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“Are you kidding me?” asked Nisha. She was stunned by what she just heard.
“No. I am serious,” said Raj.
“Oh no. Not in this condition,” reacted Nisha.
Raj smiled. “Do you remember that day when I had asked what will you do if you had lots of money? And you said that you will like to travel around the world? Do you remember that you had told me that if you were given a chance, you would visit Hong Kong and Istanbul, at least?”
Nisha was speechless for a few seconds. The cool December breeze was blowing her cap off. She kept both her hands on her cap to prevent it from flying.
“Yeah, I do remember. But Raj you know very well that I have a compromised immunity. What if I caught an infection while travelling on the plane? Won’t it make matters worse?” asked Nisha.
“Nisha, we’ll take precautions. I’ve already spoken to your doctor and you have his permission. In fact, he was very pleased. Do you remember that he had himself suggested that you try to live your life to the max?” said Raj.
“Yes, I do,” said Nisha.
“Then this is your moment. I don’t think you should let it go just like that. You know many people in India save money so that they can travel all around the world when they retire. They work their butt off and never take a vacation. And when the time comes to enjoy, they realise they cannot—because their health has deteriorated, their knees have given way, and they can’t afford travel insurance.... Why not consider this then as a golden opportunity to travel,” said Raj.
Nisha looked at him. She was quiet.
“I want this year to be the best year of your life. Together we’ll travel to the most exotic locations and taste the finest of cuisines,” said Raj.
A subtle smile creased Nisha’s cheeks.
“Yes, I really want to travel. You know, Raj, I do want to meet new people and experience different cultures and cuisines. And you’re probably right. I should travel now before my health deteriorates.”
“Hey, but what about the visas?” Nisha asked.
“Ah, that’s why I have chosen Hong Kong. Don’t you know that Indians don’t need any visa for Hong Kong or Macau,” explained Raj with a mischievous grin spreading from ear to ear.
“And travel insurance?”
“Ah, I’ve checked up. Our annual one is still valid,” Raj replied cheekily.
“What about hotel and sightseeing arrangements?” Nisha was still anxious.
“All done. What can’t be done nowadays on the internet and through my travel agent?” Raj was still very casual.
“But what happens to your three movie-deal?” Nisha suddenly remembered.
“I’ve given them all new dates,” said Raj.
Nisha was shocked to hear this.
“What did you tell the directors?” asked Nisha.
“I told them that I could not commit anything because of a personal crisis in my life—that my wife was suffering from cancer and I have to look after her,” said Raj.
“How did they react?” asked Nisha.
“They seemed fine with it,” said Raj.
Nisha’s eyes started filling up.
“But why, Raj why? Why are you finishing your career? You know how ruthless Bollywood is. Thousands of aspiring actors come to Mumbai every year and very few make it. Your success rate is one in a million. If you postpone deals just like this, your future offers too will dry up. Directors won’t forgive you,” warned Nisha.
Raj turned around and took Nisha’s hand in his hand. “Nisha, nothing is more important than you. Not even my career. If it wasn’t for you, I’d have never survived in this strange city. I’ll sure have enough time to rebuild my career but I certainly won’t have enough time with you,” said Raj.
Nisha hugged him. “Raj, you are such a sweetheart. But I still don’t think you made the right decision regarding your career,” said Nisha.
“Hey forget that,” remarked Raj.
Just then, he noticed a Parsi kulfi board on a shop across the road. Kulfi is basically an Indian ice-cream made of thickened milk, with some nuts, but never any eggs.
“Would you like to have some kulfi?” asked Raj.
She looked at Raj and wondered why he asked when he knew that singers don’t have ice-cream. The superstition is that these affect your voice, adversely. But in the risk-taking mood that Raj was in, Nisha took just a moment to agree.
Raj immediately walked over to the shop. The shop had kulfis of many varieties and Raj asked whether he could have an assortment of different flavours. The shopkeeper was more than happy to oblige. He took out several disk-shaped kulfis in different flavours from his deep fridge and chopped them into small triangular pieces. He then handed over a plate with two spoons to Raj and Raj paid up.
Nisha’s eyes lit up. She had never seen kulfis in so many different flavours—chikoo (or sapodilla, as it is called in English, is a fruit that looks like kiwi or potato from the outside but unlike kiwi, is brown on the inside), strawberry, pistachio and mango. Her plate was a riot of colours—brown, pink, green and deep yellow. She tasted different flavours one by one.
The chikoo option was mildly sweet just like the fruit. Pistachio was a little sweet and a little salty, quite like the nut. Strawberry kulfi was a little too full of artificial colour and essence. The mango one was, however, a great hybrid of sweetness and tanginess and contained some real pieces of an Alphonso mango. Nisha closed her eyes to enjoy the subtlety of different flavours.
“May I?” said Raj picking up a spoon. Nisha opened her eyes and nodded. Raj also tasted the different flavours, one by one, as Nisha had just done.
“Which one was your favourite?” asked Raj.
“I think the chikoo one. That was quite a rare flavour,” she said.
“Me too,” said Raj.
Nisha suddenly looked around as she saw some children running towards the shop. But she took a sigh of relief as no one recognised her or Raj. Those rimmed glasses saved both of them—again.
The city looked normal. Lots of people had queued up to savour kulfis. Others were thronging up to savour local street food like Pav Bhaji or Bhel-poori. The city was busy as usual. There was a lot of hustle-bustle. Everyone was on the move. The skyscrapers were glittering but the sound of the constantly moving traffic was a bit disconcerting.
“You know I really want to escape from this city. I hate being trolled,” said Nisha.
Raj nodded. The news of his wife’s cancer diagnosis had spread like wild-fire. Many fans prayed for her and she’d received lots of uplifting tweets from them. But there was also a downside.
That was the curse of being a celebrity. She’d become the centre of attraction for trolls and hate mails. “She got what she deserved,” some said. Some hate mails dripped poison. They were also long and vicious. Some even called her a “cancer in the music industry.” Why people were so cruel?—Raj wondered.
Nisha was a judge in many singing competitions. She was a party to selecting many young talent, which meant that she had to, with regret, reject many more. It seemed to Raj that those rejects had found a way of attacking her. And attacking on twitter and e-mail—was the easiest thing to do.
Then there were those who were pure evil. They called her a “whore” for no rhyme or reason. Maybe they just wanted a reaction from her.
It seemed to Raj that the second group took great pleasure in attacking celebrities. Can saying really mean things be pleasurable?—Raj wondered. He’d told Nisha not to check her e-mails or twitter messages. It was just too painful.
So it wasn’t only his parents who said mean things to Nisha. It looked like the whole world was after her—the whole darn world.
“I really want to experience Hong Kong’s Disneyland and Macau’s Venetian,” Nisha said suddenly breaking his reverie.
“Your wish is my command,” said Raj. He was glad that Nisha was warming up to his wild plans.
“Should we pack up a little then?” asked Raj.
Nisha nodded and said,
“In spring I would love to visit Istanbul—see Hagia Sophia and have a cruise on the Bosphorus.”
