Cheaters Read online

  I order a cappuccino and wait for them, rather impatiently. I start going through previous photographs of theirs. I try to understand the man. I feel it will help me understand the relationship they share. Especially his glasses. They are rimless. I remember Shrutika telling me once to change my glasses. I have black carbon framed ones. Maybe she wanted me to get rimless glasses like this man. He is clean shaven while I have moustache. Maybe she doesn’t like moustaches. She could have just told me that straightaway. But then I too haven’t asked her anything directly. All that I have been able to think in the past two days is the story of Shrutika and this man.

  On an impulse, I call her. I sense the surprise in her voice. Has she already taken me for granted? Has she already told the other man, ‘Oh, I know my would-be very well’? I’m here in this cafe because I don’t know her that well. If I had not taken a week off, not bought the DSLR, would I have ever discovered this daily rendezvous?

  I ask myself what my real problem is: finding my fiancée with a man or the fact that she has been hiding these meetings from me? Why hadn’t she told me about this man? Didn’t she factor in the fact that I might get hurt if I found out the truth? But I realize that it’s actually my ego. I feel offended.

  It stops raining. I check my watch. There’s time. I walk into the other cafe and take a seat in their usual spot. I look across the road to the cafe, outside which I’m usually stationed, spying on them. What will Shrutika think if she saw me there? Will she wave at me? Will she hurriedly leave, pretending not to have seen me? Or will she confront me—something I will definitely not do? I get up and go back to the other cafe.

  I click a few shots of the city line, the grey clouds, a few birds, a puddle, a mother walking with her kids, but nothing gives me satisfaction. I wonder if they have decided to meet elsewhere. The thought disappoints me. I was hoping to find out a little more about their story. A picture is worth a thousand words. I check their photos again. I compare them with Shrutika’s and mine on my phone. We look formal, they don’t. We seem slightly caged, they seem free. They were yet to touch each other in my photos and yet exuded a mysterious chemistry. Their smiles are warm towards each other. Ours lack any essence. There was a basic difference in their togetherness and ours: time. Time’s a prerequisite for anything to blossom. The pages of their journey were already filled. Ours were still blank. They were limited in that sense. Their story must have already traversed a certain path. Ours was still looking for the correct one.

  There is another basic difference. We are supposed to get married. Not them. Three hours and four cups of coffee later, Shrutika and the man are yet to arrive.

  * * *

  Day Four

  Our lives are all about patterns. Either we create them ourselves or slip into already established ones. Maybe we find solace in them. I’m yet to meet a person who is happy and has no visible pattern to his life. But there can’t be happiness without any pattern. Pattern and monotony are different. And jumping from one pattern to another isn’t easy. Life is most interesting when we are in between two patterns. When we are trying to let go of one and struggling to embrace another. Like I am steadily letting go of my bachelorhood and trying to get used to a pre-marital life.

  I realized this when Shrutika, during our daily nightly phone call, made a most unusual request. ‘Can we have lunch together?’ We have never had lunch together on a weekday!

  Shrutika told me, on our way to the restaurant, that she had found the place on Zomato. It was in Juhu and was called Melting Pot; the place had got favourable reviews. I replied with a non-committal ‘hmm’.

  ‘We should meet during weekdays too. What do you think?’ Shrutika asked after we had ordered our food.

  ‘Yes, why not?’ I replied. She smiled as if she had known I’d agree. But what tormented me was why she had made such a proposal now? Why today? That’s when I thought about patterns. As the waiter served us the food, I wondered if marriage was the most involuntary pattern that we got into.

  We bantered about nothing in particular while having lunch. What was funny was that I was the one who was on leave but was glancing more frequently at my watch than her. As if I wanted her to be in that cafe at Bandstand more than I wanted her to be in Melting Pot.

