Call it coincidence, p.8
Call it Coincidence, page 8
‘So,’ I say, shifting my weight around the seat to find a comfortable position to sit in, while Vatsal’s feet point at me. I settle on sitting cross-legged, my toes resting against his knees.
‘You’re wondering why I’m still here. Or if I drugged all three of them.’
‘It is slightly concerning that they’re all passed out and you’re . . . the only one awake?’
Vatsal laughs, ‘I’m sure you think of me better than to poison my best friend and his girlfriend?’
‘Yeah, but not my cat.’
‘That’s low, Naina.’
‘Okay, but what happened . . . here?’
‘They weren’t sure if you had keys,’ Vatsal says simply.
I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Not quite adding up, still.’
‘So, we were all wine drunk and trying to stay up, waiting for you to come. And they weren’t sure if you had keys, so we all just decided to wait until you were back, to be safe. They crashed, unfortunately.’
‘I always have keys, they know that.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
I look away because I don’t know what to say to that. Instead, I veer the conversation far, far away.
‘We had a celebration dinner tonight,’ I say. ‘For the account closing.’
‘You can say thank you anytime.’
‘Why will I thank you? I’ve been working on this for months.’
‘Yet somehow, I show up and it closes in a week.’
‘You got involved during the closing stage!’ I say, smacking his chest lightly. He grabs my hand before I can make it all the way through; the warmth of his palm could just as well set me ablaze at this moment.
Still, I somehow continue, ‘Get your head out of your ass.’
Vatsal is still holding my palm straight to his chest as he says, ‘I’m slightly disappointed, though.’ I don’t know how to demand my hand back.
‘About what?’
‘You know, with the contract signing and all, my work ends here.’
‘That’s usually how it goes with you lawyer folk,’ I shrug. ‘In and out.’
‘Yeah, but that sucks because now I can’t keep emailing you.’
I take my hand away.
‘You can always consult for this next brand that I’m trying to get on board.’
Vatsal cocks his head to the right, holding his head in his hand, his elbow placed over the top edge of the couch. ‘Or . . . here’s an idea, I could just text you?’
‘That’s another way,’ I say, looking at my lap, non-committal at best.
‘So, what’s going on with Naina?’ he asks, turning the conversation over on its head. ‘I hear she’s doing pretty well.’
Another nod to the past—how he used to talk about my professional self in third person, how he would dissect my work personality, goals, dreams, ambitions as though we were talking about someone completely outside of me. ‘It lets work not become your entire identity,’ he’d explain. ‘Also, I just really like your name.’
‘Naina is doing well, especially now that the account is closed, thank you for asking,’ I say decidedly.
‘You seem happy here.’
‘At Marked?’
‘Yeah, I mean, in comparison to what you said you felt like at . . . Zupiter?’
I nod. ‘Way happier than I was there. Hopefully not getting fired anytime soon, either.’
‘Let’s just hope this time she beats the management to the punch,’ he laughs. ‘Because I don’t think there’s enough liquor in the world for another firing.’
‘I don’t think there’s enough liquor in the world to listen to a lawyer explain mens rea to you, either, but hey, nothing like a good business opportunity.’
‘Right, and what does it mean again?’ he asks, his eyebrow raised in contest.
‘Let me think,’ I say, scratching my head to make a point out of it. ‘Something about what a person was thinking before committing a crime?’
‘Impressive,’ he says, his mouth upturned.
‘Am I ready to become a lawyer now?’
‘I’d let you defend me,’ he says as he smiles at me delicately; like he, too, is holding on to this thing we’re building again lightly—like it can break any second. ‘No, but really, how are you, Naina? I feel like we jumped straight into work, didn’t catch up at all.’
‘I’m actually really good. How are you?’ I ask. ‘How is it like being back in India after all that time in London?’
‘I’m good too. India is . . . good. I mean, I could taste the smoke the day I landed, but home is home, you know?’
‘Yeah, who needs oxygen?’
