of complaining tone in it.
"I don't know." Himani repeated.
"Is it because of someone new in your life, Boo?" Varsha asked, batting her eyelashes, shamming to be innocent.
"I don't know."
Varsha had an inner struggle, suppressing a devil-may-care grin. "Damn it, Himani, because I know," she, closely, screamed slamming her palm at the site right in front of Himani. And it detracted her. Finally.
She lifted her crumpled eyes at Varsha, taming her thoughts. "What exactly do you know?"
Varsha used up a minute to study Himani's face, sharply. She was looking back at her with the same intent, meticulous glare, as though a match of tug of war was going on between them.
Varsha lost it. She blew out a cutting exhale and crossed her arms, with a glare of mordance. "When was the last time you had a crush on someone?"
Himani bit her lower lip, as she thought. "When I was twenty-one or something and still in culinary school—" her honest-to-God answer was suspended, snootily, by her friend. "For god's sake Himani, he was our trainer."
Himani jerked her shoulders, guilelessly. "You can't complain, he was so impressive in the kitchen. The way he handled pans and skillets—"
"Next answer, please."
"Jamie—"
Varsha cut her off, wistfully, again. "Can't take Jamie Oliver for an answer! He is also a chef."
Himani couldn't blame Varsha, when she was exhausted at her own answer. A couple of men she'd really felt attracted to, were chefs. She was enticed with their culinary skills—they were sexy.
Doled at her awakening, Himani planted her elbow on the plane of the table, and sank her chin in her palm. "What do you want me to say now?" asked Himani, her tone fagging more.
Varsha, not wanting to blunder this favourable happening, brightened up. "You're starting to like Raghav, agree?" She wallowed in, briskly.
"Agree!" Himani mumbled back, when her phone beeped in her jacket. She took it out and the display read Raghav. They were just gabbling about him, and he was here. Bitsy curl of smile snooped out of her lips, at it.
Hi, I have transferred the rent amount to your SB account.
Thanks. Just saw the credit message.
And Varsha sat dumbfound at her actions.
"You have your phone with you and not in your locker?" she queried in a self-assuring mumble, as if she was not able to let it sink in.
Himani hurled a brief look at Varsha, before descending her eyes to her tiffin box. "After what happened yesterday, I just don't want to take another chance." Her murmur was rueful and conscience-stricken.
Varsha could somehow discern what she must have gone through because of yesterday's blunder. "It is okay, Himani. Just try not to repeat."
"That's what he said." Himani gave out like it was an automated response.
Varsha chuckled, her eyes glinting in amusement. "Himani, you're probably whipped."
Himani glowered at her own thoughts, and Varsha's feedback to it—what she just rubbed on her was real—as real as what she was experiencing.
She was liking him, and telling it aloud to her friend.
For once, from the very beginning, Himani felt it all real—and not a daze.
Varsha shoved a spoonful of her fluffy idli in her mouth, "So, have you booked the tickets for his show this weekend?" she asked, half of her words incoherent.
Himani nodded her head in negative, taking in a spoon of her own lunch. Not delaying anymore, Varsha dismissed it with a head shake, and leapt forward to snatch Himani's phone, mumbling, "Let's do it right away."
"Tell me his instagram ID," muttered Varsha, as she tapped the Instagram icon on Himani's phone.
Himani stilled speechless, on her seat, tilting her chin down but having her gaze at Varsha's face.
She'd find it out, Himani.
There was a stunned intake of a tremoring, noisy breath, when Varsha had actually laid her eyes on the search tab. It showed Raghav's name on top—which easily meant she'd been visiting his profile offtimes.
"You stalk him!" Varsha left out a rigorous coo. Himani stayed still watching her in an edgy glance, biting her inner cheeks. She need not hide it anymore. She need not cower away.
"Yes," she said it out tipping her chin up, meeting her gaze.
Varsha brow-raised at Himani's new found courage. "Good, you have improved," she smiled viciously, before opening the link in his instagram bio. The opened link told her the tickets were sold out, and it irked Varsha and made her scowl.
