Richa laughed derisively and said, ‘I’m not but she is, even after what you said to her today.’
‘I just want to make this bed and be done with it,’ I said.
‘It was not her first time,’ she said.
Of all the times, this is when Richa decides she has a tongue, can form words, and give it velocity and meaning.
‘She has been coming here for two months, probably more. Every other day, she’s there.’
‘You’re crazier than I thought. That was months ago,’ I said. ‘We broke up.’
‘I know that and yet she was here all this time, even after the relationship ended. The next time you call me crazy, I will push a flowerpot on your head when you’re in your balcony,’ said Richa.
‘Why was she here? Are . . . Are you sure?’ I asked.
She didn’t choose to answer me and was called by her mother. I ran to my balcony. No, she wasn’t there.
Now that I’m writing this I think there are only two reasons why she would do what Richa tells me she does. Either she’s in love with me. Which begs the question, why would she let me lose her?
The second one is . . . if she has put a date on her death . . .
I need to see her.
10 March 2000
The official period of mourning has now ended.
Isn’t it just great? The official period of mourning? So what are we supposed to do now? Stop remembering you, Dada? Now wouldn’t that be convenient.
Because unlike Maa, Baba and I don’t know how to deal with it. Only today, Maa went to the meat shop herself—for the first time in years—and got salami for all of us to eat. She made sandwiches for everyone for breakfast.
‘We have been having bland food for so long that I thought we should have something special today,’ she said.
Boudi just happened to check what salami went into the sandwich.
Maa said, ‘It’s pork.’
When she saw Boudi leave the table she nonchalantly said, ‘I didn’t think you were that devout.’
Later when Boudi cried, Maa cried with her, told her that she didn’t know what came over her. Baba apologized to her as well, equally profusely, if not more.
‘We just miss him. She doesn’t know how to deal with his loss,’ said Baba over and over again.
Boudi acted graceful enough to accept the apologies but stayed locked in her room, presumably praying. I wondered if she had any other choice. But later tonight, I heard Maa saying, ‘The more I think about it, the more it seems right. Had she not come into his life . . .’
I can’t sleep thinking of what else Maa might do. A little while earlier, Boudi came to my room. She sat next to me, quiet. Then she got up and left.
No matter what Maa says, I know it won’t be the last time she does something like this, I can see past her lies and I can see past her truths. It’s only going to get worse from here. She would need me now more than ever. At least till the time she delivers and the child tempers Maa–Baba’s grief, distracts them from the hate they feel for Boudi.
My attempts to reach out to Brahmi have been in vain. She had not been going to the office, or at least that’s what the receptionist told me, and I was told off when I asked for her residential address.
Desperate, I asked for proof of life, at which the receptionist told me, she had checked in with her boss all three days she had been missing from office. Which only brings me to the question, why is she missing?
I’m sweating now, hardly sleeping for the past few nights, and I cry and shout at intervals. Is this what they call a panic attack? When you feel like the walls are closing in on you?
13 March 2000
My labour bore fruit today. I was lucky to find Brahmi. Lucky is probably the wrong word to use. I have felt like taking my own life a lot of times but not someone else’s. But now I do. If I’m going to die eventually why not murder someone and then go? It’s not something I haven’t done before. Sami’s blood is already on my hands, how would it matter if there’s one more to add to that list? Only this time it would be well-deserved. Ever since I have met Brahmi, my fingers are twitching to do it. I’m doing better though. No more sweating, just naked anger. Now I wondering if pure hatred is the cure to pure grief. Could be, right?
