She watched me reach for her half-eaten croissant and take a slurpy bite. It was salty.
What we had was special, Andrew and I. I see that now more than ever.
We put the other beforeI, unconsciously.
We were completely in tune with each other – the pen in the far corner of his left trouser pocket, the unopened bottle of water in my hand, which he reached to open. Notbecause I couldn’t open the bottle or he didn’t know where his pen was.
We knew each other interminably.
‘And he regrets what he did because of what that cost him and not the two of you.’
It sounded silly when put like that. ‘It’s not like him not to get it, Chhaya. It’s not like the Andrew I know.’
‘Maybe she screwed him so badly in the head.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t think she has anything to do with it.’
‘What kind of an idiot falls for or has affection for a person like that? Not once but twice. It can be hard to swallow.’
I nodded.No! I told myself.Andrew is no longer my problem.
‘But that is not your problem,’ my bestie said. ‘Somewhere, this line was crossed, and it’s not yours to uncross.’
I exhaled. I couldn’t agree with her more.
‘I don’t want to quit this job, this city, my home, you. But what choice do I have?’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Mumbai.’ I gave a stunned Chhaya the details of my new job.
I slipped into my apartment quietly. I had passed the pages of the weekend edition; it was my last as the boss woman. Like always, I carried the page proofs home with me to read them after sufficient time had elapsed, examine them with refreshed eyes, ensure they were error-free.
Chhaya had chatted with me from the moment I got out of office till I reached home. In fact, we had spoken so muchon the phone these last couple of days, it was more than we had done in all these years. She was still adjusting to my decision, oscillating between, ‘Think about it,’ and, ‘I’ll stay with you when I come to Mumbai.’
‘I’ll bring Huss,’ she said, just before I pressed the lift button.
‘Oh! Huss, is it?’ I asked. For some reason, maybe it was for the relief we needed, both of us chose to laugh at this boogie move.
The house was dark, as it usually is at this time of the night. It was late enough for my dad to be asleep. Actually, any hour was good for my father to call it a day once the sun had done its job in this part of the world. I placed my car keys on my dressing table. I usually leave it in the key bowl on the dining table, just in case my father needed to use it in the morning. Not that he’s averse to walking into my room and picking it up from my dresser, so I let it be. He knew my schedule, and I was aware of his.
I was standing up, poring over the proofs, which I had laid out on the floor. The position helped with checking the balance. I usually did this bit in office, when there was still time to shift, cut and correct, but this evening, I grabbed the pages and left in a hurry. I didn’t want to cry in my cabin.
My usual routine included a wash, changing into my pyjamas and pouring myself a glass of white wine, taking not-so-delicate sips as I scanned the pages.
Just as I turned to go to the washroom, I heard a rap on the door. ‘Papa,’ I called. Who else could it be?
My father was looking older than his 60 years. He dragged his foot, something he never did. My mother and I own a quick step, but we both dragged our feet when we got out of bed in the morning. He settled himself inthe only single-seater sofa in the room, and I made myself comfortable on the floor opposite him. He wanted to talk.
‘I’m rethinking this decision of ours, going with you for a week.’
It was not a week. We had settled on a few weeks, which I hoped would stretch into months.
It was weighing on him. I could tell by the lines on his face, which were deeper than when I last noticed them.
‘I don’t want to lock the house Amma bought for us, even for a week.’
‘Why, Papa?’
