Page 56 - Love Story of a Commando

After surviving the Taj attacks, nothing else mattered!
I would get lonely on Sundays and other holidays and would spend
my time reading Eric Segal or E.L. James’ romance novels on my couch or
in a corner at Starbucks over a cup of my favourite Espresso Frappuccino.
Sometimes, I would also order basil, tomato and mozzarella cheese
sandwiches. I quite enjoyed them.
The hustle-bustle of the coffee shop, the chirping of young girls, the
quiet conversations of lovers or the casual meetings of business executives
would provide me solace. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and the aroma
of coffee beans, topped with the faint smell of cheddar cheese and
mozzarella on sandwiches, would make my senses tingle and once again I
would crave his company.
The holding of hands and nudging of the elbows of lovers who
frequented my favourite coffee shop would make me smile and wonder—
would I ever be able to live so casually, so sweetly, so normally again?
Virat was gone.
For a very long time, his voice echoed in my ears—‘ I will find you’ .
But then, it began to fade away and it felt mostly like a dream. Like he never
existed and I was just carrying some forgotten ghost memories. More than
six months had passed since the incident, but there was not even a faint
whisper of his existence.
Outside, it was all normal working professional corporate girl, but
inside lived a traumatised, miserable, crestfallen and heartbroken person!
It was like having a split personality. One would negotiate fiercely
with life and lead it on her terms and the other one would cry in the night in
despair. My parents asked me to either get back home or they’d join me in
Mumbai, leaving everything of their own life behind. My colleagues advised
me to quit and get married but I’d shut down and, moreover, refused to live
life according to anyone else’s terms.
My boss was the only person who looked pleased about whatever I
was doing. I got him extremely profitable outputs and that is what mattered
to him, besides the fact that he had a full-time willing corporate slave under
his thumb. In the era of human rights and labour laws, these things are
luxury. My mom was grief-stricken and could sense my mourning, but there
was nothing she could do about it unless I allowed her.
I was brutally cynical and hardened by every sob those days.
More than the attacks, it was Virat who took whatever was left of me
along with his fading existence after the event. He was not supposed to be
this ruthless. How could he do this to me, after everything that had happened
in those corridors and in that royal suite? He said I was his first love and that
he would come back to get me. But where was he now? How could he be so
cruel?