Months go by, and he still doesn’t send me a message.
PART 2
FOUR YEARS LATER
1.
Aanchal Madan
The airport announcement board blinks. Mumbai’s check-in is in Aisle G. Maa–Papa stare at me from the other side of the glass walls of the airport departure terminal.
‘You can go, Maa! I will be fine,’ I say into the phone.
I see tears in Maa’s eyes. She mumbles, ‘Aanchal, your brother—’
I cut her short because it’s already a priority on my list. ‘I will find Gaurav and talk to him. Don’t worry. Now, I’m going. Go, now, Maa.’
‘Don’t go here and there too much, stay in the hotel only. And keep sending us locations,’ says Papa, worried.
The light’s dying from their eyes. For the first time since I was born, they would go to bed without any children in the house. I don’t share their sadness. I’m excited! My first business trip, my first solo trip. I slept for barely two hours last night. My colleagues at DeliverFood had been so envious for the past month. I told them they should have worked harder!
‘Keep eating. And keep calling Vicky,’ adds Maa.
‘As if that’s a choice, Maa,’ I answer dryly.
‘And his mother too,’ reminds Maa again. ‘She will also be worried. You know she loves you.’
Vicky’s mother loves only one person—Vicky. If it were up to her, she would sew strings into Vicky’s flesh and make him dance like a puppet. His mother had stopped eating for three days when Vicky moved out of the house to an apartment closer to his office.
‘I will call her once I’m in the hotel.’
‘Get them something from Mumbai,’ Maa requests.
‘Maa, you get everything in Delhi. I will be busy at the conference, what will I get them? Don’t just say anything.’
‘Achcha, achcha, okay, don’t, but please call them. Don’t give them a chance to be angry.’
‘Okay now, go,’ I tell them.
I wave at them and cut the call. Their shoulders droop.
At the aisle, sleepy, tired mothers cradle screaming, tired babies. Their husbands check in on airline apps. There’s a group of boys and girls—younger than me—on their way to Goa. Envy engulfs me when a boy in the Goa line kisses his girlfriend.
I miss feeling loved.
It’s been months since Vicky has meaningfully kissed me. Kissing him is like kissing a dying fish. His eyes are open, the irises moving about. The stench of our rotten relationship makes me gag. I wonder how he still stands me. Had I been him, I would have dumped me years ago. I’m literally the world’s worst girlfriend. He has said so a bunch of times during our screaming matches, of which there are many.
After the security check, I buy myself a coffee.Look at me, I tell myself.At an airport, alone, on a business trip, buying myself a coffee. I feel important! I take a sip. The coffee’s scalding and breaks me out of my reverie.Shit.I pat my trousers. My phone’s not there. I left my phone at security. I run back. The lady who frisked me hands me my phone with a shake of her head as if to say,today’s youth, totally irresponsible.
There are thirteen missed calls from Vicky. His name makes me bristle with anger. I call him.
‘Jaan,’ he answers, his voice dripping with concern. ‘Did you leave your phone at security?’
‘Why are you calling?’
His tone shifts. ‘What do you mean, why am I calling?’
‘I called you so many times last night. Couldn’t you send me one reply? Where were you?’
