‘You don’t deserve the best of me. By the way, you look stunning. It’s as if I have a crush on you again like old times, but the only difference is that you’re also a horrible person.’
She laughs. ‘I would take you seriously, Daksh, but by now I know to take nothing you say seriously. You’re clearly not a man of your word.’
I point to a girl who’s at thechaatcounter. ‘That’s Vanita’s friend Tejal, right?’ I ask Aanchal. ‘The one in green? What do you think of her?’
She throws her head back in annoyance. ‘Daksh, we are not seventeen. Let’s not play this game of making each other jealous. Yes, she’s Tejal, and if something does happen between the two of you, I will be quite happy,’ she says. ‘But just don’t drag her into this mandap and ask her to marry you tomorrow morning. ’
Talking to Aanchal is like this. Every moment is like getting my heart ripped out.
‘And for the record, I’m very happy about Rajat and you too,’ I tell her.
She eyes me with disgust. ‘We are friends.’
‘Your definition of friends is rather broad. So Rajat, apart from being the guy with whom you cheated on Vicky, is also the guy who helped you get the abortion pills because . . . let me guess . . . he also wants to sleep with you again?’
The disgust in her eyes changes to rage. ‘You’re a hypocrite, Daksh. Rajat, as a friend, did what you couldn’t, even while saying you loved me.’
‘I think I have had enough,’ I say with a chuckle. ‘Just wanted to hurt you a little. I quite like the anger in your voice. Nice.’
I walk away from her.
Later, when it’s time for us to dance, theladkawalas(people from the groom’s side) knock it out of the park. Aanchal’s face is as white as snow when we steal the limelight from their performance, which was middling at best.
8.
Aanchal Madan
‘THIS IS AMAZING!’ I scream into Vanita’s ears. Vanita smiles widely.
It’s 11 p.m. and we have been dancing since 8 p.m. The DJ knows everyone’s drunk so the only music he shuffles is popular Punjabi music and none of the techno-EDM stuff that everyone has to pretend to like. There are a bunch ofdholwalaswho drum like their life depends on it. And like us, they are soaked in sweat and Vanita’s parents have rained dirham notes on them. A couple of aunties have even hit on them seeing their vigour, quite telling of the state of their marriages.
Every now and then, Daksh and I collide into each other on the dance floor. But both he and I are too drunk to mind it. I even welcome it. When his hand touches mine, it feels electric. When I twirl and his fingers brush against my bare back, little jolts run down my spine. Every time he looks at me, I’m sharply reminded of the hunger with which he used to take me. It’s as if my body crumbled and melted with his touch. Of the times we did it, in rented bedrooms, hotels, cars, empty movie halls, it never felt like the sedate termmaking love. It was always dirty, we always came out of it bruised and battered, our souls imprinted with each other, the experience etched in our minds. It was a duel in which we both were always winners. No, we didn’t make love, he fucked me, and I fucked him. Long after we were done, I could feel the little tremors in my body just thinking about it. Long after we broke up, I would read his sexts, about what he would do to me. They were never the childish ‘I would do you so hard, and it will be the best sex you have ever had’ but used to be paragraphs detailing every lingering touch.
Even after I hated him, I longed for his body to touch me again and to be fucked like that again.
When we do dance together, one of the aunties circulates a couple of currency notes over our heads and then throws them in the air for the dholwalas to gather them up. The guys who were hitting on me now don’t. I can almost hear them murmur, ‘She will be in his room tonight.’ And I wish, just for this night, he wasn’t him, and he was just a guy I’d met at a wedding in a black kurta, beads of sweat running down his hair, dancing like there’s no tomorrow. The girls who were hitting on Daksh have also backed off.
Every time we—or anyone on the dance floor—comes close to sobering up, Daksh pours a fresh batch of shots for everyone. With everyone else, he holds their face in his hand and pours the drink straight down their throats. Except for Gaurav, whom he has barred from drinking any more. And with me, he hands the shots over. Despite his betrayal, I want him to hold me by my throat.
‘Do you want something?’ I ask Vanita.
‘WATER!’ she screams. ‘I WILL COME WITH YOU!’
We slip out of our heels, she hooks her arm through mine and we totter into the hotel. The lobby is a cool oasis of silence, but the beats of the music still thump in our ears and our feet can’t help but tap at the rhythm. We find a couple of water bottles and an empty couch. As we plop down, it’s as if all the exhaustion from our lives has finally caught up with us. We sink into the cushions, feeling like we’ve never rested before.
‘Too bad you can only get married once . . . actually you can get married multiple times, but can only truly have a big wedding once . . . otherwise you look crazy,’ grouses Vanita. ‘I would want to do this once every year!’ Her make-up is now streaked with sweat. She looks at her watch. ‘Uncle–Aunty must have landed, right?’
‘They are on their way,’ I tell her. ‘I think I have had my last drink.’
Vanita has a mischievous glint in her eye. ‘Unless, of course, Daksh asks you to have another one.’
‘It’s not like he’s holding my face and pouring it down my throat,’ I say.
I can already feel the regret bubbling up inside me, knowing that the words about to spill out of my mouth are going to give Vanita endless ammunition for teasing, but I say them nonetheless.
‘I really want him.’
Vanita chuckles. ‘You think we don’t see that? The way you two are dancing and looking at each other . . . if I keep that in the video, it’s going to be vulgar.’
