He laughs and then falls silent.
For the first time this evening, I see the smile drop from his face. The sadness Jagath and Zeenath talked about brims to his face. In an instant, it feels like all the happiness in the room has been sucked up.
‘I’m sorry about . . . Aunty,’ I say.
‘It’s okay.’ He smiles sadly. After a long pause, he says, ‘I could hear you guys talk. Good to know that my friends have no boundaries and they can break into my phone.’
He knows that I know. And somehow I see no hesitation in his eyes. Neither do I feel I need to hide or cover up anything in front of him. He meets my eye. His gaze has the quality of making me want to be the truest version of myself. With all the flaws, imperfections.
‘You never reached out to me. Despite all the searches—’
He leans forward. The space between our faces is not a lot.
‘Aanchal. You had a possessive boyfriend. I had nothing to offer at first. And then, only grief, only baggage,’ he says.
‘Zeenath said you made a mistake by giving them the money.’
He shakes his head. ‘It was the easiest decision I ever made,’ he counters. ‘What was the decision? To kill my mother sooner to avoid paying the families who had lost their people? How could I have possibly done that? Every time we went to the court, we could see them right in front of our eyes. Kids hardly older than Rabbani, women without their husbands, primary breadwinners. I couldn’t have chosen to live with the guilt.’
‘So you chose this,’ I mumble.
‘God spared us,’ he says sternly. ‘All four died in the other car. In ours, only the driver’s side was damaged. Baba, Rabbani, me, we were all sitting on the other side. It would have been ungrateful to . . . only Mumma . . .’
The way he pronounces Mumma breaks my heart. Maa and Mumma mean the same but feel entirely different. Maa is to address a benevolent, protective figure; Mumma is accepting your own vulnerability. Maa is when you give power to your mother, Mumma is when you accept the child in you.
He composes himself.
His voice is so low now it’s barely a whisper. ‘I feel bad for Rabbani. She never got to know Mumma. And with Baba too . . .’ His voice trails. ‘Baba doesn’t speak to us for days. He’s experiencing a lot of phantom limb pain.’
‘What’s that?’
‘His brain can’t process that the leg’s not there. And the medication for the pain wipes his brain.’
He tells me his father can go on groaning for months. They had paid for the prosthetic limb, but every time he tests it, he screams in pain. It’s as if his leg—the one that doesn’t exist any more—is getting mashed, bones grinding to dust, flesh pulverized. Daksh looks at Rabbani, sleeping peacefully as only children can.
‘She needs him.’
‘And you?’
He pulls back his tears. I wonder if he ever allows himself to cry.
‘Why did you move to Mumbai?’ I ask him, wondering if he would have called had he moved to Delhi. ‘Why not Delhi?’
‘We had no time to think. This apartment was the only investment we had left. Baba’s friend here found me a job and that’s it,’ he explains. ‘I started college online, Rabbani started school, and we stopped waiting for Baba to get well.’ He looks down at the Nintendo, then packs it back in its box. ‘We thought Baba would fight it, take care of us. That’s what fathers do, but . . . yes, that’s what it is.’
‘He will, I’m sure he will.’
‘Do you want chai?’ he asks. ‘If you’re not getting late, that is.’
I wonder if anyone says no to the politest guy of all time. Armies will walk towards certain death if Daksh asks them politely. ‘Who doesn’t like chai after biryani?’
He stations the home camera towards Rabbani. As he’s doing it, the car accident materializes in front of my eyes. I imagine the moment of their ruin. Aunty slumped over. Uncle screaming in pain, his leg pinned, blood dripping. Daksh dazed, Rabbani’s crying drowned in the commotion. Then, something strikes me.
‘Daksh?’
‘Yes?’
‘My cousin’s wife died in a car accident a few years ago. I didn’t know her, but I heard about the accident,’ I say.
