My story won’t be called ‘How I Met Your Mother’. If at all we did a series on Rekha and me, it would be called ‘How I Brought Your Mother Back’.
Now that I have your attention, read on to find out how Rekha and I happened.
The first time I saw her in 2001, she was wearing something blue. She was my colleague at Sify[.]com, and our office was in Tidel Park, Chennai (it was one of the largest IT parks in South Asia at the time).
I don’t remember the exact shade of blue because I am a man, and men can identify only seven colours – red, blue, green, yellow, black, white, and “nice.” Everything else is a conspiracy created by women to have an upper hand over men.
We had been working together for more than six months when one day I remember thinking, “This girl looks nice. I should take her out.”
Back then, my dreams were not very big.
Today, youngsters want to take a girl to a rooftop restaurant, order sushi, talk about mental health, and split the bill using UPI.
In my time, romance was simpler. You took the girl to Velu Military Hotel – the hotel still exists in Nungambakkam, Chennai. If the girl still liked you after seeing you eat mutton with your hands, she was probably the one.
So I took Rekha to Velu Military Hotel.
For those who don’t know, a Military Hotel has nothing to do with the Army. No soldier comes to your table and shouts, “Finish the parotta in 30 seconds!”
It is just a place where men with dreams, hunger, and limited budgets go to eat non-veg meals.
Now I know Velu Military Hotel is hardly the place to take a girl out on a first date, but back then I didn’t. Not surprisingly, she was the only lady in the hotel.
After lunch, I tipped a magnanimous Rs 5. Please don’t laugh, for back then Rs 5 was not a tip…it was a statement from a boy who wanted to impress his girl. The statement: “I may not be rich, but I am dangerous.”
Then I took Rekha on my Yamaha and dropped her at her hostel.
“Two hours well spent,” I thought to myself, even as I planned to pick up a few beers on the way back home.
As I kicked my bike to a start, she asked, “Which way do you go to office?”
Now, please understand, when a girl asks a young man such a question, the boy does not answer with geography. He answers with possibility.
So I said, “Via your hostel. Every day.”
I don’t know if she was impressed, amused, or simply worried that she had just had lunch with a stalker, but she gave me her phone number. I gave her mine.
And as I rode away on my Yamaha, my spine was stiff with pride. I had cracked it. A girl had given me her number.
The last three girls who had given me their numbers were the ones trying to sell me credit cards.
For a young man in those days, this was bigger than a job offer from Infosys.
Today, boys get numbers, Instagram handles, LinkedIn profiles, and sometimes even location access. Back then, getting a girl’s mobile number was like getting nuclear codes.
As I rode back, I corrected myself on the bike, adjusted my shirt, and made my life plan.
I will take her around for six months and then dump her. Then I will take one month to find another girl…should be easy.
One girl every six months, and my Yamaha will also thank me for the pretty girls it will carry.
As I rode through the traffic, my Yamaha spoke to me: “Boss, I must say I am impressed.”
“Thanks, brother!” I replied, patting the petrol tank in front of me.
That’s when it went overboard, “With your looks, budget, and personality, if you can get so many girls, maybe even I have a chance.”
I didn’t reply because I knew if I continued, the next request from my bike would have been for “pink girl Yamahas.”
Anyway, that was my master plan – one girl every six months.
Please don’t judge me. At that age, all men think they are players.
The next day, Rekha called me at eight. I looked at the phone and smiled. Five months and twenty-nine days to go.
Many such days went by. We met every day, we worked together, we spoke a lot, we ate together, and finally, I dropped her back at the hostel.
She laughed at my jokes, which was a mistake on her part because that encouraged me to continue for the next twenty-five years.
Slowly, without my knowledge, the six-month project started becoming a relationship. But I was still pretending to be in control…because that’s how we men are built.
Finally, there was only one more day left. One more day, and according to my brilliant plan, I was supposed to end things with Rekha and move on to the next girl.
For some reason, I couldn’t tell Rekha that this Romeo was done with her and now it was time for yet another girl. Every night, I would make plans on how to break the news to her, and every morning when I would meet her, I would forget my plans.
We must have been going around for a year when one day Rekha asked: “Rajan, shouldn’t we get married?”
I froze. Marriage? I was a dude….dudes don’t get married and get stuck with one woman for the rest of their lives! I believed in quick romances and sudden painless exits.
So I said, “Marriage? No way!”
Looking back, I don’t know why Rekha didn’t throw something at me. Maybe because this happened when I had dropped her at her hostel at 8 pm, after spending 12 hours together.
Or maybe because we were not yet married, and she was still maintaining standards.
Either way, after that behaviour, she didn’t really cut me off. We would still speak, work together, etc., but now I stopped picking her up and dropping her.
And for a few days, I was happy. I was a free bird…a single man, ready to pick up any girl. Back then, Sify[.]com had 2,000 employees and a lot of them were ‘laydeez’, if you know what I mean.
I tried to enjoy my freedom but I could sense that something was wrong. Food didn’t taste the same, and even my ride to the same office on the same route felt different.
I am sure even my Yamaha was judging me. Every time I kicked the bike, it probably thought, “This fellow kicked away the best thing in his life and is now kicking me.”
When this happened, Rekha must have been 27 years old. As any girl with common sense would do, Rekha, who till then was stalling marriage, asked her parents to look for a bridegroom.
We were still friends, so she would tell me about the proposals which were coming in. What their names were, which city they were from, where they worked, etc. None of these proposals were Rekha’s type…and I knew she would refuse them.
And I did what all newly single men do… look around. Not because I had moved on. Because I wanted to prove that I had moved on. There is a difference.
