‘Why did you leave him! Why!’ she had bawled in Baba’s arms for hours, hitting him, slapping him, till she had fallen asleep.
But now, I think she has finally found the person she would always blame Dada’s accident on—Boudi. It’s hard to see the malice that’s fermenting behind the grief. But it’s there and I fear the worst.
I miss you, Dada. I hate you for leaving us like this. I hate that we have ceremonies to do in your name. I hate that Baba behaves like there’s peace in the afterlife and that it’s god’s will, that pujas and fasts will help. They won’t. There’s just death and that’s it. There’s nothing beyond it. Maa–Baba have each other in their grief, Dada, but where do I go? Rishab and Arundhati came to talk to me yesterday but I blame them for your death too so I didn’t talk to them. Later when I went for a walk, I saw them sharing an ice cream. They were laughing and talking like nothing had happened. Why would I want to share my sadness with them? Didn’t your death make them sad enough to not laugh? To not have an ice cream? To not be in love? And what do I say about Boudi? Irrationally I want to believe that there’s an afterlife like Baba says, that you’re looking down and watching over Boudi. Everyone has been crying, beating their chests, she has been mostly quiet. Her eyes are always bloodshot but no one has seen her cry. Her religion kept her away from you even in your death. Yesterday, I saw her bury a picture of you.
7 March 2000
The stream of relatives is unending. People I don’t remember but who claim to have held me when I was little, women who say I vomited on them as a child, men who say I bullied them into giving me candies, are crawling like ants, turning our building into their nest. Their grieving process is already over. Sadder over Dada’s death are the Mittals who have taken in many of our relatives, and so are the Bhattacharyas whose house is littered with Gangulys, Dattas, Mitras and Ghoshes and neither of the families have let out a groan. The relatives, like relatives ought to behave, have taken to complaining about food and water and comfort. To see them laugh, smile, discuss politics and food and how polluted Delhi’s slowly becoming gets on my nerves and so I have taken to going on long walks.
On every walk, I bump into precisely what I run from. Someone who never mattered to me and vice versa; someone who sympathizes with the situation.
And today’s highlight was Brahmi. Like last time, as I ought to do, I walked away from her but she caught up with me.
‘You need to talk to me,’ she said, her eyes tearing up.
‘Oh, you’re crying? Great.’
‘You don’t get to make fun of my sadness. I knew your Dada too.’
‘Yes, for probably a few hours. A little less than me, don’t you think? My Dada burned to death, not yours, so I can do whatever the hell I want to do.’
‘I’m sorry. I . . . just wanted to see how you’re doing.’
I stopped, turned towards her, and in the rudest, coldest tone, I told her, ‘Fine. Here’s my answer. I’m good. I’m sad but it will get better. When and how I’m not sure yet but it will. I accept your condolences. Is that enough? Now you can go wherever you came from.’
I turned away from her and started walking away. She didn’t let up. She held my hand and stopped me. I wrested my hand free and shouted, ‘WE ARE NOT HOLDING HANDS ANY MORE.’
She staggered a few steps back, surprised at my outburst.
‘I want to be there for you.’
‘Well, you can’t! That ship has sailed!’
‘Raghu, don’t be like that. Talk to me.’
‘Now I should talk to you? Now! When my Dada is dead? Is that what it took to make you talk to me?’ I snapped.
‘Raghu, you have to understand.’
‘What the fuck do I understand? That you walked away the time I needed you the most? That all I wanted was for you to want to be with me? That you broke my heart into a million pieces? Where do I begin to start understanding you? Where?’
‘From where we were friends and we could tell each other things,’ she said.
‘Tell each other? It was only me doing the talking, not you!’ I said. ‘You have only lied to me.’
‘Raghu, you have to—’
‘WHAT! WHAT! Understand? No, I won’t understand! I won’t damn understand. Do you hear me? I won’t. No. And definitely not from you. You’re just a lying, deceitful girl! You know what? You know what?’
‘Don’t—’
‘You should be glad your parents are not around to see you!’ I shouted.
In that moment, I didn’t regret those words. The words broke her, which is exactly what they were intended to do. The tears started to pour. I watched her standing bolted to the ground, head hung low, staring at her feet, crying. I watched till I thought she should cry for her abandonment of me and then I went on my own way. In the temple, I prayed for forgiveness, not for the consequences of my action but for the action itself. I came back home, wanting to see her again, and every time I reminded myself of what she had done to me. I thought I was going absolutely crazy when in the night I saw her from my balcony, standing at a distance, eyes still teary. It had been at least three hours since our showdown. It didn’t move me. It made me angry. So I stood there, calmly, smoked a cigarette and watched her cry for an hour before I was called in. The next time I was out in the balcony, she was gone.
I was asked to take bedding for our lovely relatives to the Mittals. Richa and I were making their beds when she said, ‘Brahmi was there for three hours.’
‘That’s what you want to talk to me about? Not about how you’re in love with me?’
