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/> It was nice of him to bother, but I wasn’t going to confess my miserable story to yet another sympathetic face. ‘Nothing, Sir,’ I said, trying hard to stop the tears. The image of Rajeev would not leave my mind.
‘Why are you crying?’
‘No Sir, I am not,’ I said, as tears streamed down my face.
‘Arre,’ said Mr Vijaywada indignantly, ‘I called you again and again and when you did not respond, I had to come here, and look what I find … Kasturi in tears! Did anyone say something to you? Padma? Yes, Padma? Is it Padma?’
Oh dear!
‘No Sir, not Padma … it is … er …’ I looked around, frantically, scratching my ears.
‘Your ear?’ said Mr Vijaywada thinking that I was pointing towards my ears.
‘Umm … yes … I guess,’ I added, shrugging. This was as bad as anything else I would have come up with.
‘What! Your ear?’
What? My ear? Why the hell did I just say that?
‘Umm … yes, Sir.’
‘What happened to your ear?’
My brain worked fast. ‘I go deaf every once in a while,’ I said jubilantly, smacking the table in front of me. ‘That would explain why I did not hear you call out to me.’
‘What?’ said Mr Vijaywada, shocked.
‘Yes Sir, I have met hundreds of doctors … spent hours in hospitals … taken all sorts of medicines … but nothing has changed. These tears, Sir,’ I said, melodramatically, ‘that you see staining my cheeks at the moment, are but a testimony of my anguish, my frustration at not being able to lead a normal life ... with ears … that … that…’ I left the sentence incomplete for two reasons:
It sounded tragic and melodramatic.
I did not quite know how to end the sentence.
‘Of course,’ said Mr Vijaywada, looking stricken beyond measure. ‘Of course … oh my! I did not know this. I am sorry, Kasturi…’
‘That’s okay, Sir. This is not your fault,’ I said, sniffing piteously. ‘Life is not fair.’
Mr Vijaywada nodded his head; my words had hit a raw nerve. ‘It is not, Kasturi, it certainly is not,’ he said, shaking his head.
I tilted my head as if staring into space, hopefully appearing to pontificate on life and its unfairness. ‘What has life done to you, Sir, if you do not mind my asking?’
Mr Vijaywada sighed. ‘All I want,’ he said, shaking his head again, ‘is one son. What I have,’ he said, and paused, ‘are four daughters.’
I tried not to giggle.
‘Not that I don’t love my girls, I do. But … just that … I want a son to play football with … to go fishing with.’
‘You play soccer, Sir, and you fish?’ I asked brightly.
‘Errr … no … not really … but … you know…’ he stammered, ‘I could...’
I tried hard to not laugh as it struck me that the CEO of Vijaywada & Sons did not have a son. I remember that day well; it was the first time since the break-up with Rajeev that I had felt like my old self again.
That was more than a year ago. P.P. Padma, of course, figured out my little lie very early on, but Vijaywada has remained blissfully – and thankfully – unaware. Ever since that day, Mr Vijaywada had sported a soft spot for me, favouring me blatantly over others in our small office, excusing the stupidest mistakes with a smile. The advantages of the little lie, therefore, have consistently outweighed the moral implications.
4.30 p.m.
Vijaywada has passed by my desk thrice since our little discussion and has each time spared a gentle hand over my head.
