His parents looked at me and said, ‘Fix him.’
My parents watched, dumbfounded, heartbroken. Every last speck of respect I had earned, I lost in that moment. I agreed tofix him. What else was I supposed to do? With those pictures on the table? With those slit wrists? With Maa–Papa looking at me wondering whether the pictures would cause more damage or the fact that I drove a guy to suicide?
I kept staring at the tiny cuts. Not a knife, I knew. A dull paper cutter. Not with the intention to kill, but to be effective enough to be threatening. But could I have told all of them that Vicky, who prepared for everything so rigorously, did such a bad job of trying to kill himself? Had he wanted, he would have completed the job.
‘If you don’t fix him,’ his mother said and looked at my parents, ‘we will destroy your daughter too. We have all the pictures.’
With my nod of agreeing to fix Vicky, I laid the reins of my life in Vicky’s mother’s hands.
Since then, I have been University Rank 3, got placed in DeliverFood as a senior analyst at a salary twice the college average, made my parents move to a three-bedroom apartment and started two systematic investment plans. And yet, my history with Vicky and my relationship with Rajat (which Vicky calls cheating and his mother calls an affair) is what defines my life.
Everyone—Maa, Papa, Vicky’s parents, Vicky—lied that they would put what I did behind them. His parents kept hugging mine in public, taunting them in private. Soon, our extended families started asking us if we would get married soon. His relatives added me on Facebook. His cousins met me. I kept getting more entangled in the web of his family, slowly choking, their furry tentacles closing in on me.
It’s been close to two years that I have been going over the details of my relationship with Rajat, with Vicky. The questions remain the same. My answers remain the same lies.
‘We only met thrice.’
We met seven times.
‘We have only kissed.’
We have had sex twice.
‘I was thinking about you. I was too sad.’
I was glad it was over with Vicky, and I felt relieved.
‘I told him we had broken up. He thought we had broken up.’
I told Rajat that Vicky wasn’t talking to me and even if he was, it would have made no difference.
‘I didn’t enjoy it.’
I did.
‘I didn’t touch his penis. I didn’t give him a blowjob. I didn’t let him touch me.’
I did.
Even now, we have these conversations every week. He asks the questions, I give him the same answers, and he tells me I’m lying. We will have them till the end of time.
Vanita continues, ‘You didn’t listen to me then, but listen to me now. You should get rid of him, no matter what the cost.’
‘It’s a matter of time. He will hate me enough one day to leave me. I will be free of him then,’ I tell Vanita. ‘Okay, I need to go now!’
12.
Aanchal Madan
Dhumketu Apartments is impossible to find. After making the cab driver take three U-turns, I decide to find the apartment on foot. When I still fail, I call Daksh who tells me to wait wherever I am. Daksh sounds even better on the phone. His voice has a low husky tone, like he’s speaking into a microphone. He has one of those podcaster voices—borderline hypnotic.
‘Aanchal?’ a voice calls out, a woman’s voice that’s heavy and deep. ‘I’m Zeenath. Daksh sent me to find you. A lot of people can’t find the address.’ She stops speaking, comes close, squints and says, ‘Wow, you are as beautiful as he tells us.’
Zeenath is tiny. Just over 5 feet or maybe not, she looks like a child but speaks with the authority of a powerful, ageing matriarch. And though what she says is a compliment, she delivers it as if it’s an insult. As if she’s angry with me.
‘Ummm. Thanks?’ I say. ‘So are you.’
‘Whatever,’ she says, confirming that she doesn’t like me.
