When Hari Met His Saali

  About the Author

  After completing the prerequisite engineering degree, when HARSH WARRDHAN left Nagpur for Los Angeles to study filmmaking, he was expected to win awards and recognition. Instead, he came back with life experiences … or so he has been saying.

  After graduating from Columbia College, Harsh took up screenwriting as a strategic career move, mostly because it was the cheapest. Of course, no one told him that screenwriting is the least glamorous of them all. On sets, they let security guards eat before the writers. And that’s if you were a good writer.

  Thankfully, he took the advice “Don’t let anyone tell you what to do with your life” quite literally and decided to make writing as his career. The worldly exposure, the appreciation of diverse cultures, the eclectic interactions with young dreamers who land in America/Hollywood has only made him a richer writer. And we all know writers without richer experiences are boring. It’s all about perceptions.

  And perceptions were stacked against him. They said he has an Indian accent (least attractive, most funny) when in Hollywood. Now that he is back in Bollywood, people complain that he doesn’t have an American accent. You see, in Bollywood, even when you go to the international airport to drop off guests, you’re expected to come back with an accent.

  But with the strong motivation to prove to himself that the decision to leave behind the lucrative engineering career was the right one, Harsh has written and directed an American film, has written screenplays for films & TV, and has also managed to convince a hot fiction writer to marry him. They’re awaiting their baby … his next film. Accents be damned, with his first novel ‘When Hari Met His Saali’, Harsh is trying to say ‘ha ha ha’ to them.

  Even though currently Harsh is in an eccentric and reclusive writer mode, he can be conveniently found at www.harshoo.com and http://facebook.com/harsh.warrdhan

  When Hari Met His Saali

  Harsh Warrdhan

  For my mother …

  Acknowledgements

  This was a difficult book to write. Not because it was my first, but because if not for my family and friends eager support and encouragement with words like you can do better, this would have been finished in half the time. Life is all about growth. As I write this, I am touching wood and I mean the furniture kind, to avoid bad luck, because writing has made me superstitious, short-tempered and hypersensitive. I am thankful to the writing Gods for this opportunity. I feel blessed to have a support system cheering me on with their leg up and their tub of popcorn from the sidelines while I play in the middle in the heat, dust and wearing only a loincloth.

  But, I am merely a storyteller, the book is about America, whatever that is, and also about India, whatever it is becoming. It’s about my experience of both. It’s about young people who cross borders in search of their dreams. It is about how the perceptions of such pursuits change and about how rediscovering oneself leads to discovering many more things about … oneself. If all of that sounds too ambitious, just know this; The book is about how we all start our lives with a hypothesis, an idea, a goal, a dream that is at times so fictional that it takes years of growing up before we start shedding some of it and find ourselves. Phew!

  One cannot write in vacuum, one cannot also write solely from one’s own perspective. It is suicidal, and I don’t mean content wise, I mean literally, it could drive one to contemplate suicide. Our own thoughts are dangerous. Like spouses. Just because they are ours doesn’t mean they can be trusted. We are all about perceptions. All of us. We want to be seen, heard, and thought of in a certain way. The idea or the origin of what that ‘certain way’ is, is very vague. One of the early lessons I adopted while writing this book is a resolve to not contemplate suicide. So, I opened myself to listen to others.

  I genuinely want to thank Amrita Chowdhury at Harlequin who was the first one to go beyond my good looks and see a book in me. I am less full of myself now. She patiently guided me with cryptic advice and I am thankful to her that she allowed me to only heed half of it. She has the special skill set to deal with human beings who call themselves writers. I am thankful to her for not getting fazed by me being gullible, vulnerable, scared and generally in hiding most of the time. Thank you for everything and also for ‘getting’ what I refer to as ‘my humor’. Just like everybody, I am also sensitive about my sense of humor, so thank you for not calling it lame, boring, or dead far more than it was necessary.

  Humour aside, I have discovered many things about myself. Who knew patience was a virtue worth adopting. It is good to be able to grow at every stage of life. That there is more there to be discovered about oneself can only be a blessing. So thanks, Amrita.

  A big thank you to Fiona Lappin, my lovely editor, who skillfully edited the whole mess of commas and exclamation marks and made-up words. And that she did it with class and with fairness and all the while reassuring me that she is just dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s is a testament to her understanding of whiny human beings. That was clever. She was generous and extremely patient with my utter lack of understanding of women. Since the story is primarily about two women, Fiona’s gentle suggestions to make them more grounded and real, really made them more relatable. It is thanks to Fiona that the whole thing doesn’t read like a Playboy article written by a man.

  I cannot help but remember my dad. He always wanted to write a book but by the time he got some free time after providing for us all his life, he was too tired. He is not amongst us here now, but wherever he is, I am sure he is happy for me

  ‘Thank you’ feels a small acknowledgement for my family who has stood behind me like a rock. I know drama and I can be very melodramatic … in real life. At times I have really tested their patience and have given them a hell of an emotional ride. Thanks Aai, Darshu and Pradnya for being the silent strength behind my posturing. You mean a lot more to me than I can truly ever express.

