‘If you’re spending it on us,’ says Sumrit. ‘I need a new weightlifting belt, bro. Those things are expensive.’
Tejal slaps Sumrit on the arm and Aditi lets out a small chuckle.
Tejal continues, ‘You cash the cheque. And first things first, I think you should pay his rent.’
I let out a real laugh. ‘True, I support that,’ I say.
Aditi rolls her eyes. It’s tiny, but it feels like light cracking through a door.
Tejal jabs her fork in the air. ‘And if you’re spending money now, maybe get your own place. Get out of Raghav’s hair.’ Then she turns to look at me. ‘Hey? It’s been a year, right? Isn’t your lease expiring—?’
‘No,’ I say, the words come out sharply. ‘I mean... he gave me a grace period.’
‘Great, then,’ says Tejal. ‘Both of you can start looking for new places. A fresh start, right?’ Then she clutches Aditi’s hand. ‘And I will help you decorate your new apartment! It will be so much fun!’
A beat of silence. The world suddenly seems a bit dimmer. Out of my hair? New apartment?
Aditi laughs.
And I . . .
I feel something in me pull tight.
I don’t want her to leave. I don’t say any of it, of course. I don’t want to make it worse.
The rest of the conversation shifts. I don’t register any of it. I can’t stop thinking of the house being empty. I eat my noodles but they taste like ash. Once we pay the bill, we step outside. The heat wraps around us like a fever. Or maybe I’m getting one. These days, it’s hard to tell.
We drop Tejal and Sumrit off first.
In the car, parked in front of our building with the engine off, the night hums around us. I’m still sitting in the car, still replaying Aditi’s laughter in my mind when I find her hand onmine.
‘Don’t worry,’ Aditi says, her voice low. ‘I’m not moving out.’
I look ahead. ‘Wasn’t worried. Who cares?’
She turns to me. Her expression is soft. Tired. Honest.
‘Did you renew the lease already?’
I look at her and nod. ‘I didn’t know where else to go... Is she decorating your—’
She cuts me off. ‘I wouldn’t know where to go as well.’
I don’t answer. We head upstairs.
Home. Family. Whatever shape that takes now.
22
Aditi
I hear the rhythmic hum of the robot vacuum bumping against the leg of the sofa.
It’s the new one. I bought this one. Though it works fine, it doesn’t work fine. I’m pretending to fix my CV, but for the last hour, I’ve just been scrolling through my phone, my thumb moving in a lazy, repetitive arc. It’s a drug. I have numbed myself so much with my scrolling that I would have to seriously re-evaluate my life if I didn’t have my phone.
Raghav is on the balcony, nursing a cup of coffee. He has to go to the office in a bit. I see this every day—the dragging of his feet, the weary way he puts his shirt on, the dread before getting into the lift. His office is really taking its toll on him. He’s been out there for a while, staring at the hazy Gurugram skyline. He has wished for a pandemic twice this week. And he too has updated his CV. He has only one—and only one—criterion: that the company should have the option to work from home. But the job market is shit, it has been for the last year as I found out first-hand.
In these mornings, we orbit each other in this two-bedroom apartment like planets, held in place by the gravity of a shared catastrophe, but neither can come close and help the other. There’s nowhere else we would rather be and can be. Sad, but it also works.
