The answer comes to me quickly. ‘Rabbani’s birthday?’ I ask.
‘Used to be,’ says Zeenath sharply. ‘But Rabbani figured that out or whatever, so he changed it. Then he put our birthdays, but Rabbani figured those out too. So he changed it again.’
‘To what?’ I ask.
‘Jagath and I wondered what date it was and then we kind of figured it out.’
‘It’s my birthday?’ I say unsurely.
‘It’s the day he met you,’ snorts Zeenath.
‘But . . . but . . . why would he do that?’
Jagath unlocks Daksh’s phone. He opens the browser history. He keeps swiping up and stopping. Every time he stops, he points to my name. Every couple of months, there’s a search for ‘Aanchal Madan SRCC’ and a visit to my LinkedIn profile. Then there are searches with my number too, once every few months. I feel my stomach churn thinking of this hurt boy searching for me. He could have called me, but he didn’t. Then why was he tracking me?
Jagath continues as though he has pondered about this question as well, ‘You were his coping mechanism of some sort. That’s what we are thinking. The searches are too far and few for him to be a stalker.’
I nod. ‘He never called. Despite having every reason to do so,’ I mumble. ‘My brother stole his Nintendo.’
‘Look, Aanchal,’ Zeenath says. ‘You’re a nice girl and all, I’m sure. But Daksh is fragile. Don’t lead him on if you’re serious about whoever you’re dating.’
‘I’m sure she won’t,’ says Jagath. ‘Daksh won’t be able to take it.’
15.
Aanchal Madan
I can’t concentrate for the rest of the evening. My mind flits between two realities.
One in which Daksh calls me and confesses that he’s thinking of me. He tells me of the accident, of his family being torn apart, of him being crushed by an avalanche of grief. And then him finding succour in talking to me. Of him finding a shoulder to lean on in me.
And then there’s the realistic version of what could have happened. What really could have happened.
Vicky—who has always been logged into my Gmail, LinkedIn, and has all my passwords, controls who I follow and who I don’t, whose pictures I can like, whose I can’t—would have read his message. He would have grilled me and my parents about him. He would have gripped my arm until I had bruises.
How could I explain why a guy from Dubai was sending me a message that read, ‘Do you remember me? We ate ice cream together in the Andamans. Had coconut water on the beach.’ He would have raised his hand and then stopped and said, ‘Had it been anyone else, he would have hit you.’ But the gentle and generous Vicky doesn’t hit me. When he’s angry, he punishes me in other ways. When we are alone, he doesn’t kiss me. He just thrusts his dick into my mouth. He holds me by my head, pulls at my hair and comes in my mouth. He likes to pretend that I like it too. Then he watches YouTube videos while I gargle. At other times, when he can’t get hard because of all the hate he carries for me, he grips me tightly, spits and slaps me lightly as if it’s all part of the sexual act when I know it’s not. But I’m glad he doesn’t kiss me that often. Because that’s what I hate the most.
Jagath and Zeenath start to yawn as the night progresses. When they get up to leave, they look at me. They want me to leave as well.
‘I have nothing to do,’ I tell Daksh. ‘I can stay for a bit.’
‘Thank god someone’s excited about my birthday,’ says Daksh brightly.
Zeenath sniggers. ‘Your birthday is over. It’s past twelve.’
Jagath and Zeenath leave, knowing that I won’t budge. When they are gone, I put the gift I got for him on the table.
‘You didn’t have to do this,’ he says. Then he winks and adds, ‘But I’m glad you did it because gifts are the best part.’
He unwraps thegift. It’s a Nintendo, the same model Gaurav flicked from him. He starts to laugh.
‘So it’s not really a gift then, just returning me my stuff,’ he chuckles, cradling it in his hands, pushing the buttons. He looks straight up at me. ‘Thank you. I love it.’
‘You don’t play any more, do you?’
‘How does that matter? You thought and gave me something meaningful. Now every time I look at this, it will remind me of our story. That’s what gifts are. Remembrances of what we share with someone.’
‘You do take birthdays quite seriously.’
