‘What’s the point? You’ll put ghee anyway. Why add more?’ I tell her.
‘How much more weight will you lose?’ she scoffs.
‘Don’t be my mom.’
‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘I’d have to be an asshole to be that.’ She then meets my eyes. ‘Look at you flinch. Right time to remind you she caused this too.’
She says that kind of thing often. Were they responsible? Of course they were fucking responsible. But was I too? I can’t keep palming off all the blame on them in the hope that it would make it easy. She’s been doing that for the past year and it doesn’t seem to be working for her. Despite eating strictly junk, she has lost weight. She’s a far cry from when I met her—soft, baby-faced. Now, I see the hard lines on her face. And it’s because despite blaming it on the world—the airline, Aman’s parents, her own parents, the pilots—she thinks she’s responsible too and spends some days without eating anything at all.
She takes the bread out. Checks the packet. ‘It’s expired.’
‘Throw it away, then.’
‘A couple of days don’t matter,’ she says, taking out two slices. ‘Anyway, all the germs will die in the heat.’
Just then, her phone rings. She checks the number and then takes the call. ‘Hey . . . yes . . . no . . . not today . . . can we do this tomorrow . . . or wait, day after . . . does that work . . . I understand, ma’am . . . but I’m sure it can wait . . . fine . . . bye.’
When she sees me looking at her, she shrugs and says, ‘What... I wasn’t going to join them.’
‘You will sit at home, instead?’ I say, trying my best not to raise my voice.
She gets these calls every few days. Always turns them down. Says it’s about the money. I think it’s about something else. If she starts working, it will mean she’s moved on. And if she moves on, it means Aman is really gone. Who will tell her drowning yourself in work is a sure shot way to shut up the voices in your head, even if it’s for a little while. Her degree came last month. Couriered in a thick white envelope. She slid it under a pile of books. Never opened it. There’s a grey pouch in the bathroom cabinet. She uses the toothbrush, the cream, and then puts them back inside like she’s always half-packed. Like she needs to be ready, in case Aman comes back to take her away.
‘I’m not going to work for peanuts. Get up every day, dress up and go to their office every day? No way,’ she says. ‘And don’t look at me like that. You have work from home all week.’
‘Because I’m deathly productive at home.’
‘Strange choice of words,’ she says and adds, ‘Anyway, I have money coming in.’
I know what she means. We both know where it will come from if it does. It’s the only thing she can muster up the strength to do these days: to claim what she believes it rightfully hers.
‘Who knows—’ I start to say, but the words feel pointless.
She cuts me off, her voice suddenly sharp. ‘I know!’ she says. ‘I don’t care. I know what Aman and I were!’
My phone rings. This time, it’s the courier guy. At the door, a man in a pale blue shirt, holding a clipboard and a stack of envelopes.
‘Ms Aditi Gupta?’ he asks.
‘She’s inside.’
‘Signature?’
He hands me a thick brown envelope. Her name printed on it. In the corner—small, easy to miss—the airline’s logo. A cold dread washes over me. I walk back in.
‘What’s that?’ she asks, though her pale face shows she already knows.
I hold up the envelope. ‘From the airline.’
I place it on the table, between her cup and her phone. She doesn’t touch it. It sits on the table as if it’s radioactive. Her breathing has stopped.
‘Should I open it?’ I ask, my voice low.
She doesn’t respond. Her eyes are locked on the envelope, on the airline’s logo. She whispers, ‘Please open it.’
Inside is a long letter. I skim through it.
‘. . . as legal spouse of Mr Aman Sinha. . . compensation according . . . Montreal Convention, 1999 . . . form enclosed for bank details . . . processed within twenty-one working days . . . our condolences for your loss.’
