‘Dada, are you in love with her?’
Dada shrugged. ‘Yes, so?’
‘Are you just in a relationship, like you like her, or are you in love?’
‘I’m in love for sure,’ he chuckled.
‘SO WHY THE HELL DON’T YOU TELL ME IF YOU WILL GET MARRIED TO HER OR NOT!’
‘Is it so important?’
I didn’t deem it necessary to answer Dada’s stupid question. How stupid is Dada to think he can spend a night with a girl he loves in a hotel room and not get married to her? Of course, he’s getting married to her. I’m not an idiot to think that staying a night together could mean a pregnancy but there are certain moral obligations that come when you say you’re in love. Maa–Baba didn’t throw the word ‘love’ around so frivolously and neither did they teach us that. Maa–Baba never said we-were-figuring-out-what-we-wanted-to-do after they professed their love. Quite unlike Dada who tells her he loves her, stays in her room, and then behaves as if he’s not going to get married. Is he lying to Zubeida and me about his love for her just like Brahmi had lied to me about Adolf?
Is nothing sacred any more?
7 May 1999
RECKLESS. That’s what we all are. ABSOLUTELY RECKLESS. Why don’t we think twice before doing something? What could possibly be going through the heads of those girls when they played this little prank? Let me tell you what happened.
When I entered class with Brahmi after the PT period I saw a few girls, fighting and giggling, sitting on our desk. They walked away as we approached, smiles pasted on their faces. Their happiness was like spiders on my skin. But what would they know of Adolf’s death? The past week had been harder on Brahmi than on me. I had run through my cycle of denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.
Brahmi still harboured hope that one day Adolf would come back to nap at her feet. And isn’t hope just the worst thing?
‘Adolf’s not coming back,’ I told her.
‘He might. We can’t lose hope.’
‘This is not hope, it’s delusion.’
‘He will come back.’
‘No, he won’t.’
‘He will. You can choose not to wait but I will. He will come back. I can’t lose hope,’ she said and scratched her wrist involuntarily. ‘What else is left if not hope?’
I looked at the scars and assumed every time she lost hope she reached for a knife or a blade, so I said nothing.
‘Fine. Let’s hope he comes back.’
Brahmi was like the mad woman from the movieKaran Arjunwho kept repeating that her sons will be back. That’s what hope/delusion does to you. Brahmi’s keeping the pain of Adolf’s death at arm’s length and harbouring hope and that’s much worse.
It wasn’t until the next period that we discovered a bunch of badly scribbled papers in the desk left behind by the girls. On every note there was a single message:BRAHMI LOVES SAHIL.
‘There’s no need to complain, Raghu. It’s just a prank.’
‘So?’
‘The teachers would think Sahil was in on it as well. Let it go,’ said Brahmi.
‘What they did was stupid. Today it’s these notes, tomorrow they will take decisions that will hurt their entire family,’ I scoffed. ‘I’m telling the vice principal. She will decide what to do. A minimum three-day suspension I want for them. Not one day less!’
‘Why are you so angry?’
‘Because . . . it’s . . . it’s just wrong!’
‘If you want to get them suspended, do it. But I won’t talk to you for as long as their suspension lasts.’
She stormed out of the class. I sat there, the notes in my hands, the reason for my anger staring right at my face. It was plain and simple. I wanted my name where Sahil’s was. Even if it was a prank. Have I not felt like putting the word love between our names? Of course I have. But neither am I one of those stupid girls nor my reckless brother. Saying something like that is a bond of a lifetime.
