Half Girlfriend Read online

  I don’t know why many things happened in my life, actually, so maybe this is all part of the crazy plan God has for me. Marriage, divorce and disease, all within a span of three years.

  The funny thing is, you came into my life at various stages too. Perhaps we were not meant to be. I must thank you for accepting me as a friend again, Madhav. I was so lost. I made mistakes, I held so much back from you and yet you cared for me. I know you wanted more, but I’m sorry I was unable to give it to you. The first time, it wasn’t the right time. The second time, well, I have no time.

  I couldn’t have asked for a better two months than those I spent in Patna. To be able to help you prepare for your speech was a wonderful and special time. The best part was that despite the challenge, you never quit.

  I asked you to stay back last night. I had no right to. I just felt greedy and selfish. I wanted more of your caring, while knowing I couldn’t give you anything in return.

  I know what I mean to you, and if I ask you to care without being able to reciprocate myself, you will. Hence, I decided to go. I won’t make it harder for you than it needs to be.

  I’m not one for details. Suffice to say, I have a little over three months left. The last month is supposed to be horrible. I will skip the gory parts. But trust me, you don’t want to know.

  You have something meaningful going on in your life. Your school is beautiful. And if Bill Gates does what I think he will, you will be able to make it even better. If that happens, I don’t want to be here diverting your attention. I have seen your love, I don’t want to see your pity. I am a basketball girl. That is how I want to stay in your mind forever. Your basketball girl.

  I shall leave you with your school and your mother. Meanwhile, in what little time I have, I plan to travel everywhere I can. In the last month, I will find a corner for myself in this world where I don’t bother anyone. Then I will go. You know what? On my last day, I will think of you.

  A good thing has come of my decision to leave here. I feel free enough to tell you everything. I don’t have to hold back or say the right thing anymore. For instance, it isn’t just you who had a sleepless night at my place. I never slept either. I thought of how hard it was going to be to leave you. Funny, I’ve never felt that way about leaving this world. But leaving you, yes, that is difficult.

  So, no crying. No looking for me. No being a Devdas. You are such a good-looking and caring guy, you’ll find a lovely girl. Someone who isn’t a mess like me. Someone who will love you like you deserve to be loved.

  I can’t wait for tomorrow. You will rock the stage.

  I want to end this letter by saying something I wanted to say to at least someone in this lifetime. So, here goes:

  I love you, Madhav Jha. I absolutely, completely love you. And will do so to my last day.

  Bye, Madhav. Take care.

  Riya

  My eyes welled up. Tears rolled down my cheeks. My limbs felt weak. I struggled to stand. The letter fell from my hands. I picked it up and read it again. Memories of me sitting in Riya’s car came to me. Images flashed in my head—her fancy wedding-card box, the glucose biscuits and her driving off. She had disappeared to get married then. She had disappeared to die now. In both cases, she had taken, to use a tough English word, unilateral decisions.

  I called her number again. This time it was switched off. Perhaps she was driving back to Patna and passing through a no-network area. Or maybe she had thrown away her SIM card.

  I went numb, like someone had hit me on the head with a hammer. Nothing mattered to me. The guests at home, the Gates Foundation grant, nothing. Riya had lung cancer, and she hadn’t even mentioned it. How could she do this to me?

  ‘Patna, go to Patna,’ I told myself. She would go home first, obviously.

  I ran downstairs to the living room. A crowd was gathered there.

  ‘Congratulations, Madhav bhai. What a speech you gave,’ said the sarpanch. He spoke Hindi and possibly didn’t know a word of English.

  ‘Hello, sir, I am from Dainik Bhaskar. We would like to profile you for our Sunday magazine,’ a reporter said.

  I found my mother.

  ‘Patna? Now?’ she said.

  ‘The Foundation people need me to sign some paperwork.’

  ‘I thought they went to Gaya for the other programme.’

  ‘Some of them did. Since they have announced the aid, I need to sign documents.’

  ‘Go after lunch. Right now we have guests.’

  ‘Ma, I need to go now,’ I said.

  My mother sensed something amiss.

  ‘Where is that divorceé friend of yours?’ she said. ‘Saree and what all she wore today.’

  ‘Her name is Riya, Ma. Not divorceé friend,’ I said, irritated.

  ‘I didn’t make her a divorceé.’

  ‘She’s dying,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  I told her about Riya being ill.

  ‘Poor girl. So young.’

  ‘I have to go to Patna.’

  ‘You are telling me or asking for my permission?’

  ‘I will call you,’ I said and left.

  Locked. That’s how I found Riya’s house. The neighbours had no clue.

  ‘Madam is strange. I have never had a client like this,’ said the broker, Hemant. I had called him in case he knew anything.

  ‘What happened?’ I said.

  ‘Where are you?’ he said.

  ‘At her apartment. It’s locked.’

  ‘Wait, I need to come there anyway.’

  Hemant arrived in twenty minutes.

  ‘She called me last night. She said the keys will be in her letter box,’ he said.

  ‘Keys?’

  Hemant and I walked over to the letter boxes in the building compound. He slid his hand in and drew out a bunch of keys.

  ‘When madam called me yesterday, she told me she was leaving town. Needs to surrender the house,’ Hemant said, panting as we climbed the stairs.

  ‘Surrender?’ I echoed stupidly.

  ‘I told her there is a notice period. Her security deposit will be forfeited.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She said she didn’t care. She said the landlord could keep the deposit.’

  He unlocked the apartment. We went in. Her furniture and TV were all there. I went to the kitchen. Everything seemed to be in its place, from the condiments to the appliances. The utensils and the gas stove were still there. I went to her bedroom. I only found her clothes’ cupboard empty.

  ‘She’s left most of her goods here,’ Hemant said. ‘She said I could sell them.’

  ‘She did?’

  ‘Really, she did,’ Hemant said, worried I might stake a claim. ‘Madam said I could sell these goods to cover any costs of breaking the lease or finding the landlord a new tenant.’

  ‘What else did she say?’ I said.

  ‘Sir, I can keep these things?’

  ‘Hemant, tell me exactly what she said. Did she say where she was going?’

  ‘No, sir. Sir, even the TV I can keep?’

  ‘Hemant,’ I said, grabbing hold of him by the shoulder. ‘What else did she say?’

  ‘She said she wouldn’t be coming back as she has quit her job.’

  ‘Did she say where was she going?’ I said, shaking his shoulder.

  ‘No, sir,’ Hemant said, looking scared. ‘Sir, you want some of these things? Really, I am not that type of person. She did say I could keep them.’

  I ignored him and went to the balcony. I looked down at the street. I took out the letter from my pocket and read it again.

  ‘I love you,’ it said at the end. I had read that line over a hundred times on my way to Patna.

  ‘Not fair, Riya,’ I said out loud, ‘not fair.’

  ‘Sir?’ Hemant came out to the balcony.

  ‘If you hear anything from her, her company, her friends or anyone, let me know,’ I said.

  ‘Sure, sir. Sir, I will move her items to a godown. I can wait for so