‘You weren’t even in his life!Chutiye!’ she whispers from behind me, her voice trembling but clear.
That’s the trigger. Naman’s face darkens. ‘Gaali kisko de rahi hai,randi! He was my brother. You think we don’t have a right?’
The words erupt from her. ‘No, you don’t.’
He lunges. Not at me, but past me, shoving me hard to the side. He stumbles but catches himself, his hand reaching for Aditi’s arm. Before he can touch her, I recover my balance, grab his shirt collar and yank him back.
‘Get the fuck away from her,’ I hiss. ‘DID YOU NOT FUCKING HEAR? I told you to back off.’
Naman gives me a strong shove, and my back hits the wall of the corridor. He’s stronger than he looks—fuelled by rage.
‘You think you can stop me?’ he spits, his face inches away from mine.
‘Try me,’ I grunt, pushing him back.
We’re a tangle of limbs now, punching and kicking, a clumsy, pathetic struggle outside the apartment door.
Naman laughs, a short, ugly sound. He shoves me again, and I slam him back against the opposite wall, holding him there by the collar. He slowly eases up but points a finger at Aditi.
‘You think a three-month joke marriage gives you the right to my family’s future? You were a phase he was too nice to end. A mistake. This isn’t over. We’ll make sure everyone remembers that.’
He fixes his shirt, huffs and leaves. We keep standing there for a bit.
I unlock the door. We step inside. My knuckles ache and I can feel my heart hammering against my ribs. The silence is different now. Not heavy with grief, but sharp, electric with rage.
‘You okay?’ I ask, turning to face her.
I see the familiar hardness I had seen before. When she shut out her brother. She looks at me and says, ‘I’m going to encash that cheque.’
I lock the door.
18
Aditi
I walk out of my room to find Raghav already at his laptop, hunched over the dining table that has become his permanent office. There’s tea in a cup, covered. He has this look he gets when he’s working—as if what he’s doing is a waste of time. Which he often says his work is. Sometimes, he’s wearing a shirt over his shorts, in case there’s a Zoom call. It always cracks me up. He’s not grateful for his job—which pays him well, sometimes too well, what with out-of-turn bonuses and whatnot—but I am. It lets him stay at home.
Sometimes I wonder where would I be in the world without him. We both tell each other that we brought bad luck for each other, but I believe it could have been even worse. What would have happened if I were alone on that airport that day? Where would I have turned? Where would I have gone? Back home? To my parents? To Bhaiya—where they would have mocked me for life? Even now, every few days, Bhaiya asks me to come back and tells me that they will forgive me. Forgive me? Ha! I know why they want me back. There must be questions swirling in the air. Where am I? Which city? Where am I working?
I’m sipping tea when I see Raghav’s posture change. A subtle tightening in his shoulders. A frown. I have gotten accustomed and attuned to his facial expressions, as he to mine. We know when a depressive episode beckons. I watch him as he leans closer to the screen, and the muscles in his jaw clench. I can read his silences better than anyone’s words.
‘What is it?’ I ask, leaning against the dining table. ‘Some office bullshit?’
‘Have to go in,’ he says, his voice flat. He closes the laptop and leans back into his chair.
‘I mean, they pay you... so it’s kind of okay, no?’
‘I don’t want to,’ he admits. ‘And they fucking want me to come to office at least two days a week. What kind of bullshit is that?’
I am about to tell him that it’s the employer’s right when I watch his eyes flicker towards the front door, and I know instantly what he’s thinking. The thought hangs in the air between us, heavy and ugly: Naman.
I had been too drunk last night to register what happened but now that the fog of the hangover is receding, I remember it. My heart jumps a little. ‘You’re worried he’ll come back?’ I ask.
He doesn’t answer, which confirms it. He’s worried about leaving me here alone.
‘I would have defended myself, you know,’ I say. ‘I’m stronger than I look.’
‘We are both weaker than we look,’ he says. And then, he scans me and smiles sarcastically. ‘Also, you? You’re so small.’
