He frowns.
‘See?’ I tell him. ‘You weren’t meant to be with Sameeksha.’
‘That’s questionable logic but thank you for trying,’ he smiles—a genuine smile, not his ‘polite’ smile. ‘Hey? Your phone’s ringing.’
Vicky calling.
I wipe my hands and pick up the phone.
As Daksh swims away from me, an idea gathers strength in my mind. It’s stupid, irrational. But the more I try to push it away, the harder it pushes back. It takes shape. It gathers critical mass.
I wonder.
I wonder if . . .
. . . Daksh is lucky for me?
Whenever he’s around, good things seem to happen to me. Breakfast, 42 and now Vicky’s call.
‘Hello, jaan.’
10.
Daksh Dey
It’s taken me the entire morning.
I have deleted Sameeksha’s picture. I have deleted the call records. The messages I sent her. I have removed all the likes I posted on her pictures. It is dramatic because the end of relationships is meant to be dramatic. You have to end them in this fashion so there’s a definite timeline to your relationship.
For the past two days, I have been turning over the relationship in my mind and wondering why I am not as sad as I should be. I should be wrecked. I should be crying. But no, none of that. On top of it, I feel like a bit of an asshole, because I do miss her breasts.
I knew why I chased Sameeksha apart from the obviously attractive physical features. I latched on to Sameeksha because the last two years had been a whirlwind of helping Mumma with chores, diaper-changing and doctor visits, and Sameeksha was one of the first few people who showed an interest in me. Sameeksha, with her seven-year-old sister, was also the only person around with a young sibling.
The more I analyse my lack of sadness, the more one reason stands out as to why I’m not as devastated as I thought I would be.
Aanchal Madan.
If I can have an all-consuming crush on someone while mourning the abandonment of a girlfriend, was it love in the first place?
The phone in my room rings.
‘Hello?’
‘Daksh?’ says a voice from the other side. ‘I’m at the business centre. Come.’
‘Aanchal?’
‘Come quickly.’
I cut the call and jump out the bed.
When I get there, she’s bunched up in a corner in the empty business centre with the computer in front of her, sitting with her legs folded close as if hiding from a captor. She’s chewing her nails. Her face is ashen. She’s leaking her life force. Her knees are shaking. The room is absolutely cold and yet there are beads of sweat on her temples.
I rush to her. ‘What happened?’
She looks annoyed. ‘The results.’
‘What? Oh!’ It strikes me. ‘It’s today. Oh. Shit. So you’re hiding here.’
