‘So generous, Daksh, so fucking generous. You were willing to do everything that was okay by you, not me. You wanted to be my knight in shining armour but I didn’t need all that. I needed a guy who would love me the way he said he would. So with all due respect, fuck off, Daksh. You can leave.’
6.
Aanchal Madan
Up on the top floor of the Atlantis, Vanita and Aditya’s presidential suite is a chaos of colour and movement. Vanita’s walk-in wardrobe has turned into a makeshift beauty salon, with a squad of people fussing over her hair, make-up and outfit, and they have all made Vanita look amazing.
And despite the whirlwind of activity around me, my mind rests with him. The memories of Daksh’s betrayal flood my mind and overwhelm me. I’m paralysed just thinking about them. Sometimes things so bad happen to you that once you heal, you wonder how you even bore the pain.
‘Oye?’ calls out Vanita. ‘Get your make-up done. Only fabulous people in my wedding video.’ She motions one of her girls towards my suitcase. ‘Hey, can you get her clothes out and iron them carefully?’
‘I will do it myself.’
‘No way,’ cuts in Vanita. ‘You have other duties. Call in-room dining and order us some ice and set up the drinking station. I’m not reminding you again that it’s my wedding. And whatever your deal with Daksh is, it can wait till later,’ she says. ‘But on a side note, has he gotten hotter?’
‘Vanita—’
She swivels in her chair to look at me. ‘I’m just saying. He looked like one of those boys who grow into men and not uncles. Did he apologize for what he did and ask you out again?’
‘He told me that he hates me and would like to keep it that way,’ I answer.
A girl named Parul makes me sit on the sofa and asks me to close my eyes. Then she opens her make-up kit and pumps foundation out on her palm. But to Vanita’s question—did he become hotter?—unfortunately, yes. He was in a black polo T-shirt and black trousers that fit him snugly and was wearing white sneakers. That’s what he wears these days. It is the attire of a coddled spoilt brat, perhaps, the kind that plays leisurely games of golf or indulges in extravagant brunches with his equally spoilt friends.
‘And you? Do you still hate him?’ asks Vanita. ‘I need to know because I will behave with him accordingly.’
‘Please hate him.’
This question has haunted me for three long years. Every time I delve into my brief relationship with Daksh, I find a new answer. But as I continue to examine those forty-three days we spent together, two things become increasingly clear.
First, I didn’t fall in love with Daksh when we were together. I fell in love with Daksh after he turned his back on me and left me. Even then, I didn’t fall in love with the complete version of him, but the aspects I wanted to cherry-pick. Not the whole of him, but parts of him. When we were together, despite the happiness he brought into my life, I was still too broken from my past to truly love him.
Second, our break-up was not my fault—it was his. He might claim victimhood, but the blame rests entirely on him.
‘I never got to start loving him properly. He broke my heart, Vanita. After knowing everything, he . . .’ I explain myself.
The make-up person carries on. I wonder how many secrets make-up people and cab drivers know about their clients.
‘See, I stand by whatever you do. I also feel he’s too intense, I agree,’ says Vanita. ‘He’s not for everyone.’
‘I can’t believe it was just forty-three days. It just . . . seemed longer.’
‘How often do you think of Daksh?’ asks Vanita.
‘Every day,’ I say, without a second thought.
Vanita waves off the hovering make-up brush. ‘Every day? For three years?’
The presence or the absence of Daksh in my life is like an interesting scar. You touch it every day, but it doesn’t mean anything any more.
‘Don’t you think there’s something there?’ asks Vanita.
‘Whatever is there, Vanita, I don’t want it,’ I say. ‘You really think he would have changed now? Have you not heard his podcast with that woman?’
‘You’re jealous of her.’
She glances in my direction and I wave her off dismissively.
‘He’s obsessed about family, raising kids and what not. I don’t find myself fitting in there. It was a red flag even then, I don’t know how I missed it. He’s twenty-six, not forty! He’s too much of a . . . man.’
