Milan Vohra - The Love Asana

7th May: How can he be busy all day? It doesn’t take two minutes to send a message .

15th May: Called Deepak six times today. Still doesn’t pick up .

25th May: He doesn’t answer the phone. I don’t even have any other number to contact him on .

28th May: I’m pregnant. And does the father even care!! He doesn’t even know. I want to punch the wall hard. I want to curl up in a corner and sleep for some days .

The page was blotchy with Sonia’s tears.

3rd June: When will it stop? This sadness. Feels so hopeless. Vivan must be worried. I know he could tell I wasn’t myself .

Vivan wished she’d given him some hint of what was torturing her; said something. Maybe it would’ve all turned out differently.

Instead, the last time he had spoken to Sonia, he’d even asked why she sounded a little down and she had just said the same thing she did every time. ‘Don’t worry about me, Vivan. I’m fine, sachi , believe me!’

Fine? Deliberately stepping in front of a car without telling him a thing about what was going on in her life was not fine!

The last entry in her diary was written hours before she died. Those final words that said:

5th June: Forgive me, Vivan .

Why wasn’t I there to protect you? Vivan had asked himself this again and again, every time he read that name. Deepak Dewan.

It had smouldered inside him, pushed him to work relentlessly. Knowing that the burning desire to find and thrash the living daylights out of the man would still let him off too lightly. Vivan needed to destroy Deepak Dewan; his entire life. For that, Vivan needed to have power and patience. He needed to become not just successful, but unimaginably successful. Vivan grew from award-winning fabric designer to entrepreneur, from millionaire to billionaire. Creating the best products and then closing the deals, smart to strike when the moment was right. Vivan had taught himself to be ruthless so that when the time came he could track down Deepak Dewan and make sure the retribution he exacted was total and unforgiving.

That was the only reason he was here, Vivan reminded himself as he backed the sleek car the hotel manager had thought fit to arrange, into a narrow parking slot next to a rather dilapidated hatchback that looked as if it hadn’t seen a service in many years. Vivan walked briskly past the relocated Nirula’s back lane, where the still-familiar smell of melting mozzarella cheese on freshly baked pizzas from the kitchen exhausts hit him with a punch.

He didn’t allow himself the luxury of dwelling on the bittersweet memories every little alley in this now very happening shopping district of New Delhi had for him. The flyer had listed the last yoga class for the day at eight p.m. and it was already a little past that.

Steeling himself, Vivan climbed the narrow staircase past a tattoo parlour to a mezzanine level where a gum-chewing teenaged receptionist put a call on hold to tell him, ‘The batch is full and class has already started.’ A charming smile, a few persuasive words and Vivan’s platinum card had been swiped. His rich brown hand-stitched leather shoes joined the motley bunch of worn sneakers and shiny chappals right next to the dimly lit reception desk. A brand-new rolled-up yoga mat lodged securely under his arm, Vivan opened the door, blinking at the sudden change in lights to get a bearing.

Through a gap between a woman with purple hair extensions and a young ‘hate to be parted from my mobile phone’ corporate executive, Vivan saw her. She was more petite than he would have guessed from the flyer. Barely five feet something, she had her face turned to the side as she instructed a student. Her dark mahogany hair shone richly under the spotlights—the silky natural waves refusing to be tamed by the big scrunchy band trying to hold them together off her neck. The body was slender, yet the curves were full in just the right places. Her bright fuchsia yoga pants began low, sensuously draping her pert bottom and hugging her slim, well-proportioned legs. Her pure white scooped-neck tee shirt ended just a little short of her yoga pants. Suddenly Vivan had a ridiculous urge to run his palm on the smooth little strip of flesh that was revealed on her belly as she lifted her arms to continue demonstrating a posture to her students.

She’s probably just made this part of her innocent seductive act to get ahead, Vivan reminded himself grimly. But Vivan Parasher was no stranger to women. That Pari was hot, there was no doubt about.

Vivan murmured his apologies to the students around him as his late entrance seemed to have created a disruption. The ripples of it reached Pari as she turned to see the cause of the buzz towards the back of the room.

Time and again Pari had specifically instructed the receptionist that new students should be asked to join only when a new batch began and by no means when a class had already started. Obviously the man had charmed his way in just as he was doing now, flashing his deep dimples, barely nodding his head to acknowledge the students around him. Pari had always been partial to men with long lashes and dimples and the two together in this chiselled tanned face and strong body were a killer. Good thing, she reminded herself, that her experience with Kunal had made her immune to all things male.

He exuded a casual, self-assured confidence as he walked straight up to a space smack in the centre of the second row and unrolled his yoga mat. Pari couldn’t help but notice how Sheila, the student to his left, was practically drooling as she stared at him. The way his ink-black hair flopped about was admittedly mesmerising but not something to gape at. As the man removed an understated expensive-looking linen shirt to stand nonchalantly in a sleeveless black ganjee over very cool low-waisted khakhi linen drawstring pants, he looked Pari in the eye and mouthed a silent apology for his late entry.

Well, at least he had the courtesy to do that.

In a clipped voice, Pari instructed him, ‘We’ve already started, so for now I suggest you just try to follow as best you can.’ The next few minutes Pari put the class through a series of stretches and flexes that she believed were essential to getting the students loosened up. To her surprise the man continued to stand on his yoga mat, legs slightly apart, making no effort to even try to repeat the movements. His hands were on his hips as he stood looking at her, drawing her attention inadvertently to the dip of the drawstring pants, hinting at dangerous darker areas just below.

‘Is there a problem?’ she asked softly as his eyes held hers captive, turning her insides to jelly.

Vivan had always considered himself pretty good at assessing people and situations. He had imagined that getting a firsthand impression of this yoga trainer would give him a head start in learning more about the person Deepak was so keen to push.

But from the time he had entered Pari’s class, he had not been able to take his eyes off her. She was unlike any woman he had met. There was this softness to her; a look of genuine interest in her warm, honey-brown eyes that made every student in the room want to connect with her. He could sense it from the way she had their rapt attention, the way their eyes followed every movement of her body. Her olive skin was amazingly clear and glowing; her upturned button of a nose had a tiny pierced gold ring poised just above full sensuous lips that laughed easily. He imagined teasing those generous lips into surrender; the velvety taste of her skin merging with the hard metallic texture of that ring on her perky nose.

Vivan realised he had been so taken by this petite vibrant woman that he hadn’t done a thing since he’d stood on the mat. Now, as he heard her ask him if there was a problem he decided he’d better wing it. It might also be a good way to interact with her more in this class of twenty-odd people. Vivan turned his body just slightly, pointing to his lower back. ‘I seem to have developed a slight catch. I was wondering if yoga might help,’ he said.