‘Thank you, Zeenath, my second-best friend, for being my truth, and for being a flame in the darkness that I find myself, to remind me that all grief is temporary, and some grief can be replaced with anger. And a special thank you for making the only five T-shirts I own smell and look amazing every day.’
He turns to me. My heart flutters, my body is pure nervousness. His deep, black eyes rest on me. It must have been for a second, but it feels like my body’s been on fire
for ages.
‘Thank you, Aanchal, for this coincidence. I haven’t told you this but you’re probably the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.’
‘A little shallow,’ remarks Zeenath.
‘Don’t interrupt him,’ I say.
‘Thank you for existing, thank you for that strawberry ice cream, that frown in the Cellular Jail, the anger at my privilege, and for the Cornettos we shared. You were my last untarnished memory, and one that I hold dear.’
Everyone chuckles. I only manage a weak smile because my insides are now mush.
He continues, ‘The past year has been kind to me despite what it looks like. I’m trying my best to be happy and content, and I’m getting there. Though I do wish the next year would be easier. Thank you for this year, and I will see you next year.’
We all clap.
Daksh pulls all of us into a bear hug, where I’m not the only one fighting back tears.
Zeenath speaks. ‘Let’s all pretend that a thank-you speech isn’t weird.’
‘Always pick weird over being just like everyone else,’ I tell Daksh, who smiles sweetly.
At that moment, he does look like an innocent boy deserving of many birthday parties, not just one.
14.
Aanchal Madan
Daksh goes around and fixes a plate of biryani for each of us. He sits next to Uncle and Rabbani and makes sure they are finishing their portions. His own plate is untouched as of now. Jagath, Zeenath and I sit at the fold-out table with our plates. I finally ask them the questions that have been niggling at me. This house. The crumbling building. The broken-down Activa.
‘You said Daksh’s mother survived the accident, then died later,’ I whisper to the two of them. ‘Did her hospital bills wipe out their savings?’
‘Look who’s being sharp,’ sniggers Zeenath. ‘But no, you’re not that smart.’
‘I’m confused about why you are snapping at me,’ I tell Zeenath.
‘Because—’
Jagath nudges Zeenath into silence. I’m still confused by her dislike towards me when it’s clear that she likes Jagath and not Daksh. I have noticed how she looks at him. It’s quite obvious. But it looks like Jagath, with his obvious intelligence, doesn’t know this.
‘Four men died in the accident caused by his mother,’ whispers Jagath. ‘Because she was driving with an expired licence, the UAE courts put her through a trial. And what happens in the UAE is that if you kill someone, even accidentally, you have to pay blood money to the family of the person you kill. Or you’re sent to jail.’
‘How much?’ I ask.
‘5,00,000 dirhams for each death.’
‘Over four crore rupees? For the four men dead?’ I calculate.
‘She’s good at math,’ scoffs Zeenath. ‘They sold everything, borrowed, took loans.’
The number is making my head spin.
‘Can we be quieter?’ scolds Jagath softly. He lowers his voice. ‘She was brain-dead already when they put her on trial. She was alive, but she didn’t regain consciousness even once after the accident. They paid to keep her out of jail, but she was dead anyway.’
‘They paid to keep a corpse out of jail,’ scoffs Zeenath.