I remember writing poems, trying pick-up lines, doing ‘shayaris’, offering lifts…basically anything that would get a girl interested in me. But reputation within an office spreads fast, especially a ‘bad boy’ reputation, so nothing worked.
But then, we Rajans don’t give up so easily. During one such determined effort with one girl, Rekha called me from behind: “Rajan, busy?”
Common sense tells me that I should have told Rekha that yes, I was busy, and continued speaking to the girl. But I am glad I said, “No…tell me,” and walked away from the girl I was trying to woo.
We went to my desk, where Rekha told me she was going to meet a prospective bridegroom that night. Not just him – his mother and his sister as well. She told me that they were meeting at Hotel Sangeeta, which was a ten-minute ride from her hostel.
I don’t remember the guy’s name now…but he worked as Creative Director in Lowe Lintas, in Mumbai.
Rekha was asking me, “I think he has a slightly receding hairline…should that matter?”
I wanted to tell her that it does matter and she should call it off. But I couldn’t lie to her as well.
I was sitting in front of Rekha, but my thoughts were elsewhere – in Hotel Sangeeta’s family room.
I was thinking about Rekha sitting across from another man. He would be talking to her, making her laugh perhaps. He may order dosa for her…just like I had done so many times….and when her coconut chutney gets over…serve her some…just like I had done so many times.
I could see the prospective bridegroom’s mother holding Rekha’s hand and asking, ‘don’t you wear bangles, darling?”
Rekha touched my hand and brought me back to reality. “So, what do you think?” She asked.
Without replying to Rekha’s question, I got up. But before I left, without choking, I managed to say, “You have a fun meeting, Rekha!”
She said a feeble ‘Thanks!”
It was only 4 pm, but without telling my boss, I left for home. You couldn’t usually do that, but today was different.
Within 15 minutes, I was in my house, which I shared with a colleague called Vamsi. I dumped my bag on the floor, slid against the wall…and sat there. With time it got darker…I didn’t move.
When Vamsi came home at 5.30 pm, I asked him: “How could this happen?”
He smirked. Roomies are useless in emotional situations. They will watch you burn and only ask, “Beer?”
So I drank four beers. Because when a man is heartbroken, he does not drink for taste. He drinks for courage, stupidity, and bad decision-making.
After four beers, I got to work – I called Rekha.
I called her seventeen times, but she didn’t answer. Not blaming her…just sharing the facts.
Women have this ability to not answer the phone in a way that makes you question your entire existence.
Finally, I did what any mature, emotionally stable man would do – I called her father.
In the last one year, when Rekha would go home, she used to call me from her landline in Kannur…so I knew the number.
But when her father picked up, I didn’t have the courage to say utter a word. What was I supposed to say?
“Uncle, please don’t marry your daughter to that Lowe Lintas fellow. I rejected her first, but now I am available after four beers.”
So I cut the call.
They say ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder.’ Well, that night, beauty was in front of this beer holder.
She seemed to say, “Come Rajan…and get me back.”
That’s when I made the second mistake (the first was to call her dad). I rode my Yamaha to Hotel Sangeeta and waited outside.
Jealousy had filled me completely. It wasn’t the normal jealousy…it was what I would call premium jealousy. The kind that makes you stand outside a family restaurant like a low-budget detective in a Tamil movie.
I lost count of the smokes I had as I waited. A few times I walked towards the hotel…to enter and confront her. But I am glad I didn’t.
After about an hour, both Rekha and that Lowe Lintas fellow came out. His mother and sister were behind them.
Rekha said her byes to the mom and sister, and then they both got into an auto. At that moment, the earth below me turned to sand – was she his now?
I followed the auto from a safe distance.
He dropped her at her hostel and went back in the same auto. There was no drama… no background music…no romance. Nothing of what I had expected. Rekha just waved her hand and walked into her hostel.
I stood outside her hostel and smoked two more cigarettes. I don’t even know why.
Maybe I thought the smoke would carry my pain upwards and God would say, “Poor fellow. Let us give him Rekha.”
Then I rode my Yamaha back home, got into bed, and cried. Not the dignified one-tear rolling down the cheek crying. This was the kind of crying where your nose also joins the discussion.
As for my roommate, his only solution was another beer.
The next day, I told Rekha that I wanted to marry her. I apologised. But she refused to accept my apology.
But quietly, she also refused the Lowe Lintas groom. That is Rekha – she can punish you and protect you at the same time.
For the next six months, she kept me waiting. I was still picking her up from her hostel and dropping her off, we were still spending 12 hours together…but Rekha didn’t agree to marry me.
But I kept trying because, by then, I knew that I didn’t want anybody else. I didn’t feel like a player anymore.
After one more year of pleading, convincing, explaining, apologising, and behaving like a better human being than I actually was, she finally agreed to marry me.
Finally, we got married on 8 September 2004 (note to self: before publishing, check with Rekha if the date is correct).
It has now been many years since we first met. There have been ups and downs. We aren’t that young anymore. Both of us have gained weight, lost hair, have kids, and don’t sleep in the same bedroom anymore…so much has changed.
But even today, when I leave for office, I kiss her on her forehead – and at one point, that was as good as my day could get.
No, wait. That was before I became a house-husband for a while.
Then she would go to office, leave me a list of things to do, and if I completed all the tasks correctly, I would get kissed in the evening.
That era is also over and now we both go to our office together, you know what that means – we are together almost 24 hours. Well, 16 actually because we sleep in different rooms.
Note: I am glad I brought her back. Because if I had let her go that day, she may have married that Lowe Lintas fellow. He may have given her a better life, a bigger house, better holidays, and fewer reasons to roll her eyes. But would he have written articles about her with so much love, fear, and risk to his own survival? I doubt it.
Pic: Taken at a Sify reunion two years back