  Shrutika surprised me by kissing me on my cheeks as we got inside the car. When I tried to kiss her back, she deliberately puckered up her lips and we smooched. After that, we grew quiet. First the lunch, then the smooch . . . two unusual events one after another. Was it because she was feeling guilty? I thought about a friend who always got a gift for his wife whenever he fucked his colleague. Sometimes an expression of extra love is triggered by guilt, he had told me once. Was Shrutika guilty about meeting the man without telling me?

  She requested me to drop her off at her office. I wasn’t surprised. I’m mostly chivalrous so I got out of the car to bid her goodbye. She hugged me. It was a tad longer than our previous hugs. I think that we usually hug a person longer than usual when we aren’t sure that words will do justice to what we have on our minds. Some feelings are indescribable. I wonder what Shrutika was trying to tell me through this longer hug.

  I told her I was going home but instead drove to the cafe in Bandstand. And waited for them. As I took my usual seat, the waiter approached my table and asked, ‘Cappuccino with no cream, right, sir?’

  Even the cafe and I shared a pattern. I nodded with a smile. An hour after their usual arrival time, the man walked into the other cafe. The smooch made sense now. He loitered around for some time and then got a call. He sat alone in their usual spot and kept looking at his watch. I understood he was waiting for her. Half an hour later, he simply left. I kept waiting. Shrutika didn’t arrive. I suddenly felt like I had won a war without even picking up a sword.

  * * *

  Day Five

  From the time I’ve woken up, I’ve been feeling relaxed. The sky is murkier since last night but there have been no showers yet. I don’t think I will go to Bandstand today. It has been some time since I indulged with my camera. I decide to go to Fort instead and take photos of people. The business district of Mumbai offers an interesting confluence of eighteenth-century British architecture and modern, twenty-first-century officegoers. It is an ideal site for any amateur photographer. Or for a professional for that matter.

  I drive there, click a lot of photographs, but as it nears lunchtime, I have an urge to go to Bandstand. I try diverting my mind by focusing on different subjects—a beggar, a sleeping taxi driver, a man waiting for a bus, a cobbler. Then my phone rings. It’s Shrutika. She asks me where I am and then tells me she has some work outside office. After disconnecting the call, I drive to Bandstand. They aren’t here yet although it is well beyond their usual meeting time. This time I enter the same cafe that they frequent and occupy a seat outside. That is when I notice the man. He is sitting inside, next to an air conditioner. Beside him is a bag. Shrutika’s bag. And the chair is pulled out. My instinct says she must be in the washroom. I cancel my order and leave hurriedly. I walk across the street to the cafe that I usually visit.

  As I settle down, I see them traipsing out of the cafe. My heart starts racing. I feel a vein throbbing in my head. It suddenly starts pouring. Typical of Mumbai rains. People run helter-skelter, dashing into shops or under their awnings. The man with Shrutika opens an umbrella. It obstructs my view. I can’t see them clearly. And when you can’t see something properly, you start assuming things. And usually assume the worst.

  I am certain that she met me yesterday because she was feeling guilty. Did Shrutika think: I’m going to kiss this man but I also want to convince myself that I like my fiancé? The thought is silly because, surely, she couldn’t be kissing this man for the first time? Or maybe she is kissing him for the first time since we got engaged. I can’t think clearly any more. My thoughts are as blurred as my view. The skies take mercy on me. The rain stops as unexpectedly as it had started. My eyes are fixed on the umbrella. Till the man closes
it. Their proximity burns a hole in me. My heart tells me to confront them but my mind asks me to sit tight. The thing is I don’t want to catch them red-handed. I don’t want to pronounce my presence between them. It makes me wonder when such a triangle is formed, who is between whom? Am I in between both of them? Is he in between Shrutika and me? They must have known each other for a long time. That answers who is in between. And it angers me. I stand up reflexively. The table wobbles and my phone falls down. I pick it up; sit down and call up Shrutika. If I know I’m the one in between them, then they should know it as well. I find her staring at her phone. She walks away from the man a little. She knows I’m in between. Why is she taking so long to pick up? Guilt again? I’m convinced she won’t pick up. But she does. Almost at the last ring. I’m at Bandstand today, I say, clicking photographs. And as I tell her so, I balance the phone between my left ear and shoulder and pick up my camera. I can only hear her breathing.

