The Last Love Letter

Chapter 10

The three men met at Odeon Social for lunch the next day. James turned out to be a doctor who had left his profession and become an entrepreneur. He wore an earring and had long curly hair and sad eyes. Eyes are said to be the mirror to people’s souls, but that rule of thumb didn’t apply to James. He was tall, happy and exuded an energy that equalled the enthusiasm of Akash and Rohit put together.
By the time they had had two beers each in their stomachs, they were feeling light and humorous about anything any of them said. There were no pretences, and it was exactly the kind of party that Akash needed. These were friends, just friends, who didn’t need anything from each other except a few silly jokes, lots of laughter and bear hugs.

So when Rohit said that James wanted to tell Akash something that would help him endure the six months comfortably and also make money, the party took a turn for the serious. It was a jolt, and all of a sudden, the place started to look different. The music seemed too loud, the beer perhaps a shade bitter and the food more salty than Akash preferred.

‘Listen, Akash, Rohit told me about your creative instincts and the sad thing at your office.’

Akash waved the concern away, indicating that it was all well, and wondered what would come next as James continued: ‘Look, I’m an entrepreneur, and I can help you set up a creative ad agency, a business under your name. You could serve your clients from anywhere you want, including—this is going to surprise you, but I’m not going to say your home, because that’s what you would expect—your bathroom. Yes, as long as you sit on the pot with a laptop in your lap, you are in office. No more brick-and-mortar offices, my friend. That’s it. What do you say?’

To Akash, it sounded like a weird plan made up at the spur of the moment. He hesitated, wondering what to say.

Rohit seized the opportunity to clear the air. ‘Whoa, wait a minute, quick-gun Murugan.’ Since James was from Tamil Nadu, Rohit addressed him thus for fun. ‘Akash needs to understand. Let me interpret this for you, Akash.’ He turned to look at his friend. ‘What he is saying is he can help you set up a website, which will be your ad agency, and you can find clients and work online.’

James smiled and raised his beer. ‘Exactly that.’

Akash needed time to allow the proposition to churn in his mind. He knew online companies were common now and that many did good business. He had read about such ventures in the newspapers. But could he do it? Could he be a faceless operative, sending emails to people he had never met, sharing videos, ideas and presentations online? And even if he were hired—because he could offer good rates, as there was practically no overhead—would it all be worthwhile? It seemed so dull to seal a deal, or not, while remaining faceless. ‘Not a good idea, I’m afraid. I don’t think I should be getting into the same business that Mr Raichand has a stake in. Moreover, I’m technically still his employee, and he is paying me. I haven’t been fired and can return after six months.’

‘Well, you have a point, but what are you going to do for the next six months? Just sit and drink and burn your insides? What about Sara?’ Rohit’s words stung hard, but Akash stayed quiet. He knew his friend was right about his increased dependence on alcohol these days. After a minute, Rohit said, ‘Sorry!’

‘No, I see your point.’

After lunch, when they were walking to the parking lot, Akash hugged both of them again and promised to think about what they’d discussed.

Later that evening, after Sara had gone to sleep in the other bedroom with her grandmother, he looked at the picture of Nisha and thought about his future.
The future is an illusion that takes us away from the past. But the past makes us smile, reminds us who we were, what we did. The past is real, whereas the future is just a chimera.

He and Sara did have a future, but he couldn’t help looking back again and again. He tried to sleep but couldn’t. Finally, around midnight, he opened the cupboard and grabbed the whisky, wandered into the kitchen to find a glass, trying his best to make as little sound as he could, and poured a large slug.
The alcohol burnt his stomach and, after the momentary discomfort, began to warm his body. He sat in the living room for over an hour, thinking about the past, the present and the future. When he finally got up to go to bed, he noticed someone else sitting on a dining room chair. That part of the living room was dark, and the surprise threw him off balance. He leapt to the light switch and turned it on. There she was, his mother—the woman who had given him life, the woman he had helped overcome the grief of her husband’s passing. This woman now sat quietly, her cheeks wet with tears.

‘Mom?’

‘You were the one who used to say to me, “Mom, we need to overcome sadness. We need to look at those around us, those who are still in this world”, and now this…’ She pointed at the bottle of whisky.

‘I’m sorry, Mom.’

She got up and hugged him. ‘Don’t be sorry, be strong. Be you.’

‘I’m trying my best, Mom.’

‘No, you aren’t. Look at the future. Pull yourself together. You’re not making your dead wife proud by doing this. She would want you to be happy, us to be happy, wouldn’t she?’

‘You’re right, Mom, you’re right.’ He hugged her back, and they stayed like that for a few minutes. He felt like a child, happy to be protected by his mother, and no harm could come his way as long as his mother stood between them.