‘What a crazy trip,’ I said, not trying to match his decibel level.
He didn’t respond, and I shut my eyes and dozed again, thinking we’d be home soon.
I opened my eyes when the car came to a jerky halt. After a brief struggle with the door, Andrew crawled out of his seat and threw himself under the gulmohar tree. I stared at him confused. We were supposed to go to my house, but here we were, at Andrew’s.
‘Get me water quickly, bubbs,’ he shouted as he rolled to his side, curling up like a baby, clutching himself.
Something was wrong. I rushed to his side, asking him what had happened. ‘Cramps,’ he shouted.
I ran into his house, using the back door, which was always open during the day, and grabbed a few bottles of water from the kitchen counter. Andrew gulped them down. I was massaging his calf muscles, his shoulders and finally his head as he lay shirtless on the fiery orange carpet. He was moaning. That’s when I realized that he needed more than water. I rushed out and got him sugarcane juice from a street vendor, which is what I think finally did the trick of restoring his electrolyte balance.
‘Has this happened before?’
When he was in school, after a game of hockey, he had suffered similarly. He started carrying water everywhere he went thereafter. He had another episode, but he didn’t elaborate on the when and why of it.
The Browns, typically, hadn’t consulted a physician but had clicked on Dr Google and come to the conclusion that the both of them had hyperhidrosis.
‘Why did you make me drink all the water?’
Andrew was on his back now, and his bony hand was on my cheek, trying to pinch it. His face was wearing a tired smile.
‘Why didn’t we go to Ramanagara town? We’d have found some shop or supermarket selling water. We’d have been okay.’
Andrew tugged me, and I fell on his chest. We lay there for I don’t know how long. I drifted off to sleep, and I suspect, so did he. When I opened my eyes, he was on his side, pushing my hair back.
Andrew had gambled with some decisions. Had we gone into Ramanagara town, we could’ve bought ourselves all the water we needed, but had he stopped, he wouldn’t have been in a position to drive for at least another five to six hours. It would’ve taken his body that long to get control. He wasn’t sure if I was okay to hold on for that long, given that I wasn’t keeping anything inside me. I had apparently puked my second ingestion of water, too. He decided to drive us back, willing himself, using the music as a distraction.
He put me before him, and I did the same. It was our signature.
Chapter 19
I don’t see much of my father during the week. I return late in the evenings and tiptoe around the house because he’s already asleep. He’s a morning person, but after my mother passed away, he started calling it a day at the meekest of hours – 7 p.m. I coaxed him out of that kindergarten roster, and he grudgingly pushed it back by a couple of hours.
So, to find him sipping a can of cola on Friday night when I arrived home well past 9 p.m. was a pleasant surprise.
‘Papa!’ I exhaled.
‘You’re early,’ he said, returning my ear-to-ear smile.
I arranged my paraphernalia on the dining table where he was seated. A half-filled whisky glass sat next to the can my father was holding.
My parents sipped their drinks together, from hot beverages to alcoholic portions, unless Mummy was at work. So much so that their weekday evening fare was had after she returned from work, which was anywhere between 6 and 7 p.m. On weekends, the kettle was whistling by 4 p.m. They had their Sunday walk at 5 p.m., remember!
As far as I knew, my father hadn’t had a drink in more than eight years. Each time he allowed himself an aerated treat, he laid out an extra glass, which I suspect he finished later.
I picked up the glass and joined him. I didn’t ask who it was for. I was breathing heavily.
‘Did you run?’ my father asked, pointing at my flash black trousers and my disquieted cast.
‘No!’ I said, forcing a smile.
I hadn’t told my father about Andrew joiningMorning Herald. I had hardly spoken to my father about Andrew since he left for the United States. He asked me once, years ago, how Andrew was doing. I recounted his professional success, and that was that.
My father didn’t pry; he was a remarkably non-curious creature.
When he’d enquired about Andrew on Sunday, my answer was indefinite. I had deliberately let the question hang on a distant, disconnected peg.
My life with Andrew was in the past, and this most wonderful man sitting before me would find it hard to understand that.
