‘Behenchod, if you try to take the money, you see—’
‘Is that how you talk to your widowed sister-in-law?’ I interrupt him and though the words scrape in my throat when I say them, I still do.
‘Three months,saali kuttiya!You were married for three months! No one cares!’
‘Apparently, the law does, Bhaiya,’ I say, just to irritate him.
‘Casekar dunga,’ he says. ‘This joke marriage will not stand.’
I know he’s recording the call, so I say, ‘It was a proper marriage, Bhaiya. Aman took a date, we went there,there were witnesses, and there are pictures.’
‘THEY WERE PAID TOUTS AT THE REGISTRAR’S OFFICE! Don’t teach me!’ he screams.
‘Are we done here, Naman?’
There’s silence from the other side.
Then: ‘Are you happy? Having killed him and now taking away the money from us? Listen,randi—’
The word hangs in the air, venomous and sharp. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Raghav’s hands pause on the vacuum cleaner. I cut the call before Naman can finish his tirade. Naman calls me again and I cut his call. These little revenges are what keep me alive.
‘Well,’ I say, my voice raspy. ‘That was fun.’
‘You want to talk about it?’ he asks, his gaze still on the defunct robot.
‘Absolutely not.’
It’s our familiar refrain, the wall we build between us every few days.
Raghav gives up on the robot. I can tell he has; his jaw is clenched, a tell I’ve learnt from seeing him on his work calls. Two minutes later, he lightly kicks the vacuum—careful not to break it—then processes the return on his phone and hides the robot behind the sofa, out of sight. He’ll order something else now; he had nine deliveries yesterday. It’s how he copes.
‘They could have just written “wife” in that letter,’ I tell him, the words coming out in a rush. ‘Instead of “legal spouse”.’
‘Technically, you never got to play wife,’ he replies, his voice flat.
That line stings more than it should. I don’t reply. Raghav was the third person to know about our marriage. After Aman andme. The first time a letter came from the airline, when the initial investigation was over, he was the one who read it out loud.
‘Legal spouse,’ he had said, raising his eyebrows. ‘You lied to me?’
‘You were a stranger,’ I’d told him, and I remember the way his face softened then.
‘Still,’ he’d said, ‘kind of impressive. I mean, I get it.’
‘Impressive?’
‘I mean... commitment. Even if it was just on paper.’
I remember asking him if he and Megha had ever thought of doing something like that.
‘We talked about it since every apartment that I liked wanted married people,’ he’d admitted. ‘I asked around too. But there was a five-month waiting period.’
Aman and I were impulsive. We joked about it all the time—‘Let’s just get married today’, ‘Can’t wait to be married to you’, until one day, he got a date at the registrar’s office. Why did he do it? To call my bluff? Because he thought I’d run if he didn’t? He’s not here to tell me anything any more. Back then, I didn’t question it one bit.
‘And you went through with it?’ Raghav had asked.
‘Wouldn’t you have?’
He’d nodded. ‘If I were that sure? Yes.’
