The Invite

It sat on her screen- unblinking. Labelled simply as Wedding Invite- she clicked on it gingerly, her heart stopping for a minute as the screen refreshed. 

Yes, it was him. 

How many years had it been? Two, three, four? Four years and four months since that fateful day in her then- favourite restaurant, when, casually, over a cup of coffee, he had announced 'it wasn't working' with a soulful shake of his head.

She had stormed out, eyes hot with unshed tears which threatened to flow any minute- and she had let them, in the space of the rustic cab with its frayed velvet seats and glinting CD hung over the mirror- unmindful of the cab driver, unmindful of the curious bikers at traffic signals, too wrapped up in her private tragedy.

She had carefully built her own little world shortly after that- never letting a minute go waste- either working, or enjoying. She was a successful sales manager with a world renowned FMCG, member of an exclusive jazz enthusiasts club, and an avid traveller. She had been to London, Paris and Melbourne- with a select group of new acquaintances- who never asked too many questions and had no link with her turbulent past. She had started afresh and had drained her her old life away-alongwith the tears she had shed for him.

Until now.

She read the invitation- simple, crisp- just as he had been.

It announced his wedding to a girl who shared the same address as him, save a digit on the house number. Fate, she thought- and then read it again- it can't be- she thought...For he had once briefly mentioned a childhood friend, who 'skinny dipped in the same water tank' as him, on hot June afternoons, on the terrace of their apartment home, when he was eight, or wherabouts. All through their shared hostel life of two years, he had never mentioned her again, though he seemed keen on spending all holidays, even if they were a day-long respite, at home. The proximity of his home town to the hostel was God-sent, and while she savoured replicas of Holi & Diwali (her home being too far away to return too soon) with hostel-mates, he was always away on holidays- and the only time they spent together was the classroom and small bits of time snatched away from group meetings and projects.

So- this was what was happening all along- she thought, with a wry smile on her face. Like the time when he was unwell, and she decided to surprise him at his bachelor pad without informing anyone. She had spent ten minutes on deciding between the sunny yellow T-shirt which had been a gift from him, and the wafery white kaftan that he liked- before buying a crate of his favourite beer and lugging it up three storeys to find that he wasn't home- and wasn't answering his mobile either.

Or, when on a sudden whim, she decided to drop in on a Saturday night to pick him up for a confirmed media party at the happening new eatery in town- and later, stood holding a note which simply said 'have to leave- something urgent at home'- in the middle of his drawing room- dressed up in a short black skirt with crystal flowers in her hair and a pair of new stilletoes- with one of their mutual friends gallantly standing in for him.

And recently, even though she tried not to, sometimes he would manifest himself in unimaginable places- the glint of a steel cuff link (her birthday gift to him), a small-checked blue shirt (his graduation gift) or the unmistakable whiff of Davidoff- oh- why didn't they just stop making that perfume which made her long miserably for him?

Suddenly, his excuses, his behaviour, his attitude all made perfect sense and that one last missing piece in the puzzle fit itself. Silently, she wished him all the best, as she finally closed that painful chapter in her life, with a decisive click on the close and log-out button.

(April 6, 2009)