  * * *

  Day Six

  Shrutika thinks I have a good sense of humour. She told me this last night. As I eat my breakfast today, I can’t help but smirk. The look of panic, helplessness and alarm on her face when I told her that I was in Bandstand was worth it. She looked around frantically trying to locate me. But unlike her, I had my zoom lens. I saw her every movement. It cracked me up. Laughing, I told her I was joking. She visibly relaxed after that. That’s when she told me I had a good sense of humour. Seeing her getting worked up was arousing. Somewhere, I understood my importance in her life. I can cause a storm within her if I wanted to. I had never had such control on anyone before. I don’t think she would have got so worked up if instead of me it was the man who had called her up. That’s the power of a husband. Or would-be husband to be precise.

  Marriage, for the first time, made sense to me. Now I’m convinced that marriage too is a power game. And if my hunch is right, she won’t ever meet the man on Bandstand again. One call and I’ve pushed them into changing their meeting place. I’ve also understood something about myself. Most men in my position would have confronted her already. That’s a much more masculine reaction than being a mere spectator of these secret meetings. But I’ve always felt uneasy with certain expectations that are attached with being a man. And if one doesn’t live up to those expectations, one’s masculinity is supposedly challenged. Just like women, men too are prisoners of societal shackles.

  Anyway, let me not digress. Others may have done what they wanted to but I didn’t confront Shrutika. I won’t. After a long time, I have something that makes me wonder, which has incited my curiosity. At nights, I analyse their possible story, and at daytime, I try to second guess what could happen. It’s almost like I’m the author and they are my characters. If I don’t like the fact that they meet in Bandstand, one call and I’ve rewritten their rendezvous location. But speaking of Bandstand, I wonder where they will meet today, or if at all they will.

  Today being Saturday, Shrutika has an off. I drive to her house a few hours after breakfast. She stays with her parents in Santa Cruz, west. It’s a cooperative society. I park my car across the main gate of her building. It’s pouring like crazy today. I call her. We talk for some time. She tells me it is a lazy day and that she will sleep it out. I tell her I’ll do the same. I think she was curious to know what I would do today, the same as me. She doesn’t know it but we are in a game. Relationships are like that, aren’t they? Even after ending the call, I stay where I am. I have a hunch that she will step outside soon. She does. A little after lunch. I don’t know why she always chooses this time. Maybe it’s convenient for the man.

  It’s drizzling now. A few minutes later, around 2.30 p.m., an Ola cab stops in front of her building. Shrutika gets inside. I follow the cab. Bandstand? I wonder. In a few minutes, I understand that she isn’t going there. Somewhere else, I’m sure. After forty minutes, the cab goes inside the premises of a posh society in Khar, west. Half a minute later, it comes out. There’s no Shrutika in it. I stay parked outside. Is this where the man stays? Will they meet at his place from now onwards? It’s a bad thought. If they are or were in a relationship, they must have met in there so many times. I choose to wait. But this awaiting is different than the one in the cafe at Bandstand. I get impatient and anxious. There, I would usually be waiting for them to arrive. Here, I know they must have already met in the flat and . . .

  I somehow manage to spend the next couple of hours. Shrutika has not come out. Curiosity gets the better of me so I get out of the car and go inside. I enter the society so confidently that the guards don’t stop me for identification or to find out where I’m going. But once inside, I realize I don’t know where to look for her. There are four buildings and I don’t know which one she is in. It is not possible for me to find out without asking the guards, who can be nosy. It is when I’m in two minds that I spot Shrutika come out of one of the buildings. The man is behind her and is accompanied by a woman who is holding the hand of a child. They are all wearing raincoats. Quickly, I run for cover into the nearest building. Suddenly I feel the power has shifted from me to her. Although Shrutika is unaware of it. Good for me.