She turned the phone's display to Himani, "Tickets are sold out," she reeled off, in dismal.
Himani's face lopped down, chapfallen. "But I want to go." She pouted and her mutter was bleak.
"I am sure there must be some way to get tickets—I have heard these people have a few blocked tickets in their hands, before selling it online," Varsha said. Himani acquiesced her head at it, reluctantly.
The rest of the day went in fluky combination of a variety of thoughts swimming inside Himani's mind.
And it all came to a jerky pause when she had to enter the house that evening. And to much of her luck, not only to Raghav's enamoring face, also to his concordant, pleasing voice.
Half-smiling and half-curious, Himani sped up her steps to the living room. And found Raghav in the middle of the living room—sweeping the floor with a wet mop-stick, with a casual pair of trousers and tee-shirt, with a bucket full of half-dirty water nearby him—he was still looking charming, doing his business, softly, casually singing a song.
Everything—his black hair, and the now grown beard—everything was bedraggled, Himani's now-in-madness heart including. She sequestered a whole, one minute to relish in the glory she had got to witness.
Charming? Take your word back, Himani.
He was effing ravishing!
And he had got admirable singing in his set of skills, about which Himani had no idea until this moment.
"Hey, Hi!" Raghav blurted out, coming upon her. He had paused his singing, and the mopping.
"Hi! You sing so well," Himani disclosed, meeting his eyes, delightedly.
Raghav flashed a huge, gratified grin, "Thanks."
"Have you learned proper music?" she asked, fascinated.
"Yes, my Amma was a music teacher," he said, resuming to mop the floor. "Rahul and I learnt music ever since we started talking."
"Oh, do you write music then?"
Raghav shook his head with a laugh, and answered. "I used to, in school and college."
His response made her more curious, adding to the enthusiasm of learning him more. "Why so?"
He simply twisted his lips. "I don't know, just didn't feel like writing. I am more keen on technical side, now." Himani remembered him saying, he was waiting for an opportunity in audio-engineering, in cinema.
As he commenced to mop the floor, again, Himani moved to her room. She showered, changed and when was back at the kitchen, Raghav was gone to his room.
***
"Hey, you're not supposed to touch that."
Himani halted in her tracks, screaming and holding out a tempering pan filled with the half-tempering tadka with the chillies, finding Raghav laying his hand on one of the cupcake dhoklas, she'd prepped and had just brought out of the steam, about a couple minutes ago.
There had been a constant request for Dhokla recipe in Tumbler Dabara, from her followers. They'd been asking for a fail-proof, perfectly fluffy recipe of dhokla, for a long time now. Himani was free of chores that day, and had decided to make dhoklas for the evening—so that she could update the recipe with her token of small, but vital tips to a sublime batch of dhoklas.
She had steamed the dhokla batter in cupcake creases that emerged into cupcake dhoklas. Himani brought them out of the steamer and placed them on the teapoy in the living room. Just as she had returned to the kitchen to bring the tempering and pour it on them, Raghav came out of his room—after an hour of sitting down at persistently boosting up his new script, with Dera—to the wonderous, yellow, cupcake-y thing. And his eyes dazzled at them.
He walked down to the living room, beaming at them. He flumped down at the couch, dipped forward and took one of them in his hands. It was thisclose to his mouth, when he heard Himani scream from the doorway that led to the living room from the kitchen, holding out a little saucepan with something crackling and simmering in it. Great timing!
Himani strode down to him, with her brows furrowed, disquietingly. "Put it down, Raghav," she let out a whimper. Balked at her acceleration, Raghav put it back to the plate.
Himani poured the tempering over the dhoklas, lurking a fleeting look at Raghav, "I have to take a picture of it for my blog, please keep your hands off it, for two minutes," she muttered, as she spun on her heel and walked back to the kitchen and dropped the tempering pan in the sink.
