Aditi nods.
‘I don’t want you to,’ says Tejal. ‘... but you have to go home.’
Aditi’s lips part. ‘I’m not going back to my parents.They caused this.’
Tejal nods, like she saw that coming. ‘I know, baby. I know that. They were awful, I know it. But still, if you can, maybe just stay there for a bit. Use the roof over your head. Wait it out. Move out when you’re ready.’
‘No,’ Aditi whispers. ‘Not even for a day.’
Tejal looks helpless for a second. Then she straightens, already trying to fix it. ‘Okay. Then... I’ll see what I can do. I have a little money. I’ll talk to someone—’
‘She can stay with me,’ I say.
Tejal turns sharply. ‘What?’
‘Just for now,’ I say. ‘A few days. A week. Till she figures out the next step.’
There’s a silence. Tejal studies me. She doesn’t say yes, but she doesn’t say no either.
Finally, she nods, quietly. ‘Okay. But I’ll help. With money, finding a PG, getting her a place. It won’t be permanent.’
‘I can’t,’ Aditi murmurs.
‘You can,’ I say, gently. ‘It’s just for now. We’ll figure it out.’
I pick up Aditi’s bag. Tejal stands and helps Aditi up. None of us speak as we walk to the cab I book. It’s a slow, heavy shuffle through corridors too bright, too active, too alive, for grief.
We reach my building. The one Megha and I picked together. We had a Pinterest board of curtain ideas.Shehad a Pinterest board. Fought over lampshades and bed sheets.Sherejected everything I picked. This was supposed to be a beginning.
I unlock the door.
Half-unpacked boxes.
Aditi steps inside and stands there. Not quite walking in. Not quite staying out. Just... leaning into the wall. No one says anything. There’s nothing left to say. What will anyone say? What’s there left to say?
The world’s a quiet place suddenly.
PART 2
TWELVE MONTHS LATER
15
Raghav
The milk boils over before I can switch off the gas.
Bad luck they say. Fuck bad luck! I don’t care. How much worse can things get? The hissing milk on the stove doesn’t scare me. I don’t care, I don’t care. I lower the flame, add two spoons of sugar, a bit of ginger and finally, the tea leaves. The smell of ginger slowly overtakes the sour, burnt milk. It needs time. Everything needs time now. I catch my reflection in the mirror. It irritably asks me the same question again. Tell me what happens next? How long are you going to drag this thing out? Nothing happens next. That’s my answer. I will make this tea, drink it. It’s Sunday. I will binge on something I’ve already watched. That’s it.
Aditi’s still in bed. Pretending to be. There’s always that quiet shuffle from the other room. And then, quietude again. She sleeps in fits and starts. By the time she walks in, the tea is ready in two steel cups. We broke the mugs two months ago during a stupid fight about detergent. Never replaced them. We had a long-drawn-out argument about whose fault it was—the one who kept it close to the edge? Or the one who turned without looking and knocked it over? Since the jury is still out on that one, new mugs haven’t come in. Or I haven’t brought in new mugs. Aditi doesn’t have any money. She’s a freeloader.
That explains the Aeropostale T-shirt she’s wearing. It’s eight years old and I’d put it aside to be used as a mop. She told me that it was a near crime to throw away that T-shirt. WhenI showed her the gaping hole, she put it across herself and demonstrated that if she wore it, the hole would be around her thigh and thus inconsequential. It was the fourth T-shirt she had made me keep. Now I have to see it every time it’s my turn to do the laundry.
We are both holding on to things.
‘I would have made the chai,’ she says, her voice still rough with sleep.
‘I like making it,’ I reply. ‘I like mine better.’
