I hear the conversations, but I can’t make out what they are saying. It’s in Assamese. Her brother has walked in too. He knew. They shout at him, asking if he knew. And he says he didn’t. He lies and why not? They tell him about the crash and now he’s crying. She dies again. The volume of the TV goes up. I hear both of them—wailing now, raw, broken. She dies again.
The call’s cut.
I call them back, but there’s no answer. I broke a family earlier. Now I have destroyed them. This is my doing. I lower myself on to the bench like gravity’s taken over.
Aditi.
I look back.
She hasn’t moved. Her back is straight but her eyes aren’t focused on anything. She’s trapped. Like I’m trapped. I get up. Slowly. Like my limbs are lead.
‘Aditi,’ I say.
She doesn’t blink.
‘You need to call his parents,’ I tell her.
She looks at me like she doesn’t understand the language.
‘They don’t know,’ I continue. ‘You should be the one to tell them. They need to hear it from someone who loves him.’
What the fuck are these words I’m saying to her? Why am I trying to find sense when there’s none left? Her mouth opens slightly. She makes a sound that isn’t a word.
‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘I can’t do it. I don’t want to do it.’
‘You have to.’
‘Fuck them,’ she says. ‘It’s their fault.’
Her head begins to shake, but her knees go before her words do. She collapses into my arms. Her whole body gives way like a puppet with its strings cut.I catch her just before she hits the floor. I look for help. She’s not the only one. I lower her down. She’s conscious, barely. Her face against my chest. Her breath shallow and ragged. I hold her closer. She breaks down fully now. And I do too. Outside, the ambulances still flash red and blue. Inside, everything has fallen silent.
Grief has no volume. But right now, it is the loudest thing in the world.
13
Aditi
I sit on the cold airport floor, knees pulled to my chest, cheek resting on them. This is real. As real as me sitting down on this cold airport floor. This has happened. This is my life now. The thing that happens to people that defines their whole life has happened. This is the before and after. Before, when I knew happiness and hope and love and joy. And after, which is a countdown to death that started from death.
My phone is on the bench behind me. I’m still waiting for his call. Not just me, everyone is. Everyone’s on their phones calling the number that won’t ever be picked up again. A number that will become invalid after a few months. A number that will be given to another person. A number that will carry the story of that new person, not mine. Like he didn’t exist. Like he didn’t tell me he loved me all those hundreds of times by calling from that phone.
I feel nothing. My palms are cold. The tears stream down, but they mean nothing. My lips are cracked. I haven’t spoken in a while. But what will I say? What’s left to say? What’s left to do?
Someone handed me a water bottle ten minutes ago. I think it was Raghav. He’s been moving around. I keep seeing him pace from the corner of my eyes. How ugly is that. Wasn’t he nervous? Paralysed? And look at him. Finding purpose in death. How cruel. Sometimes, he’s talking to airline staff, arguing quietly with someone, hugging a sobbing man, offering tissues,calling someone’s family. How many people has that sobbing man lost today? Does he feel it like I do? I doubt it.
I close my eyes. I try to remember Aman’s voice. The last thing he said to me? What did we say to each other this morning? When was the last time I saw him? On the video call, yes. His crooked smile. What else do I remember about him? His stupid teasing. His obsession with the World Cup stats and IPL teams. Yes, I should keep going. What is a person if not a sum total of what he feels, likes, dislikes, hates? I can stack all these memories up, make a person out of it. But... but... nothing comes through clearly. Like I’m trying to tune into a radio station that’s suddenly gone off-air. Static. Just static. I’m starting to forget him already. Panicked, I open his chat. It’s too painful. It’s too painful.
Last seen.
I have seen him the last time.
Then my phone buzzes. Again. A third time.
Tejal.
My hand moves on its own.
I answer.