Raghav sat staring at them, forlornly—the tempering over the pappy, turmeric yellow layer of dhoklas, did not help his tempting. When Himani came back to the living room, rubbing her wet hands over the dress material in her thigh, and picked up her phone from the TV stand; Raghav stood up from the sofa and squiggled to her side. She opened her phone camera, and raised it over the plate of dhokla.
"You don't photograph a plate of dhokla like that."
It was Raghav's turn to scream. And his raspy shudder of words befittingly carried out their duty, by reining her in.
Himani's shoulders slumped in the setback she felt of herself, "You're right. I suck at photography," she mumbled, trying to dampen her funk. She plopped down at the sofa in, glowering, "This is why probably my blog is not taking off properly these days."
Though, her recipes were all extravagant, scrumptious, readers would know it only after attempting it—for that, the photo of the food she cooked should claim to allure the followers, in the first place.
Himani threw an examining glance over the the platter of dhoklas over the teapoy. There was five cups of dhoklas—they were all pleasantly washed with yellow playing up Himani's mind about why had anyone not come up with a shade of yellow called Dhokla yellow—she veered forward to take one of them in her hands, to check for it sponginess.
The little yellow, wonder of pillow seemed squishy, and perfect.
And she did not need to vouch for more of validation, when she had cast a glance at Raghav's glistening face.
She was right, the dhoklas were first-class.
Her photo-taking skills sucked.
Raghav observed her face droop in helplessness. He roamed over to her side of the sofa. "Himani, I can help you fix this," he said gingerly, making her shift her gaze up to him.
"Will you?" She whispered, intently looking at his burnished eyes—they soothed her to believe in them. Raghav smiled at it, nodding.
"Food photography is very easy," he opined, as he got up from the sofa and moved to the table close to the windows, "Colors from artificial lights will ruin the beauty of your frame, so always, choose a naturally lit spot to click your plate of food," he mouthed earnestly, leveling his eyes with hers.
Himani wormed to the other side of the table, "This spot should be okay, then," she mumbled, a little bit of excitement surging up from the deepest place, it'd sunken into. Raghav hooked the windows open. "Now, get me the plate here," he instructed her.
Himani carried the plate of dhoklas carefully to him. "Here you go, master."
Raghav laughed at her. "Okay. Choose your background wisely," he muttered, his hands on hips, his eyes wandering aimlessly around the room. No other place convinced him, like this exact location did.
Himani watched Raghav with doubtful eyes, "Should we add some properties to fill in the space?" she queried gently. Raghav nodded in negative. "You can, but right now, I think adding anything to the frame with this plate of dhokla would distract the people from it," he spieled nonchalantly, "These outstanding yellow cups deserve all the attention!"
Himani couldn't help but grin at the man who was looking at her dhoklas, so impeccably, as though he was going to scribble poetries on them.
Next off, Raghav prompted to move the single sofa to the table and climbed up. "Angle is the bottom-line," he muttered, as Himani craned her chin up to find his eyes.
"Why are you still there? Come up, you're going to take the photo." When Raghav had said it, Himani's heart threatened to tumble, literally.
Coming up there meant standing next to him on the smaller plane of the sofa, brushing arms and legs with him. And Himani was not sure, if she could handle that—the sensation that'd fill in, in her while doing it. She stood impassively, whilst Raghav readily offered his hand at her. "Take your phone and come up, Himani."
Himani's eyes blinked at his huge palm, once, and at his eyes, once; her heart's sound dominantly thudding, brimming in her ears, rest of everything fading away.
It seemed dangerous—but it was going to be first step of her risk—she clasped his hand without anymore thinking, stepped up on the sofa and steadied herself on her feet. Tripping or falling over him was the last thing she wanted to happen, honestly.
Raghav's arms touched her sleeves—it was light but sufficient enough to warm her up—and made her wonder what it'd feel like to be in his arms. Her breathing hampered at her thought. Picking up her breathing, she gave her best shot in listening to him. But it was almost like a clutter in her brain.
Right now, he was not really helping her.
He clued her in, to click the photo. And she did.
