‘One more time,’ I exhort him. ‘You’re doing great. One more, just to be safe. Oh c’mon, your eyes are closed. Great, one video too. Yep, yep, done. Here.’
Once I’m done, Aanchal swipes through the pictures. ‘Thank you,’ she says, ‘. . . and thank you for putting some joy in my brother. Are you joining us?’
‘The young have to stick together, don’t they?’ I say and pick up an oar.
‘Life jacket!’ the instructor warns me.
‘I can swim.’
‘You won’t be the first swimmer to die,’ says Aanchal.
‘Fair point,’ I say and put on my life jacket.
The instructors and his helpers make us sit and push our kayaks into the water. Gaurav puts all his strength into rowing and is leading the group. He thinks it’s a competition. Cute. Aanchal and I lag behind.
‘I did this in the Maldives once, but the kayaks were transparent and the water was so clear so you could literally see the ocean bed,’ I say.
She looks at me with a mock frown. ‘Unless we can paddle to the Maldives from here, you’re showing off. This is the best day of my life, so don’t spoil it.’
‘Do you want me to take videos of you?’ I offer. ‘The light’s just right and not taking any would be a waste of good lighting.’
‘Can you take them from your phone? Mine’s not very good.’
For the next fifteen minutes, she paddles and I shoot videos and pictures of her. The shadows of the mangrove branches dance off her face, playing hide-and-seek with different facets of her. And every time I check the picture I click of her, I am disappointed at the camera and my ineptness to capture the perfect shot of her.
‘Thank you,’ she says shyly. ‘Vicky hates taking pictures of me, keeps saying people are looking, people are looking. I keep telling him that people will judge you no matter what you do. But he doesn’t understand. Do you want me to click yours?’
‘I’m good.’
‘Of course, why would you? You have pictures from the Maldives.’
‘Wait till you crack SRCC and become a hotshot C-suite executive somewhere. Then you will have pictures everywhere.’
Aanchal slows down. Everyone else—even the very old in two-person kayaks—pass by us. She paddles towards the mangrove bushes. The instructor has warned us not to do that. She turns to look at me.
‘You might get these chances every year in places like the Maldives, not me. I will have to pay for my own holiday and that’s going to take time,’ she says as an explanation.
‘Ouch.’
She stops paddling. ‘I’m so envious of you guys. You people have everything.’
‘There are people far richer in my college—ones with three cars, two house helps, a villa to live in. They are all vacationing in Europe, not here. I don’t want to come across as an asshole by telling you that a three-bedroom house and one car and the ability to afford one vacation to a resort a year isn’t the exact definition of rich.’
‘It is for me,’ she says. ‘Tell me what your father does and how much money you guys have, then I will tell you if you’re rich or not.’
‘Ummm . . . Baba’s an engineer. We have things that we need, and we have savings to tide us through tough times.’
‘So, if your Baba stops working, how many years of savings do you have, to maintain the same lifestyle before you have zero money?’
I never thought of it like that. ‘Ten years maybe.’
‘That’s rich,’ she says.
Her kayak gets dangerously close to the overhanging bushes. And, like a devotee of a cult leader, I follow. She reaches out, breaks off two small branches and keeps them in her kayak. She hands out a branch when she paddles close to me.
‘For Sameeksha, who couldn’t be here.’
I look at the branch. ‘She’s still missing, though.’
