It helped that I had a work trip coming up to take my mind off Hairy Amit (and my own shallowness). I was going to Hong Kong, a city I had come to know through my frequent visits.

While I was leaving our Hong Kong office one Friday, one of the guys pinged me on the intranet. “Hey, wanna grab a beer?” “With you? No way!” is what I wanted to say but I went with a simple: “No ya, I’m busy this evening.” Only what I typed was, “No ya, I’m bushy this evening.” Maybe I was. Maybe I wasn’t. He surely did not need to know! Cheeks flaming, I walked out of the office. 

I was wearing a knee-length Anita Dongre dress, full eye make-up and high heels. I felt good. “Could an i-banker have low IQ or high hair growth levels?” I wondered.

Anshuman was impeccably turned out in a well-stitched suit. You could almost see his biceps. “Riya should have told me he is so cute,” I muttered in my head. We entered the restaurant. The red walls and the use of wood gave it a very cosy feel. After some Sichuan Beef Hot Pot and Imperial Prawns with Chilli Salt, my eyes started watering. Anshuman took a tissue and lightly wiped my cheeks. “I had warned you, but you insisted,” he smiled.

The evening was going very well. I even texted a smiley to Riya. After dinner, we walked the streets, our arms brushing. He held my hand while crossing the street and didn’t let go for the next five minutes, till we came to a secluded spot. “Is your tongue still numb from the chilli? Let’s find out,” he said and went straight from Sichuan to Bordeaux. 

Next stop? His apartment. He was stroking my thigh over my dress. His arm held my waist, we began kissing. His hands were over my love handles now and I anticipated that he would grab my bottom. But his hands suddenly stopped its southward journey. The kissing stopped as well. He looked at me as if I had just told him I had an STD. 

“You need to lose weight, Miss,” he said. “You have a small paunch and your upper thighs are showing signs of cellulite.... I am sorry, but I think people who can live with a paunch have very low self-esteem, they never seem to be bothered about how others feel about it,” he clearly had much to say on the subject. 

“I am a winner, I hate losing. And that includes body fat,” I tried to make light of the situation. “Don’t joke,” he raised his voice. I frowned. 

“I will joke about it. Because I can,” it was my turn to talk. “I can enjoy good food and good wine and still be very comfortable about the way I look. In case you are wondering, I run thrice a week and I am fit, but thankfully, I have not lost my mind over it. And I am fortunate I can still date people based on their brain and heart and not their weight and fat content,” I stormed out. 

Somewhere between Hollywood Terrace and Sheung Wan, I realised what had happened. Karma had just bit my ass, and Karan and Amit’s faces floated before my eyes. I only hoped the curse had lifted. 

Back home a couple of weeks later, I was at Nandan for a Satyajit Ray retrospective. I joined the serpentine queue, thinking how my ex and I used to come here all the time. We would always wrap up our movie date at Momo Plaza. Lost in the past, I barely noticed the tap on my shoulder. I turned and there he was, the man I loved and the man I loathed — my soon-to-be ex-husband. He smiled and I smiled back. And gave him a hug without thinking. A small part of me was expecting to run into him. After all, Ray was one of the few things we agreed on.

“Momo Plaza?” he suggested. I could not say no. I stared at him as he ordered a plate of Pan-fried Chicken Momos, our usual. The comfort level, the familiarity, the known smell of his cologne — it all felt just right. 

“I know I have made a terrible mistake. But won’t you at least give us a second chance?” he said, stuffing a giant momo into his mouth. “He still has no table manners,” I thought. 

“You can move back to our flat, your home. We could start a family… we can make all our dreams come true,” he added. 

I must admit, I was tempted. 

Two hours later, I found myself in my old Salt Lake apartment, after a good five months. I quickly scanned the place for signs of the mistress. I found a few. I roamed around like a ghost, touching the bed, the curtains, my cupboard, my writing desk.

He walked in with two glasses of Pinotage. Another two hours later, we were in the bedroom, on our fourth glass, doing an autopsy of our marriage. He leaned forward and kissed me. Soon we were having sex — the best ever in four years, I must add! So, all the myths about break-up sex are true, I thought as I drifted off. 

I woke up the next morning in his arms. “What was last night about?” he asked, hugging me tight. 

I got up. “Last night was about nothing,” I said. “It was about two people getting drunk and being stupid,” I said, wearing my clothes, looking at his shocked expression all the while. “You said you could never make love without being emotionally involved,” he reminded me.

“That is one of the many things I have learnt lately. Along with how to live alone and file my tax returns. And by the way, we did not make love, we had sex,” I corrected him. 

Right then, standing in my own bedroom of four years, next to my “husband”, I realised that it was time to let go. “I will see you in court next, I guess,” I said and left. 

(To be continued)
Calcutta Girl is in her early 30s. This is a serialised story of how she came alive the day her marriage died
 
Should Calcutta Girl have given her husband another chance? 
Tell t2@abp.in