"I am going to make myself some coffee, do you want some?" Himani had asked Raghav fifteen minutes later to the photo session, and after they had gobbled down the dhoklas, when she had got off the sofa, his hands and his scent, the remembrance of which was still flocking over her mind.
"Yes, sure. Thank you," Raghav had said.
Himani's mind was preoccupied the time she was in the kitchen facing the bowl of boiling milk.
No, it was not that preoccupation—need not worry.
She was only thinking and mourning over the unavailable tickets to his show.
It took a lot of spirit to even think about asking him for the tickets.
Isn't she the one to tell him about not going to his show when he had asked her to come?
Now, how could she volunteer to ask him for tickets?
Himani had never been in this crisis, ever before.
Come on, Himani. Shred the shame.
Let your dignity die and go to hell. Just ask him.
When Himani came out of the kitchen with two tumblers of strong, frothy Kaapi, Raghav was closing his room's door, ushering Dera out, fixing his backpack. He was just gearing up to rehearse the newest script he had put together.
Himani pondered if she should ask him right away, because if there was any ticket left that he could sort for her, it might just become unavailable, too, with the time ticking.
Raghav took a sip from his tumbler. "Himani, you should teach me how to make a nice kaapi. I am just getting too used to your kaapi," he uttered, relishing the strongly flavored, elixir of life in his hands.
Himani had a stupid-ass grin on her face at it.
"I can do that one day. It's a matter of right proportion of Kaapi podi and water," she said, taking a small swig on her own kaapi. And it seemed to feed her with the gusto that she needed to ask him about the tickets. Feeling determined about it at the last sip of her kaapi, Himani lifted her chin to take a gander at him.
"I tried to book tickets for your show, online," she faltered at it, as Raghav looked over his tumbler at her desperate face, which she did not want to blazon him, "The tickets are sold out. I thought you could do something about it.."
Raghav picked it up, right there. "Yes, they generally block a few tickets before they sell it online," he said offhanded, and looked for his phone, "Let me ask them if they've any ticket left," he mumbled, searching for contact on his phone. Himani did not want to smile at it—although, he was not watching her face right now, she just did not want to smile at it.
And having her mouth widely clipped with a grin, pretty much all the time she was home, was indifferent for her.
"Hey, Rajiv," said Raghav, once the person on the other side had picked up, "Yes, I am done with the script. I am just going to start rehearsing," he said, and stayed quiet.
Himani watched him, calmly as well, and apprehended he must be listening to the other person.
"Okay, I'd like to know if there's any ticket available," he said on the phone, and mouthed at Himani, quickly, "How many?"
"Two, for Varsha and I." Himani answered brightly.
"Can I have two of them?" he said as he got up to leave, and his facial expressions were shaping into solemnity, swiftly. "Eight fifty bucks for one? My jokes are not worth it, Rajiv. Who raised the price of the tickets, anyway?" He was on the verge of yelling, but he did not.
"Fine. I just need two." Himani felt her face tighten at his instant mood-change. "Thanks." he mumbled before hanging up.
"You got that."
Himani's befuddled eyes tagged along his mien. "I can see that. But is everything else okay?"
He nodded in affirmative, and opened the door for Dera to join him. As he reached his bike and got over it, he slipped his helmet. He took Dera in his hands, and fixed him in the spot in front of him and he was gone.
Texts between Himani and Varsha the following evening:
Varsha! Got the tickets. I asked him and he arranged for it.
Be ready by six-thirty, this Saturday evening :D
Yaaaasssss. Bring it on, Himani.
:D :D :D
OK, Kozhande (kid). It's exam time. What did you learn today?
He sings so well. He should've been a professional singer, you know?
*smh* Loss for Tamil Cinema. Next?
He said he is getting used to my Kaapi.
I see ;)
Anyway, I am so glad you asked for tickets shamelessly.
Gotta get shameless at least once in a while. This is thrilling :p
***
"Aye, Himani, I am home!"
Varsha declared, marching into the living room.
It was Saturday, and the time was a little over five in the evening.
Raghav had left home by morning, after his breakfast. He had informed Himani that he might not come home for lunch, and until today's show was over.
