I hailed a cab and got back to my apartment. I had been in Mumbai for six months. I hadn’t met or mailed or spoken to Andrew in that time, but I just couldn’t stop thinking of him.
I was walking to office on a violently hot June morning. I wasn’t in a cab because my head was occupied.
I had to tell my father I wouldn’t be in Bengaluru this month. I was needed in Mumbai. I was dicing that.
I had been home once every month since I moved cities. The first time, I stayed for a whole week, using the work-from-home option. My father was delighted. He wanted me to spend two weeks in Bengaluru and two in Mumbai. I could only make it for weekends thereafter.
My phone was ringing in my pocket. It was my father probably; we hadn’t spoken this morning. I considered reaching office and calling him when my sweaty palm reached for my phone. It was Chhaya. I was about to return the phone to my pocket when I swiped right.
My father had had an accident. Not an emergency, nothing major, she insisted twice or thrice. He had fallen on the footpath yesterday, not far from my house. He was in hospital. She sounded calm. I was calmer in appearance.
How? Why?My mind raced.
He was dizzy and had lost his footing. I was digesting the details.
In 20 minutes, I had booked a plane ticket, packed a bare necessities bag and was on my way to the airport. I was in Bengaluru three hours later.
I called Chhaya again. I needed to know if my father was alive.
I repeated the question because her answer was incoherent. The taxi driver, a woman, stepped on the accelerator.Is he breathing?
He had hit the pavement face down. A battery of tests had been carried out.
I was sweating by the bucket.
The doctors wanted him in hospital for 48 hours; he had agreed to only 24. That told me he was doing okay.
Papa had dialled Andrew as soon as he regained consciousness. His was the first number on the call list. Andrew had driven him to the same hospital my mother’s lifeless body had been taken to nine years ago. It was the quickest to reach.
I thought of Ravi as I climbed the 10 floors to my father’s room. Elevators in hospitals take forever.
I opened the door to my father’s badly discoloured face. He lifted his hand as soon as he saw me. He couldn’t smile. I smiled for him.
‘Why didn’t you call me, Papa?’ I asked. I was sobbing.
‘I didn’t want to trouble you. It was nothing,’ he said, nudging me aside and standing up to prove a point.
He was in pain.
An arm tightened around me. I had inhaled Andrew as soon as I laid eyes on my dad.
My back arched into the car seat. I hoped it would take me in and keep me there. Concealed in brown leather. Tears were streaming down my face.
I was on my way to the airport, five days after I arrived in Bengaluru. Andrew was driving me.
I kept my breath soft. I didn’t want him to know I was crying.
He had come home in the morning, his first visit since he had dropped Dad and me off a few hours after I had arrived in Bengaluru. I was about to book me a ride when the doorbell went off. It startled me, and I dropped my phone.
Andrew offered to drive me to the airport.
The car was cruising while I was held captive in an uncomfortable space. I gritted my teeth and forced the tears out. All at once.
‘He’ll be okay, Myraah. He has recovered. The doctor said if there were no episodes in the 24 hours after, he was fine. And I’m right here.’
I took a gulp of air, which was his scent.
My father was okay, I knew that. When we left the hospital, the doctor had told me to make a note of even the slightest fumble. When holding a teacup. A spoon. Lifting a tumbler of water. A misstep. He was good, his actions told me that.
