I turn away from him and walk to my table. As expected, Maa warns me, ‘Don’t talk to him. You know how boys like him are!’
‘Maa, we were just disagreeing on who should have the ice cream,’ I answer. ‘And what do you mean “boys like him”?’
‘Rich boys.’
‘Poor guys are okay?’
‘Don’t argue with me.’
I look at him from the corner of my eye. He’s talking animatedly with his sister who giggles and hugs him. They both look uncannily similar as they scoop up the ice cream from the cup.
His parents are at the table, sipping coffee from tiny espresso cups. Like him, they are thin, tall and attractive. They look fresh, unhurried, relaxed. Unlike my own. Maa–Papa have smiles on their faces, but if one looks closely, they will find that every little wrinkle on their face tells a story of failure and humiliation. They have spent their entire lives worrying about rent, our fees, fixed deposits, broken-down refrigerators, cracked TVs and our future. Maa–Papa have done everything they can for us, and yet it has never been enough. Our luck has a way of grabbing us by the throat and dragging us underwater.
When I look at his parents and others around me, I realize being rich is not a large house, a car, nice clothes or a big TV. Being rich is a state of mind. It’s like when a train breaks out from the dirty city into a wide open field of sunflowers and a light breeze. It’s like you’re finally at peace. Being rich is reaching a meditative state where your worries about your future, about making ends meet, vanish. It’s not a number in the bank. It’s when the anxiety about the weight of the future is lifted off your shoulders. It’s that laugh without the slightest hint of tension.
That’s what I see on his face. Daksh’s face.
3.
Aanchal Madan
We have two adjoining rooms with a connecting door—one for my parents, the other for my brother and me. The bed’s made, the curtains have been pulled back so that the sun bathes the room in its light. It smells of roses. There’s a small bowl of fruit on the table. The bathroom has two sinks, a bathtub and a shower, tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner, and electronic blinds so you can watch the sea while you shower. I sit by the window and look outside. The waves lap at the shore. I should be enjoying the view but it keeps reminding me of what we don’t have, and can’t afford.
The world’s beauty has a price to it.
And all I want is enough money to pay that price.
I have often dreamt about the rich. I have stopped in front of big houses and wondered how they live. I have watched people outside airports drag expensive suitcases and fantasized about their travels. Today’s the first time I am on the other side. The grass just doesn’t look greener on this side. Itisgreener on the other side. This is how others live. This is what I want.
Maa–Papa roll the suitcases to their room and start to unpack.
I go to the bathroom. I turn the blinds down and call Vicky—saved as Neha in my contacts—whose calls I have missed.
‘Hello?’ I whisper into the phone.
‘Where are you,jaan?’
‘Hiding in the bathroom, which, by the way, is the size of our house. And I’m missing you so much. You should have been here. It’s . . . beautiful.’
He responds, his voice soft as a warm blanket, ‘Saw pictures of your room online. Once we are older, we will go on such holidays every month. I promise you, Aanchal.’
‘We have to, Vicky, it’s not an option,’ I assert. ‘We want this, for us. We have to be rich. It’s . . . it’s a different life these guys live.’
I take a deep breath and start dreaming with open eyes. Vicky, my parents, Gaurav and this life of abundance and luxury.
And just as my heart starts to visualize it, my mind tramples on the dream, splintering it. Minds don’t allow hearts to dream. The mind reminds us of fear and failure. Of hunger, dust, ashes, humiliation.
‘I’m nervous, Vicky. What if—’
He cuts me like he has so many times before. ‘Don’t spoil your vacation, jaan. There’s still a week to go. Anentireweek for the results to be announced.’
There’s a knock at the door. It’s Maa.
‘ATE TOO MUCH! Two minutes!’ I shout.
I wait for Maa to leave. A moment of silence passes between us.
‘I love you, Vicky,’ I confess. I have been repeating these words for the past two years. They still make me feel warm inside. But for the last two months, they come with a heavy sense of guilt. ‘I love you so, so much.’