It was Himani's off that day, and she had spent the whole day doing nothing but mooning over his show that evening. She was stoked with stabile reeling of thoughts about the show she was about to witness. It was her first ever stand-up comedy in live.
Himani popped her head out from her room, freshly showered and dressed. She had worn a vanilla-white printed cotton top, and a matching pair of off-white palazzo pants. The curls of her hair were tamed in an everyday bun. She walked to the living room, rubbing the blob of moisturiser in her hands.
"Yes, I am ready, too. Shall leave in ten minutes," she announced cheerfully, picking up her wallet and mobile phone.
Varsha took the empty sofa, and deep in thought of something, she muttered. "I have an idea!"
Himani switched her glance to her glowing face, dropping her wallet and phone in her shoulder bag. "What for?"
"To know if he's seeing you more than just friends."
Himani had her heart, flat-out, get on in its pace at it. It was Himani who'd blurted out she was not sure if this was going anywhere, and if Raghav saw them anything more than friends.
It was real quick to decide, but she just wanted to clarify that he had not friendzoned her.
She was not letting herself into this quandary initially, but after hearing him acknowledge her as his good friend, the thought had somehow branched out on her. It was not bothering her the first time when he had said it in the clinic, but it stampeded her when he had mentioned it again.
He might've meant it otherwise, too—perhaps, which relationship worked without good friendship as the essence?
Now that Varsha had come up with a fresh idea, she did not want to miss it out. "Tell me," she encouraged her to go on.
With a nefarious grin, Varsha piled out on her feet and shuffled to the key hanger. "I am going to leave my bike here," she muttered casually, looping her bike's key in it and turning to Himani. "So, when the show gets over, I take your bike home. And you get to ride with him, in his bike. And have nice, long chat with him to know what he is up to." she blathered gleefully, her eyes shining at it.
Himani sucked in a fierce breath. "What! I can't do it," she shrieked, keyed up at the mere thought of it.
Varsha squirmed her eyes brows, mischievously. "Decided that you're going to be shameless, why have restrictions?"
Another sharp, trembling inhale. "Aiyo, Varsha—" She did not let her finish.
"Himani, cupids can't be everywhere. That's why dumbasses like you have got best friends like me." She proclaimed, proudly.
Himani shot her an awful glare. "Do you realize what exactly you're doing, right now?"
"I am just being tinder in human form, right now." She put forth, gladly, bowing down.
"But—"
"Rule number one, when being shameless, don't ask questions."
"What do I do now?"
"Shh, no questions!"
"Okay."
They had arrived at the venue in the next twenty minutes.
The parking was brimming with legion of two-wheelers, and once they had entered the lot, Varsha asked Himani to get off the bike. When Himani looked at her confused, she had just said, "When I come back alone, I should be aware of spot, so just let me do it."
Once Varsha was out of the parking, the duo proceeded to the hall's entrance. Himani showed the tickets from her phone and the guy at the door, wised them up to their assigned seats.
The venue was a concert hall—enormous, and well, capacious enough for a plentiful of human population. Himani had Varsha had got their seats in the front most row—the VIP seats—probably, why they costed more. And it insighted her—she had not paid him for the tickets, yet.
Himani balked a little, when someone brushed her shoulder from her behind.
Khushi was standing over her seat, a tuckered out smile staggering in her lips, her sleepless eyes still twinkling. Himani stood up, to engulf Khushi in a hug. "When did you come?"
"We landed an hour before and coming here, straight away," Khushi replied, holding Himani's hand, "Just noticed you, so thought I could say a hi."
"Well, hi." Himani gave out a wholesome, sprightly grin.
"Hope Dera didn't trouble you the whole week," Khushi spelt out nervously, adding, "Like he did to Raghav's script."
"He behaved like a good boy with me—even when my cousin and her kids were there."
"Thank goodness. We have our seats there," she said pointing out at the fourth row from Himani's, "That's Dev, my husband." Himani nodded, looking at the man who had his head at his phone, face meagre of any expression, at the place Khushi hinted, and swivelled her gaze back to Khushi.
