Me
The city has changed. Thank god for that.
Every city transforms in five years. New buildings obscure the older ones. Roads are widened. More cars spill on to the road. Dubai does that faster than any city. I pass by landmarks I recognize, but most of what I remember has been painted over, built over, broken and rebuilt. It’s a small kindness that this city no longer looks like the city that wrested everything away from me.
The closer I get to the Atlantis, the more uncomfortable I feel. The last thing I want is to bump into that oversmart, cold, heartless person I was once in love with. Until now I didn’t realize the visceral hate I still feel for that self-centred woman. I feel it rattling in my bones.
‘Don’t stop the trip,’ I repeat to the driver as I pull out the suitcase outside of the Atlantis. It’s 6 p.m. so there’s still plenty of time for the cocktails function to start.
The front desk has a long serpentine queue with tourists lugging their carry-on bags and checking if they’ve lost their passports.
‘I’m here to drop off Gaurav Madan’s luggage,’ I tell the lady managing the check-ins.
‘Do you know the room number, sir?’ she asks.
I call Gaurav. And, as usual, he doesn’t pick up the call.
‘Listen, he’s not taking my call. Can you call his room and inform him?’
She looks at the line behind me and is about to protest.
‘They’re wedding clothes, or I wouldn’t waste your time,’ I inform her.
She checks the room number and makes the call. She shakes her head and puts the receiver down.
‘Sir, no answer,’ she says. ‘You can keep the luggage here and go check in the open area. Maybe you will find the guest there. That’s the best I can do for you.’
‘Perfect,’ I tell her.
Except that it’s not perfect. I should have been in my taxi, going away from this city. Not towards her, the reason I spent a couple of years in absolute misery.
After wandering through the multiple corridors, I spot the cocktail venue.Vanita weds Aditya.The stage is set, the lights have been turned on, the harried staff is running around shifting chairs, arranging flowers, testing the sound system. The wedding planners in black T-shirts bark instructions over their walkie-talkies. White people look on, wondering what’s happening. Faint sounds of Hindi songs are in the air. I turn back and walk towards the reception.
That’s when I seeher.
Aanchal fucking Madan.
My biggest regret. The World’s Worst Girlfriend.
A wave of hatred crashes upon me. I am consumed by it. It engulfs me entirely. My body sears with the heat of my loathing. My first instinct is to turn away, to avoid her presence altogether. But I feel compelled to confront her, to release the pent-up fury that threatens to tear me apart. I want to remind her of the pain she left behind. I want to grab her and demand answers. I want to know if she regrets what she did. Was the shattering of my heart simply another task on her endless to-do list?
The receptionist is showing her the suitcases. She spots me as she’s talking to Aanchal.
‘There he is!’ the receptionist points towards me. And then addresses me excitedly. ‘I found her! I found you guys!’
Yeah, you fucking did.
Aanchal turns to look at me.
The correct course of action would be to walk towards her, point at the suitcases, nod and then walk away from her, pretending as if the weight of our history isn’t suddenly weighing down on my back and breaking it.
I should remind myself that she’s now a rotten, forgettable part of my life I have buried and gotten over. It’s taken a part of my soul and then some to heal myself from Aanchal’s rejection. If I love myself even a little, I should walk away from her. If I don’t want to spend one more minute trying to ascertain what I did wrong and what I didn’t have, I should run away from her. I should walk away from her, get into the taxi whose meter is still on, fly back to Amruta and complain about her mathematics teaching skills.