  Have to thank my wife, dear Jo, whose big-stick-wielding, tough love approach is making me into a better man. A meek man, but a better one. A writer herself, I never realized her constant ‘I am better writer than you’ remarks were not just meant to deflate my self-worth, but were also meant to make me feel humiliated enough to write better.

  That she skillfully controlled my food and sleep during the writing of this endeavor made me realize how starvation can be used as a motivational tool. I thank you Jo, from the bottom of my heart. I am grateful to have you in +

  my life, but now that the book is done, can you please allow me back on our bed?

  And of course, the acknowledgements for a book about a saali cannot be complete without the mention of my saalis. I have two of them — Parul and Nitika. That they are my sisters-in-law is an added bonus. That they are cool, secure and confident, and more put-together than I ever will be, is a matter of pride for me. I have true friends in the two of you, dear saalis. Thank you for being so supportive!

  By the time I finished writing the book, I wanted to hug everybody. We need more people out there wandering around wanting to hug everybody. That is creepy, but ultimately a good thing.

  A big acknowledgement to the World Wide Web, the Internet. Without you, I would have had to step out in the natural air and the sun, go to a real library for research, meet and talk to fellow human beings to gather their experiences. It would have led me to exercise tolerance, understanding and compassion. What a waste of time it would have been. From making life easier to taking over my life, my hunched-over spine thanks you!

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  1

  Jab They Met

  2

&
nbsp; Sister, Sister

  3

  Hari Ki Worry

  4

  Tia Had Everything Under Her Control

  5

  Simi Leaves for the Land of Tia and Hari

  6

  Tia, Hari and Simi’s Worlds Collide

  7

  Tia and Hari’s Much Awaited Engagement

  8

  Tia was in Simi and Hari’s World Now

  9

  Tia Unleashes a Dark Secret on Hari

  10

  Tia Comes Home

  11

  Tia Pisses on Everybody’s Parade

  Endpages

  Copyright

  1

  Jab They Met

  Present time — Los Angeles, California

  It was her fault. The worst things in her life were usually her own doing.

  As Tia Galhotra sat in her boss, Stephan’s office he was the only one speaking. Loudly. She was trembling, but she didn’t let it show. She was crying inside, but there were no tears. He was angry; she was petrified. Stephan was scolding her. Tia had no choice but to listen.

  Tia had been working at Stephan’s architecture firm for the past eighteen months and she had never seen him so livid. On the contrary he had been her mentor, her champion and her biggest supporter. That is why it hurt her that she had let him down. She had completely forgotten about the conference call with the client in New York. It was scheduled for the end of the day and they were supposed to lock a meeting with the client in New York. That was the objective. It was going to be her first project as the lead architect. The contract was worth two million dollars. It was going to be the deal that would convince Stephan to make her a junior partner at the firm. She wanted to turn the clock back but all she could do was clench her fist under the table.

  This fuck-up could get her fired. Tia Galhotra did not want to lose her job. She loved her job. She loved being an architect. The reason she missed the call made her shudder.

  How could she be so irresponsible? She didn’t do fuck-ups!

  She wanted to be alone to cry. She didn’t want to screw up after coming so far in her career, and for what? For sex? She might have looked immaculate in her Ann Taylor suit, but her behavior that day betrayed the professional image she’d worked so hard for.

  Wanting too much, getting it and then regretting it. She wished she could erase the whole episode from earlier that morning.

  When Stephan finally paused and sat down, tears started streaming down Tia’s face. Stephan looked at her intently.

  ‘I have gotten an ulcer running this firm, Tia. I come to work expecting headaches, and I am OK with it. I never wanted it to be easy and I thought you were the same. I didn’t expect this from you.’

  To stop herself from completely breaking down like a little girl in front of a man whom she admired so much, Tia avoided eye contact; she looked down. On Stephan’s table was Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. She started reading the blurb on the back.

  “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us …”

  How apt, she thought. The story of her life in six lines.

  She would never be able to achieve that elusive work-life balance. Maybe that was going to be her legacy. The bad times always followed the good ones.

  Stephan had calmed down a bit. Tia got up and excused herself, simply stating what she had resolved.

  ‘I am sorry, Stephan, I messed up. But I promise I’ll make up for this. We are going to get the contract,’ she said as she left the room.

  As she walked towards her office, Tia could feel everyone in the office was aware of her scolding. It was as if they were gleefully happy. They had been waiting for her to fail. Nobody ascends so fast in corporate America, especially someone who came from another country, graduated only eighteen months back and joined the firm as an intern. People in offices feel insecure about such individuals. Nobody expected her to perform as spectacularly as she had, except Tia herself.

