That night, I was broken beyond repair. That night, I had lost all hope in life. That night, I was ready to give up.
My husband had thrown the divorce papers on the bed as soon as I opened my eyes that morning. He told me about his girl friend. He told me he needs my signatures on the papers by the end of the day.
No, It wasn’t that I wasn’t a strong woman. I was financially independent, I took stand for myself, I lived through the days when the love between us faded, but one day, even the strongest wall turns into debris.
It was 2 am. He wasn’t back home yet. I had called, texted, visited his office, begged, cried, waited but nothing helped.
Finally, my helplessness turned into hatred. Hatred not for him, but for myself, for how could I, the “famous” journalist, the woman known to reach the extremities and never be scared even the slightest, break down like that?
But when it’s love that dies, all other emotions become uncontrollable.
With thirteen of the sleeping pills he used to keep in the drawer in the living room, and tears in my eyes, I sat on the bed in our bedroom. A room where we once shared passionate love.
These could have been the last few minutes of my life, had the phone not buzzed.
“MOM” said the screen.
I debated in my mind to take that call or not. Mom deserved to know, but then she didn’t need to hear this.
I sat right there, my kajal smudged, tear-stained cheeks, and stared incessantly at the screen.
I hadn’t reported to the studio today, but nobody asked. This was rare, and when it did happen, every one knew I would have a strong reason for my absence.
After the fifteenth missed call, I finally took mum’s call.
“Ma.” I said trying to keep my voice as stable as I could.
She flooded my ears with questions.
“Where have you been all day? Why didn’t you call me in the morning? Why was your phone switched off? At the studio, Jeet said you hadn’t reported? Are you okay? Where are you?”
I asked Disha so many questions, in my hurried and worried voice. She never behaved like this. Probably it was just too much work load, but I’m a mother, after all. To worry is my job.
I went on and on when I heard her sobs from the other end. I stopped speaking immediately. My daughter, my daughter.. My daughter never cried.
“Kya hua re Dishu?” I asked. “all okay?”
She had been having regular fights with Abhi lately, but she isn’t one to break down on these petty issues. I waited for her to calm down and explain.
The next morning, at 9.30 am, I was in Mumbai. We met in a cafe near Chowpati.
Disha Sharma, group Editor, Leading News Channel, looked like a homeless drug addict.
Hair frizzy, kajal smudged, cheeks tear stained and looking all dehydrated, entered the cafe clutching over her pyjamas and T-shirt a long, beige coat.
I sat her down, made her drink a sip of the coffee and ordered 2 sandwiches to the baffled looking waiter.
What conversation carried amongst the two of us that day, is, as they say, history.
When I reached home at 9 pm a day after I had given the bitch the divorce papers, I expected to find her drunk, crying, broken into pieces. I had finally been able to hurt the woman made of a heart of steel. I was bored of her, yaar. Besides, Prachi was a hundred times sexier than her.
I entered the bedroom and there she was. Not crying, not attempting to commit suicide, just flashing a smile at me, sitting at my bed in a black dress, stilettos, dark red lipstick and mascara filled eyes, diamond earrings in ear and a big nice diamond neckpiece hanging around the neck. I so wanted to strangle her right then, with the very neck piece.
As she saw me enter, she opened up her bag and searched for something.
“Ah, so she has signed already.” I thought, glad that I would finally get rid of her.
After minutes of searching, she finally dug something out, but it wasn’t the papers, instead…..
I hurriedly entered Abhi’s apartment. I left my office as soon I received Disha’s message. It was scary. And I knew for a fact that that woman was capable of anything. As I entered, all I heard was silence. I slowly walked towards the bed room, where the door was left ajar. Indeed the sight I saw was exactly what I had imagined already as I drove here, if not worse. There she stood with a smirk on her face, a pistol in hand, facing him.
A loud sound, a blood curling scream, and I saw my first love die right before my eyes.
The ‘mysterious’ murder of Abhijai Sharma was an over night sensation. Yet, the two minutes that the two women spent in that room together so many years ago, after the sound of the bullet went off, changed their lives forever. Tickets were booked, and it was ironic how the two people who were supposed to hate each other, went to the city of love, Paris, together, right after they both lost the love of their life, to each other.
A sudden realisation is what they name it, and we mightn’t be sure to what extent it’s true, but it’s been 12 years since Abhijai’s murder and Disha and Prachi’s undying love.