With that, we arrive at that awkward point in small talk when the niceties have run out, the work and the weather have been exhausted, and one of two options presents itself: dive into the deep stuff or cut your losses. Talk about it all or call it quits while it’s still civil.
How do I do it, though? How do I fall into a new rhythm with a person whose pulse once used to match mine?
‘So, Nipun and Sarina,’ he says, changing the topic.
‘Crazy, no?’
‘I still can’t believe it,’ he adds as he throws his head back against the wall.
‘I know.’ I nod. ‘Sometimes I still have to stop, pause and shake Sarina to ask if she’s even sure about this.’
‘It doesn’t sound like you’re too thrilled.’
‘Hello, I’m ecstatic! But we’re all so young, still.’
‘Isn’t she, like, three years older?’ he asks, his eyebrow raised. ‘And they have been together for ages now, Naina.’
‘Accha? I didn’t know only.’
‘You think they’re going to go through with it?’
‘I mean, the hotel is booked, and all the invites are out and there are literally, like, two weeks to go and I’ve spent two months’ worth of my salary on new clothes so . . . yes, I hope?’
‘Fuck, dude,’ Vatsal laughs. ‘I still can’t believe he pulled that proposal off.’
I interrupt, adding, ‘He had great help.’
‘I’m sure he did,’ he says, poking my waist. ‘How was it?’
It plays like a film reel in my mind—the planning, the plotting, the hiding, The Day, but mostly, the look on Sarina’s face when Nipun went down on one knee. The incredible ease with which Sarina knew, like she knew how to breathe, like she knew how to exist, that she wanted to say yes. And amidst it all, I remember the dread. I remember feeling, in every inch of my body, Vatsal’s absence. I remember feeling this would never happen for me—but mostly, that it would never happen for us.
Obviously, I don’t say any of this. Instead, I say: ‘It was like a movie.’
‘I would’ve loved to be there, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘Why wouldn’t you tell me?’
I have to assume that Nipun, when inviting Vatsal to the wedding, told him about the proposal party; probably mentioned that I was responsible for the invites. Which is . . . great.
‘I just didn’t think you’d make it,’ I say, like it wasn’t a calculated decision. Like I hadn’t typed in and typed out his name over and over in my Notes app, eventually striking it off because I didn’t think I could stand to be in the same room as him. Like I didn’t know he was in India at the time from the thirty different times I had looked at his stories from Sarina’s Instagram account.
‘I was in India, you know,’ he declares.
I act surprised; I do such a bad job at it.
‘And how was I supposed to know?’
‘How you find out anything about anyone these days, Naina. You check their Instagram stories.’
Right, Instagram.
‘I must’ve missed them,’ I say shyly.
‘Yeah, you must’ve missed them,’ he smiles—because he knows. Of course he does.
Three Years Ago
On some days, I’m convinced my cat thinks I understand him. Why else would Bittoo meow furiously as I return home from meeting with Sambhav, as though saying, ‘How dare you be away for so long?’ after days of staying home, all day every day, in my new unemployment era? I pour extra food in his bowl, an afternoon snack, to win him over—luckily, my cat is smart but also so food-motivated it’s hilarious—and as he chomps it away, I slip into pajamas so I can become one with my bed.
Over the next hour, my left hand pops fistfuls of yellow Lay’s in my mouth while my right hits Easy Apply on any job on LinkedIn that I even remotely find interesting—when, suddenly, a notification zaps me out of accidentally applying for a job in a different department at Zupiter.
The glowing screen reads @vatsal_ has sent you a follow request.
I gawk in my phone like a kid; did he just send it again?
His profile photo has him dressed in a white linen shirt and black Ray Bans, standing in front of a cliff with the sea stretching in the horizon, his head tilted ever-so-slightly to the right with half a smile on his face. Even in the tiny circular photo on his profile that I have to screenshot to zoom in, he looks so ridiculously handsome that I feel myself getting annoyed. I’ve seen Vatsal up close plenty of times in the last few days but seeing him in a photograph really seals it for me: just how good looking he is with his, honestly, quite startling, model-esque features and uber-macho demeanour. And yet, for just how handsome he is, he is not douchebag enough.
