I let the thought go.
Rage against Maa for leaving us.
I let it go.
A fantasy of Rabbani at boarding school, away from me. We are rich, I’m free of responsibilities. Baba’s fine.
I let it go.
I let it go.
I let it go.
When I open my eyes, Jagath, with his calm, creaseless forehead, asks me, ‘Better?’
I nod.
My alarm beeps. The first set of reminders blows up on my phone.
Breakfast + lunch
Rabbani’s picnic form
Lunch pack
Reminder for Baba to take a shower
‘See you at breakfast,’ I tell Jagath who leaves for his morning run and to do things that people my age should be doing.
9.
Aanchal Madan
The blaring sirens cut through the afternoon sky.
The fire trucks haven’t reached yet. People from the hotels and office buildings within a kilometre’s radius have spilled out on to the narrow street, blocking all exit and entry points. There’s smoke coming out in puffs from the sixteenth floor of the TheyWork building next to us. By the time the fire trucks reach, and the firemen hop off and uncoil their hoses, the fire is all but out. Mumbai feels like it’s one good fire away from the apocalypse.
‘Must be for insurance. These guys have a high cash burn rate,’ Ramneek, the girl from a grocery-delivery start-up, remarks.
The firemen announce that we are not to go inside the buildings for the next hour or so.
‘We have jobs to go back to,’ complains Ravinder Singh, a credit-card marketer, who has no idea whose job is supposed to be more important, to the firemen who went into the smouldering remains.
The air smells of burnt plastic, sweat and panic. On the other side of the road, frantic teachers are trying to herd children into lines.
Unlike some of the other people around, these little children don’t evoke smiles in me. I don’t feel like rushing to hold them, talk to them.
But then I see her face . . . she’s no longer a baby . . . I join the dots instantly. The resemblance is uncanny.
She’s the spitting image of her brother.
Rabbani.
Her hair is perfectly plaited, there are ink marks on her shirt, her laces are open and she’s animatedly talking to her classmates. She’s holding an audience with the other kids who are hanging on to her every word.
The nervous teachers scurry about, taking headcounts, checking the IDs of parents and handing the children over. Slowly, the group around Rabbani thins, as everyone’s parents collect their children.
Rabbani scans the crowd for Daksh or her parents, I’m guessing.