  Tia knew that her work life was cruising along fine. She had made sure of that. A lot of dedication, a lot of commitment and a lot of assertiveness had gone into making sure she had a firm grip on her career. She didn’t expect to falter — and how — and felt really let down. The incident in question was truly an exception. Tia was in fact in control of her career. She could understand — even accept — her personal life to be less than spectacular, but work? Work was something she never compromised with.

  As she closed the door of her office, she entered the bathroom. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She was trembling. It was not because Stephan had scolded her — that had happened before. It was the humiliation she herself felt, because she knew the reason for her missing the appointment was rather … stupid.

  Tia washed her face and looked into the mirror. The plan she had set in motion so excitedly that morning now seemed trivial, childish even. Two hours ago, when she was supposed to be in the office with Stephan closing the deal with the New York clients, she was in another bathroom.

  It was her decision to be there.

  As she looked in the mirror with water dripping off her face, Tia looked exactly like she did two hours ago, staring at herself in another bathroom mirror with her boyfriend and soon-to-be-fiancé, Hari Malhotra.

  ‘Oh man, I can’t believe I missed the con-call for …’ and this time her body shuddered visibly.

  As if it was happening in a film, the mirror in the office bathroom rippled and Tia was in a flashback.

  Two hours ago

  ‘You are not romantic at all.’

  ‘What?’ Hari asked as he nervously readjusted himself in the tight space. This room was not designed for two people.

  ‘What about the romance?’ he asked, trying to sound like he had a say in the matter.

  Oh, I said that out loud? This, Tia thought in her head.

  ‘I mean, if you cannot do what I want you to do, then what’s the point?’

  Tia spoke calmly, like she was having a conversation at a dinner table.

  How can she be so calm?

  ‘What’s romance gotta do with it?’

  ‘That’s the problem, Hari, I want to be made love to and not just have sex.’

  ‘Seriously? Made love to? Here?’ Hari couldn’t believe she was bringing this up now.

  ‘Yes Hari, here. This is special … for me.’

  ‘This is not romance. By no means is this …’

  ‘You were supposed to bring tenderness and sensitivity and show interest, like you want to do this as well. You disappoint me, Hari.’

  Oh, this was a fight then. Hari braced himself.

  ‘You want to do this or not?’ Hari wanted to hurry it up, not because he wanted to do it but because he was scared.

  ‘The whole idea is to do it otherwise it’s a waste of money,’ Tia lashed out.

  Someone had to be real. Hari tried.

  ‘Why in the world would you want to …’

  ‘You promised you wouldn’t question me but just do it,’she said with a puppy-dog face as she positioned herself in front of the mirror.

  ‘Can we just get this over with? I really don’t want to be caught, OK?’ Hari stammered.

  ‘Move a little to the right, I can’t see your face.’ She was looking at him in the mirror. He did as asked.

  She was in control. At least she felt like it.

  Sweat was dripping from her face.

  ‘We were in Catalina Island for two hours. No wine, no flowers, no small souvenirs …’

  Want-whine-whine-want. So typical of Tia.

  When it was over, Hari was the first to leave the bathroom. She followed him a minute later. They took to their seats — Hari on the aisle, Tia on the window side. Hari looked to see if o
ther passengers had suspected their bathroom tryst. He was certain that the elderly stewardess — who was looking at him with an expression that was either: a) you lucky dog, or b) I know what happened and I am going to report it to the pilot — was going to make a scene.

  He was scared. She was glowing!

  Tia took out her iPhone, pulled up a list and checked MHC.

  Mile High Club (or MHC) is a slang term applied to individuals who have sexual intercourse while on board an aircraft.

  There were very few items left unchecked on her things-to-do-before-I-am-30’ list. She was running through it like a patient on her deathbed.

  ‘You are crazy and way too young to be having a fucking bucket list,’ Hari commented with a tinge of bitterness.

  ‘That’s because my bucket list runs 10 buckets long. I had to start young!’ She winked at him while relishing her conquest.

  ‘What you did to me back there, I feel so used,’ Hari was finding it difficult to express his anger. He had been played.

  ‘Your barn door is open,’ Tia said as she saved the list to her phone. His zipper was indeed open.

  Hari zipped up his pants properly this time and noticed that the top button of Tia’s blouse was open. He wanted to point it out.

  Fuck it, she’ll only start more feminist crap with me!

  Whatever he didn’t understand about her, Hari classified as “feminist crap”, accepted it as such, and made peace with it. It was easier that way.

  ‘No seriously, you gotta stop watching those romcoms and reading those unreal romance novels and women’s magazines or wherever you are getting such stupid ideas!’ Hari was trying to be assertive.

  ‘Oh Hari, you need to be more open. More adventurous, more American!’ Tia smiled at him as she wiped a little lipstick from his lips.

  ‘Says the woman who has been in America for just six years to the guy who was born and bought up in these United-fucking States!’ Hari must have said it out loud as some passengers turned their heads.