I gawk at his follow request, hitting ‘accept’ and ‘follow back’ in a quick move before he cancels it again, abandoning my job search to shuffle through his entire life history, coded via Instagram posts and story highlights. He follows me right back too, which confirms to me that he sent the request, unsent it, sent it again, and then sat there on the app, waiting for my response.
I open his profile to gather parts of him I don’t yet know—but there is very little Vatsal gives me to work with, a sum total of ten posts on his Instagram, all of them seemingly from his travels, with a few picturesque sights thrown in for good measure.
I’m three scrolls deep into a carousel post of him somewhere in Europe when: catastrophe. My fingers slip and I accidentally push like on a comment on his photo; him saying thank you to someone for their comment from three years ago.
I don’t waste a second and instantly tap to unlike it—but it’s already too late. The damage is irreversible. A message pops up.
Vatsal: caught you
My face flushes at his text like he’s here; like he’s physically glaring at me. His text feels like a poke in the stomach, a child being lovingly chided for being naughty.
Naina: idk what you’re talking about
Vatsal: right . . .
Vatsal: you totally did not stalk me and accidentally like and then unlike a comment from three years ago
Vatsal: no, I must’ve just dreamt this up
I already hate how good-looking Vatsal is, but his cockiness, his upfrontness is even more infuriating, somehow. And so, I don’t spare him either, rushing straight for the jugular.
Naina: just like I dreamed up you sending and then unsending and then resending me a follow request?
The typing sign stays buzzing for a full minute—I bet he had no idea I knew. Finally, Vatsal relents.
Vatsal: okay, we can call it even
Vatsal: two equally embarrassing faux pas
Vatsal: cancelled each other out basically
Naina: no, mine was embarrassing, yours was just desperate
Vatsal: what if I am?
Naina: you’re what
Vatsal: you know, desperate
I put my phone down, finding it tough to keep up pretences, like the fact that he’s so obviously flirting with me is not getting to me. Before I can bring myself to reply, or say anything that doesn’t make me sound stupid, Vatsal texts again.
Vatsal: what are you doing right now? still at the coffee shop?
Naina: no, no, I’ve been back home for a bit
Naina: what’s up with you?
Vatsal: wanna grab lunch together, maybe?
I don’t know if Vatsal and I are ‘grab lunch’ friends yet, or if we’re friends at all. At best, we’re two strangers tied together by an extremely awkward encounter and, unfortunately, a lot of strings.
Vatsal: listen I just figured that . . . we’ve gotten ahead of ourselves
Vatsal: and I’d just like to make it not awkward, preferably over a meal
Vatsal: also because I’m starving
I run the prospect of hanging out with Vatsal over in my head, playing catch and release with yes or no. It’s not an entirely horrible idea—I am slightly sick of applying for jobs all day, every single day. Plus, Nipun did mention me running into him over the next few months, and so maybe it makes sense to make things a little more . . . friendly?
But then there are technical difficulties.
Naina: I’d love to but I have lunch at home :((((
I don’t add: I’m afraid Rani didi will bash me to death with a belan if I don’t eat it—especially when I requested her to make pav bhaaji ten minutes before she was about to leave.
‘Mai kaam chorr dungi [I will quit],’ she yelled from the kitchen. ‘Tumhaari wajah se baakiyon ka kaam late hota hai [I get late for my other jobs because of you].’
Before leaving, she’d pulled my cheek. ‘Pav kamm hai. Mangwa lena [There aren’t enough buns, order more].’
Vatsal: :(
Naina: but
Naina: you could come over?
Naina: only if you also bring one extra packet of pavs
Vatsal: NO WAY
Vatsal: THERE’S PAV BHAAJI???