"We will see right after the show ends. Let me go back to my place," Khushi excused herself back to her place, after Himani had given a brief introduction between Khushi and Varsha.
Himani sat back, and took a sip of water from her copper water bottle. Whenever her lips turned dry, Raghav's voice rang in her mind and she, instantly, looked for her water bottle—it'd been this way, ever since that day.
Himani smiled at the memory that crept up.
The memoir intuited her, and she, abruptly, exclaimed. "Varsha, I want to wish him luck."
Varsha narrowed her gaze, like a strict teacher would do while questioning a sleepy student. "What!"
"He wished me on that day for the lunch preparation. Don't you think I should reciprocate?"
Watching Himani glower like that—pining to greet a man—was something Varsha had never had a perception of. "He must be somewhere over the backstage. Will you find him, alone? I don't want to come with you and ruin the moment." Varsha had said.
Himani dumped her bag at the seat, and straightened her dress. With her best and bright smile, she scuffled over to the backstage.
A corridor from there led to a couple rooms.
Himani walked up to the one on her right.
With every approaching step, Himani felt her gut quivering at the excitement she was going through.
"—you don't get to dictate what I do, Rajiv. This is none of your business." She flinched at the voice that wafted over to her, at a closer proximity to the door.
It was Raghav's voice, but she never knew he had known to talk that way—voice booming, and spiteful and full of disgust. Her eyebrows drew together as she halted in her tracks, quite, not believing what was happening.
"Oh, yeah, it's only a fucking business to people like you, and nothing more—" he bit out a laugh—a sardonic, bitter, and a very un-Raghav-like laugh—as he resented. She had never come across an angry Raghav and had never fathomed he could be so irated and outraged.
"Raghav, I can see that you're mad—" came out a feminine voice, which was cut off by Raghav, soon.
"Mad? I am fucking devastated, Samhitha!"
Himani supported herself by leaning against the wall, taking in the rage in his voice—she gulped the void in her throat. Hrutvi's doctor was here.
"Raghav, man, this is not the right time—" A male voice came out, but it was cut off, again, by Raghav's stormy, impetuous voice. "You know what, Rajiv, in fact this is the right time. I am walking out of here. Tell AK to bring someone who'd perform for you, guys."
"Raghav, you can't do this."
"I get to decide what I can do or not do, not you people!"
"People have come and the hall is full."
"I don't care even if it happens to spoil my name for leaving the show like this, I am not doing this show." he stated stubbornly.
"Please try to—"
"A no is a fucking no!"
Himani wasted no more time standing across the hallway there. Raghav was, doubtlessly, infuriated—and was pushed too far. Having seen Raghav with such revulsion in his voice still shuddered Himani. But she had a better, and more imperative task to do, than being staying bewildered at it.
He needed someone, right away. And the first one that came up in her mind was Khushi.
Sure, Himani was ready to lend him her shoulders—to pull him into her embrace, and run a soft hand over his face, and hairs, to gently caress his distraught temples, and tell him he was going to be okay—as much as she wanted to, she knew she could not do it right now.
So, she decided to sign up to Khushi.
She had managed to walk back to the range of seats, and fumbled to where Khushi had shown her seat earlier. Watching Himani pant in her breath, and her face tormented, nonplussed Khushi; and within she could even ask about it, Himani prattled on, deliriously. "Khushi, I think Raghav needs you. He is very angry, and shouting in one of the rooms behind the stage—saying he wouldn't perform today's show." Her words were all comprehensible but with the hurried breathing, clogging and working her lungs up, Himani could not help but rattle on.
Himani eyes were moist, when she had dragged herself back to her seat, and narrated what she happened upon to Varsha.
Inconceivable of what she had just heard, Varsha offered to hold Himani's hand, in an assuring squeeze. Her glance kept switching to the way that led to the room, for Khushi and alternately to the stage, willing Raghav had retracted his decision of turning a hall full of audience down.
