ABOUT THE BOOK
Maya, in her mid-thirties, divorced and with a young son, finds herself in a tangle both professionally and emotionally as she attempts to navigate life post-divorce. Will she put together her life, will she find love again?
Wry and endearingly earnest, Saving Maya is a heartwarming novel about the beauty of second chances.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kiran Manral published her first book, The Reluctant Detective in 2011. Since then, she has published seven books across genres till date. Her books include romance and chick lit with Once Upon A Crush (2014) and All Aboard (2015); horror with The Face at the Window (2016) and nonfiction with Karmic Kids (2015), A Boy’s Guide to Growing Up (2016) and True Love Stories (2017).
Her short stories have been published on Juggernaut, in magazines like Verve and Cosmopolitan, and have been part of anthologies like Chicken Soup for the Soul, Have a Safe Journey (2017) and Boo (2017). Her articles and columns have appeared in the Times of India, Tehelka, DNA, Yowoto, Shethepeople, TheDailyO, Scroll, Buzzfeed, New Woman, Femina, Verve, Elle, Cosmopolitan, Conde Nast Traveller, DB Post, The Telegraph, the Asian Age, iDiva, People, Sakal Times, and more. She was shortlisted for the Femina Women Awards 2017 for Literary Contribution. She is a TEDx speaker and a mentor with Vital Voices Global Mentoring Walk 2017.
If only his dad were around. I sighed. My son’s dad wasn’t around for the daily grind. I had to get used to this single-momhood, even if it was not something I would have chosen for myself.
Let me introduce myself. I’m Maya Arya. Or Maya Sharma. I’m still dithering about going back to Sharma; there seems to be too much paperwork involved, and I am of the genus that has an aversion to paperwork that can only be matched with dogs and bathing.
Today was the first anniversary of my divorce from Rishi, my philandering hot shot corporate lawyer husband who did not have the sense to delete the incriminating evidence on his WhatsApp and was, to put it politely, a little ill at ease at having to introduce me to his current floozie, while his pants were around his ankles and her rather voluminous behind was up in the air, giving a well set jelly a run for its wobble. Husbands who work late consistently should always lock the doors to their cabins.
Luckily, I had the presence of mind to say, ‘Smile,’ before I clicked. It was an easy divorce. Mutual agreement. And I got the nice little two-bedroom in a lovely suburb that we had bought earlier as an investment in lieu of monthly alimony and Rishi was gentlemanly enough to ensure that Dushyant continued at the international school he had been enrolled in. No complaints, except perhaps for the fact that my heart still missed one beat every few seconds from the spot where it had cracked into half. I’d just about managed to glue it back together. Fevikwik for hearts comes disguised as Nutella and macaroons and ice cream tubs, all of which had gladly made their way, screaming in glee, straight to my hips which had now resulted in the unfortunate situation of me having to approach a narrow door sideways, and wince if I encountered a turnstile. I’m not even going to speak about how the weighing scale squeals when I approach it. I’d packed on ten kilos in one year. Grief does that to one. And at five foot three, those extra kilos stayed visible. Add to this the scorched earth policy I had since adopted with men, I was doing nothing to restore the equilibrium of my off-beat heart.
I’m not even talking about the blow to my self esteem. When I’d given Rishi the option of either her or me, instead of grovelling and begging for me to take him back as I’d expected, he’d gone all snot nosed and spiffy on me, saying in a strained voice, ‘I think I love her.’ There was nothing to be said after that, except to throw all his clothes out from the window including his precious Armani jackets, after removing them from the protective sleeves, never mind that it was the thick of the monsoon and his dry cleaning bill would be huge. And his MacBook Air, which was actually the moment I think I actually caused him physical pain given how he shuddered, watching as it sailed over the ledge of the balcony and shattered on the paving of the parking lot. That was definitely the end of the marriage. I could have perhaps forgiven the infidelity, he could have never forgiven the shattering of his MacBook Air.
I’m also rebuilding my life from scratch. Setting up home all over again, learning to do without the luxuries I had taken for granted in the marriage — the club membership, the holiday pictures with the backdrops of the Matterhorn and the Amalfi coast as definers of our empty marriage, the retinue of house help and my personal driver to take me around wherever I pleased without the hassle of trying to find parking in this city. I sometimes regret the divorce at moments when I’m trying to parallel park.