Vatsal: be there in 15
Vatsal shows up at my door in record timing—with three pav packets.
‘I said one extra packet,’ I say, opening the door to him.
‘This one’s for you, this one’s for me,’ he says, lifting his hand holding two packets. ‘And this one,’ he says, pointing to the third packet tucked in tight between his arm and his waist, ‘is for emergencies. Now where’s lunch?’
I let Vatsal in, and he finds the kitchen without any instructions, like he’s been here a thousand times before. As he watches, I empty out the bhaaji from the kadhai, shift it to a bowl and hand it to him to heat up as I toast the buns.
‘Enough?’ I say, one and a half packets later, all sweaty from standing at the stove.
‘A few more.’
‘You can’t possibly have that many.’
‘Don’t challenge me, Naina.’
I’m close to finishing toasting the second packet when I’ve completely lost my appetite—or the will to live.
‘Please tell me these are enough for you,’ I say, wiping the sweat from the steaming kitchen off my forehead.
‘They’ll do. For now,’ he winks as he takes the bowl of bhaaji out of the microwave and lands it with too loud of a thud on the dining table. I follow with a tray in hand, decked with a massive pile of pavs that Vatsal playfully arranged into a pyramid shape. When one of them falls flat on the ground as I trip over seemingly nothing, I shriek.
‘I told you not to play games with the pavs.’
‘Horrible gross motor functions,’ he chides as he picks it up off the floor and puts it on his plate.
Vatsal and I take seats across from each other on the dining table and he pushes the bowl of bhaaji towards me. ‘Here, take.’ When I don’t move swiftly enough, he holds the ladle and pours me a hefty portion.
‘I’m not going to eat this much!’
‘Whatever you leave, I’ll finish,’ he says simply. Like we do this every day. Like he serves me food and clears off my leftovers after he pours me too much.
Over the next hour, Vatsal ladles a concerning amount of bhaaji onto his plate and the pile of pavs starts losing structural integrity until most of them disappear. He’s not wrong. He can eat that much.
As for the conversation . . . initially, it feels like wearing training wheels, the overwhelming awkwardness of being in such proximity again washing over the both of us, presumably. But here’s the thing: with every bite, I fall more and more into ease with him, his being here. All throughout, Vatsal speaks with food in his mouth—which on anyone else would be off-putting, but somehow, on him, is endearing—and with every pav, I see his exterior melting, giving way into the narrow softness of who he really is. Like how Vatsal is ‘cool’ only until you get to know him—inside, he’s mushy. A little bruised, even, like a ripe apple hanging on a tree, glistening under warm sunlight.
Halfway through the meal, he licks his fingers as he says, ‘You know, I hadn’t had pav bhaaji until I was, like, fifteen.’
‘What? That’s not possible.’
‘It is.’
‘That has to be child abuse. Are your parents in jail?’
‘It would be really awkward now if one of them were in jail, no?’
‘Please say they’re not.’
‘No, they’re just divorced,’ he says, chowing down a huge bite. ‘Which, if you live in India, is somehow worse?’
Suddenly conscious, I ask, ‘How come?’
‘How come they’re divorced?’
‘Yes?’
‘I mean, they didn’t really like each other all that much towards the end, Naina, isn’t that why people get divorced?’ he laughs.
‘But what happened, exactly?’ I ask. ‘I mean, only if you want to share, obviously.’
‘No, no, I don’t mind,’ he says, grabbing another pav. ‘I don’t know yaar, it was a love marriage that eventually became long-distance and then it ended pretty randomly, from what I remember,’ he says, before suddenly hesitating. ‘Just woke up one day and my parents sat me down for the talk, how they were no longer together but that we’d always be a family, how I was going to move to London with mom and then come back and stay with dad next year, etcetera, etcetera.’ My face sinks into my neck as I sit there, taking it in. ‘Oh my god, Naina, please don’t feel bad about it. It was ages ago.’
‘Still, it couldn’t have been easy.’