  * * *

  Day Seven

  Shrutika sounded happy after she came out of that building. I understood this when she called me minutes after leaving the place in a cab. I was still on the premises of the building, although I lied to her that I was out on an evening walk. I couldn’t fathom the reason behind her happiness? Who was the other woman? And the child? As I lay in bed that night, I thought that they must have been the man’s family. But why would he introduce her to them? And they looked so comfortable with each other. The two women, I mean. I don’t think I could ever be that comfortable with the man. Nor he with me. I didn’t sleep well because I couldn’t understand what must have happened between the man, Shrutika and the other woman. Did he tell his wife that he was having an affair with Shrutika? What about this news could have made his wife so amicable towards Shrutika?

  In the morning, my mother told me that she had invited Shrutika and her family for dinner. I feigned happiness upon hearing it, but didn’t actually want to see her. I had been racking my brains trying to understand Shrutika and that man’s relationship and didn’t want to come across as distracted when she arrived at home in the night.

  They reached at five minutes past eight. After exchanging pleasantries, the elders stayed back in the living room while Shrutika and I went to the balcony. She sat on a bamboo swing while I stood against the railings. She told me she liked this spot the best in my house. I told her me too. We are not talkers. Often our silences are interspersed with a few questions from her and a few from me. I tried to read between the lines, hoping to discover something new about the man, but was disappointed. Our parents called us when dinner was ready. I tried to go back before her, but found Shrutika holding my hand.

  ‘Give us two minutes,’ she yelled and then looked at me. I shrugged. She had never held my hand like that.

  ‘I need to tell you something,’ she said. I immediately stiffened. I knew what she was going to tell me. I had imagined this moment many a time in the past one week. And lots of variations of it as well. But I had never imagined my throat going dry when the moment actually arrived. I need to tell you something, only a man can tell you how disturbingly threatening it sounds when it comes from his woman. Especially when he knows that she has been with another man.

  ‘Sure.’ I thought I sounded confident, but I was actually meek.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if I would ever tell you this,’ Shrutika began. ‘But something happened yesterday, and I thought there is a reason why I should tell you about it. We are getting married. I know we don’t know much about each other. Of course, we will discover more over time but today I want to tell you about a man.’

  There was a shrill ringing in my ears and her voice drowned. It died after a few seconds and I heard Shrutika say, ‘We’ve known each other for the past five years now. We were in the same office. Now he works els
ewhere. Although we met as colleagues, we connected as friends. I won’t be lying if I tell you that he is the man with whom I have felt the most connected. He is a really good person. Incidentally, the year we met was the also the year he married his childhood sweetheart. They had a kid two years later.’ She paused. Come to the point, I snapped at her in my head but said nothing.

  ‘But then there was a problem. His wife started having an affair. So my friend went off the radar for a while and suddenly resurfaced a week before our engagement. In a pretty devastated state.’

  And that’s when you guys started having this affair, I completed the story in my head.

  ‘I couldn’t see him like that. It also made me think a lot about love and marriage. We are always taught that they are one and the same thing. But I realized they aren’t. We don’t know each other but are getting married. We might call it love if we are at peace in each other’s presence. But I think it’s more of an acceptance than love, isn’t it?’

  I got agitated. Maybe because I knew what she had on her mind but instead of telling me directly was beating around the bush.

  ‘Maybe. So, what are you trying to say?’ I asked her impatiently.

  ‘My friend had caught his childhood sweetheart with another man,’ Shrutika stood up. She was still holding my hand.

  ‘I talk to him. Almost daily. More so in the last one week. And then I had a talk with his wife as well. She apologized, while I convinced him to give it another chance. But that’s not why I’m telling you all this.’

  As it still didn’t go the way I had it on my mind, I spoke with obvious irritation.

  ‘Then why are you telling me all this, Shrutika?’

  ‘We will get married in a few months. I want you to promise me that if ever there’s another woman, you will let me know. We won’t catch each other. We will confess. Catch or confess . . . that is what makes or breaks a marriage, isn’t it? Will you promise me this, Eklavya?’