‘How much time has it been? Three—’
‘Four years.’
‘Four years! You’re here for the conference?’ she asks. ‘I still can’t believe it’s you!’
She touches my arm for a brief second. It feels . . . nice.
I notice the change in her voice and diction. It matches the corporate-ness of her clothes, her straight back, her unwavering gaze, the strong grip she has over the leather laptop bag she’s carrying. Four years ago, there was an aura of nervousness about her. Right now, she exudes confidence. She was out of place then, but now she belongs. It looks like she’s not here to attend a conference but to conduct it.
‘I’m here for the coffee,’ I tell her, my senses coming back to me. My heart beats so fast I can hear it. I step out of the line to allow others to order their triple-shot Americanos and chai lattes. ‘And Rabbani’s school is right opposite.’
‘You live in Mumbai now? Have you moved here?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, we got tired of driving around in our Lamborghinis and living the habibi life in Dubai. It’s been around two years since we came here.’
Wein the present doesn’t include Mumma.
She laughs in the sweetest way possible. Then she grows silent as her eyes rest on me.
Unlike her, who’s dressed like she’s here to conduct a board meeting, I’m in an old black T-shirt and black jeans. I wonder if she notices the sadness that has settled like dust on my body and ossified around my eyes.
Can she read the history of the past four years on my face?
The heaviness of my heart?
Does she know how many times I have fantasized about my own death?
Can she see in my eyes that true, lasting happiness seems unachievable?
That in these four years I have gone through a lifetime’s misery?
A moment of silence passes.
I wonder what has changed in her life. She flips her wrist and looks at the time on her gleaming Tissot watch.
‘Can I see you later?’ she asks. ‘I have a session I need to attend right now. But I will see you, right? You won’t go missing again for four years?’
I want to see her again. I don’t know if I can. Between the project deck that’s pending, Baba’s physiotherapy and Rabbani’s classes, and the time for the nurses . . .
She touches my arm and interrupts my schedule-juggling.
‘I will, of course, see you,’ she commands. ‘I need to say sorry for Gaurav stealing your Nintendo. Before you say anything, I would have returned it had you called me, but you didn’t. So, you need to say sorry for that.’
‘I was hoping you had forgotten all about it.’
‘Forget? Me? Daksh, I waited by the window with my phone in my hand, waiting for your call. I cried and cried and cried,’ she replies with a laugh. ‘Will you drop me a message? Do you even have my number any more?’
I don’t tell Aanchal that I know her number by heart.
4049494979.
That’s her number.
Unknown to her, these ten digits have been a safe shelter, a reason to smile and an escape for me.
And she can’t know. It would be weird. Where would I even begin without sounding like a serial killer with drills and knives locked up in a basement with blood stains on the skirtings?
Four years ago, her number had helped me tide over a terrible jolt to my male ego. Within days of landing in London, Sameeksha started dating someone rather publicly. There were Instagram posts all over—kissing, holding hands, stupid fucking videos.