The show started with a lag of fifteen minutes from the fixed time—but it, finally, did—and it was all Himani had hoped for.
The crowd erupted in whistles—with a little screaming when Raghav jogged to the stage, briskly, under the spangling lights that defined his stark features. With him was Dera, his collar lead led by Raghav, came sprinting behind him.
Dera was sharing his stage today, and this was why he had been brining Dera whenever he came for his rehearsals in the last couple of days—Himani smiled ear-to-ear in self-realisation.
She let her shoulders slump, laxing off, slick relief scooting through her. She, further, comforted herself by taking a proper look at the goodness, he appeared to be.
He was clad in a simple collared, plain, black tee-shirt and a pair of faded jeans. His hair was short—he had had a haircut—but still, not combed. His beard was gone; stubble wasn't. Not a spot of distress she'd heard in his voice, sometime ago, was visible on his face. Instead, he was flashing his trademark, blessing smile.
He was back there, just as how she'd known him as exactly.
Himani beamed at his visage, sputtering her hands together, joining the crowd.
When Raghav apologised for having delayed the show, the crowd erupted time and again.
Himani felt a gush of warmth at the selfless love he was receiving—whatever the reasons might be there for him to go to the verge of backing off from the show, he had this welcoming audience with him—that'd be the reason for him to not give up, and that alone mattered.
A couple of days before, when Raghav had said her about what Dera had done to his script, it troubled her to see his woe-etched face. She even thought if he'd just cancel his show, or ask to swap shows with someone else, who had a full script furnished.
But he had managed to concoct a full script on Dera's atrocities—and, astonishingly, it went much better than he had comprehended. Most of the people who owned pets could gratifyingly relate to it—and it showed in the spurt of laughter, and ripples of applause and whistles he got that night.
Himani was not able to meet Raghav after the show got over.
Varsha's plan of sending Himani with Raghav had backfired, to her own disappointment. Himani did not bother about it—she had a more prior reason, like an angry Raghav and the affliction, it causing him, to bother about.
When Himani had asked Khushi about why was Raghav so furious, the information she had let her known, flipped her out.
"Raghav had signed a contract with Haasyam that whatever money he makes with his shows, would totally be contributed to homeless people who are in need of help with their mental health. He had his full trust that they wouldn't deceive him and Samhitha—but this evening, when he came to know that these people aren't following the contract, it riled him up." Khushi had said it in an instant, but Himani couldn't take it into her mind, in a go.
"That's the great reason why we always go to his every single show, without fail."
"I have never seen Raghav this enraged, in the three years I have known him."
"He is wrecked. And shaken. This is a huge chunk of shock to process."
Khushi's words kept ringing in her brain, even long after she had returned home with Varsha. And even after Varsha had left, with half-heart.
Himani anticipatedly glanced at her phone. Time was nine-thirty, well into the evening, and Raghav was not home. He had his business of talking to the people there, unfinished—Himani knew. But her heart—the crazy, stupid, it was—was looking forward to him, coming home.
He finally got back home, by half past ten that night.
He looked in a better state than she had heard him before the show, but he was not quite himself.
"Why are people so filthy!" he had let out, bluntly, his head dropped at his bowl of maggi. Himani had almost forgot about their dinner, in the engrossment he had about him, until he came home.
She had then hastily pulled off maggi noodles, within Raghav came back from his locked room.
Himani smiled faintly. "We're all humans, Raghav. What do you expect?"
"You're right, people are assholes."
"Not everyone; for example, you." she had said tenderly, looking into his eyes.
Raghav did not utter word back for it. And Himani did not regret what she just said.
After their brief dining time, when Raghav had cleaned his plate and seemed too thoughtful for his usual self, Himani had said. "Don't go to bed angry. Never do that."
Raghav shook his head in a nod, with a dull smile.
That was the last sight of Raghav she'd seen for the day, and it wasn't very much like him.
He needed time to process. He needed the night.
***
A/N
Glossary:
Chithi- Mother's younger sister
Kutti- little one
Kaapi podi- Coffee powder
That was quite a chapter :p
