I look at Raghav again. My thoughts feel loud, and I wonder if I’ve woken him. He is still asleep on the other end of the bench, half-slumped against a hand rest, his mouth slightly open, his neck so craned that for a moment it feels like he’s dead. Still breathing slowly, eyelids twitching like he’s mid-dream. He looks deathly uncomfortable.
The jacket he put on me—and that I returned to him sometime in the night—has slipped off his shoulder again. Such a chivalrous thing. But some things are sacred. Boyfriend jackets and hoodies. Liking food only your girlfriend cooks.
I pull out a small pouch from my backpack. Toothbrushes. I took them all from the house. I had bought them three months ago—five toothbrushes in a money-saver pack. Like the pack knew I was going to need them.
I pluck two out and nudge his shoe lightly with mine.
He stirs, groans and then half-mumbles, ‘Five more minutes, Megha...’
‘Wrong girl,’ I say.
His eyes flutter open. He looks at me. Then the toothbrush. Then me again. Then blinks his eyes open. Then he sits up, stretches and straightens. He takes the toothbrush from me. We walk to our respective washrooms without saying anything. I look like a drunk rat. I wash my face once, and twice, and thrice, and yet I look the same.You need your nine hours of sleep,my sister had commented once.
By the time I leave, he’s already waiting outside, looking as though he has taken an entire bath. Back in the visitor’s area, the Chaayos has just opened. They serve us chai in paper cups. We sit down at our bench again.
‘They are taking off now,’ he says. ‘Megha just texted.’
‘They were taking off ten minutes ago too,’ I tell him. ‘That means she’s using the phone even after they’ve been asked to shut it down. Taking risks.’
‘Oh, c’mon.’
‘I’m joking, of course,’ I say. ‘I’m just nervous.’
‘So am I.’
The rain is louder now. We both look outside. I hold the cup close to my lips but don’t sip. The board in front of us announces that the flight is expected in another forty-five minutes.
‘I don’t want to cry when I see him,’ I say softly.
Raghav sips his chai. ‘Don’t. It’ll worry him. That’s your thing, right?’
I roll my eyes. ‘But I’ve already used up my monthly cry quota.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘I don’t think it resets monthly. It rolls over like mobile data.’
I laugh. A real one. Small, but unfiltered. It’s not even a good joke. When you start laughing for real at jokes like these, it’s a sign that you’re becoming friends. I fish through my bag again and pull out a small hairbrush.
‘Is my hair okay?’ he asks.
‘Megha will fall in love with you all over again.’
‘She better. I’m counting on it.’
We fall silent.
The rain thickens again, almost on cue. We both glance at the big clock. I’m sure the countdown to the old life and the new is ticking in his mind as it is in mine. He’s staring out the window.Outside, somewhere high above the rainclouds, the plane must have started its descent. We smell our chai and listen to the sound of rain.
10
Raghav
The board says ‘On Time’.
This, despite the earlier two flights to Delhi being late by fifteen minutes.
We both lean forward, almost at the same time, to get a better look. The words are in the same dull yellow font they’ve been using for the last three hours. Aditi says, ‘Maybe they are on a better aircraft. Should be able to land.’
‘The rain’s getting worse though,’ I say.
