Then Aditi says it. ‘The money came. The compensation. For the crash. Aman’s.’
Tejal’s head jerks towards her. There’s a smile that I don’t miss. It’s a lot of money: Rs 1.8 crore. Tax-free. The smile’s ugly, but I forgive her. It’s life-changing money. Just comes from death, that’s it.
‘I don’t know what to do with it,’ she says, her eyes becoming glassy.
Tejal shrugs, tries to play it cool. I can tell she’s forcing it. ‘Why? It’s your money. You should keep it.’
‘It’s not mine. What’s mine is no longer here.’
Sumrit throws me a look as if to say why is it even a question. It’s Aditi’s money and she should keep it. I gesture for him to shut up.
Tejal’s face hardens. ‘Do you think his parents deserve it more than you do? They stopped being his family long before he—’
Aditi finishes the sentence. ‘I’m not saying they deserve it. I’m not saying I’m giving it to them. All I’m saying is that it’s not mine.’
‘Sumrit, don’t,’ Tejal warns as he opens his mouth.
He ignores her. ‘You can put it in an index fund,’ says Sumrit, trying to be helpful and practical. ‘The interest alone would be... but don’t donate it, NGOs are scams, bro.’
‘Look, Aditi,’ says Tejal, cutting Sumrit off with a glare. ‘The money’s for family. His family abandoned him and you were with him all through it. You dragged him out of a depression, you gave him love and the will to live. A life that got snatched away. This is the universe’s consolation. You don’t have to feel guilty about taking the money.’
‘And what do I do with it?’ She points at the beer bottle in her hands. ‘Use his death money to get drunk like this?’
‘Or what, you’ll donate it so you can feel noble about it?’ Tejal fires back at her, her voice sharp. ‘Is that it? You think suffering makes you a better person? Aman wouldn’t want you to be a martyr, Aditi. He would’ve wanted you to live.’
‘She’s right, bro,’ says Sumrit. ‘Both of them would want you two to be happy.’
I roll my eyes. ‘I don’t know whether you have noticed it, but both of them want nothing now. They are dead.’ Then I turn to Aditi and say, ‘Technically, the reason you’re drinking is also him, so you can’t be guilty about it.’
‘And the airlines,’ Tejal adds.
‘No,’ Aditi says, shaking her head as if to clear it. ‘I can’t keep it.’
And that’s the end of it.
We don’t talk about the money any more.
Time slips past as more drinks are poured, memes are shared, momos eaten. When we are all drunk enough and Tejal andSumrit ascertain that we won’t throw ourselves off the balcony, we help each other up.
‘Feel better?’ Tejal asks as we walk back to the car.
‘You mean, are we still suicidal?’ Aditi asks.
Tejal rolls her eyes. We walk back slowly. The air feels softer now. Soon, we are back at the apartment building. I don’t admit it, but it was good to have them here.
‘You don’t have to come up,’ Aditi tells Tejal.
Aditi hugs Tejal. She doesn’t thank her, even though she wants to. She doesn’t want her to make a habit of rescuing us. She wants to wallow in peace. The lift reaches our floor. I don’t say it, but I know—we both feel it. That sinking feeling. Behind the door is our temple of grief. The lift door opens. Someone is standing there. White shirt tucked into his trousers. Leather shoes. A three-day stubble. Eyebrows furrowed.
‘Aditi?’ he mumbles, his eyes ignoring me completely and fixing on her.
I instinctively move to block him, placing myself between him and Aditi. He smells of alcohol too.
‘The money. It’s ours,’ grumbles Naman.
‘Is it?’
‘Of course,’ he snaps and tries to step around me. I shift my weight, holding my ground.
