‘So many people not allowed, sir,’ the nurse complains in her thick Malayali accent and schoolteacher demeanour. ‘The entire wedding party can’t be here.’
‘This is the last thing I want too,’ Daksh says and then doubles over in pain. ‘Sorry Vanita, for spoiling your night.’
Vanita waves him off dismissively and clicks a picture of him. ‘This is what happens when you come to a wedding without a wedding gift.’
‘Nurse,’ Daksh says. ‘I want my appendix dipped in formaldehyde, gift-wrapped and given to this girl.’
Vanita crinkles her nose in disgust. Daksh leans back into the bed, clutching his abdomen. He has made sure not to make any eye contact with me.
Just then, Gaurav’s phone rings and fills the room with its shrill sound. I see that it’s a video call from Rabbani. She’s much older now, nine or ten. From the little snippets Daksh shares on his Instagram profile, I have noticed she’s whip-smart and is often taking down her brother with her brutal comments.
‘DADA!’ she squeals when he answers. ‘LOOK WHO DOESN’T DO POTTY ON TIME!’
She breaks out in cute laughter.
She’s not the only one. I hear two boys on the speaker too. Their laughter echoes in the room. Everyone, including the nurse, is giggling now.
‘It’s all the Diet Coke!’ one boy says.
‘And the bhujia!’ the other boy says.
‘Okay guys, enough!’ says a lady whose voice I recognize immediately.
Amruta fromKids Raising Kids.
She’s the kind of seemingly perfect woman who’s making us all look bad by managing two kids, a career in education and a podcast irritatingly well. She has the kind of gravelly, naughty voice that’s built for radio, the kind of voice that guys fall in love with over phone calls. I liked her the first time I heard her, and then hated her with a passion. Her understanding and chemistry with Daksh were unmissable. Half of their podcast is just one of them saying, ‘I feel the same!’ or ‘I thought it was only me who thinks like this!’ They are usually about things I don’t think or care about—kids, family, chores, education. Their banter is natural, free-flowing, and they look as if life has brought them together. As if it’s fate! I imagine if the three of us would go out, I could just walk away without informing them and they wouldn’t even notice and keep talking. On their social profiles, people ask them if they are a couple. They have never answered this.
‘Do you want us to come, Daksh?’ she asks. ‘The flights are expensive, but I’m thinking I will send the kids by cargo, and I will take a business-class ticket.’
‘I’m not coming in a hundred lifetimes,’ jokes an older voice, which I guess is Daksh’s father. ‘I have had enough of Dubai for a lifetime.’
Uncle has been on a recovery journey that’s seen him heal more than anyone has the right to. From the clunky functional prosthetics, he has now graduated to the cyborg-looking blade prosthetic and leads a running group that wakes up at 4 a.m. for their runs. A few weeks ago, he had posted a shirtless picture of himself and other men in his running group, looking too fit for his age. Interspersed with his running pictures on LinkedIn are the consultancy projects he does every now and then. Sometimes I feel as if I had only imagined it all: Mumbai, his skeletal frame and his desire to embrace death and depression.
‘I will be back in two days,’ says Daksh.
‘Does it pain, Dada?’ asks Rabbani.
‘You’re joking? Me and pain? I eat pain for lunch.’
‘Of course, you do,’ chuckles Amruta. ‘Listen, I’m landing in the morning. Your Baba is taking them out for the day.’
Daksh shakes his head. ‘You’re absolutely not leaving them with my father. I don’t trust him with kids.’
‘Oye!’ his father says. ‘I raised you!’
My own father laughs. ‘Deyji! This is what kids are like these days!’ He walks to the bed and then waves at Daksh’s father.
‘Arre! Madan ji, long time.’
Amruta interrupts this. ‘Can we have this conversation later? Daksh, I will come in the morning, okay?’
‘No,’ Daksh insists. ‘I will come to you.’
Daksh then looks at the screen for a few seconds. His eyes grow soft and the conversation happens through subtle expression changes. It’s like their own secret language. Like they know what’s there in each other’s hearts without needing to use words.
‘Fine,’ says Amruta. ‘We will wait then.’
Then there’s a long pause.
