But the person I need to talk to isn’t here.
I walk out on to the balcony, closing the glass door behind me. I take out my phone, my thumb hovering over the app. I need to tell her about the silence, the fish, the feeling of Aditi’s hand in mine.
I need to process the day’s beauty and sadness with the only person I can.
PART 3
SIX MONTHS LATER
28
Aditi
My world is the size of this dining table.
It’s no longer a place where we eat. To be honest, we never really ate here. This was always the place for unopened courier boxes. But now, it’s a battlefield of sticky notes, an artwork of semi-circular coffee stains, and the command centre of the North India chapter of ‘Connect’.
I like how I say ‘command centre’. Makes it seem important. But itisimportant.
Our house-help gave up trying to clean the table weeks ago. Now, she just wipes around the perimeter of my chaos. A stack of printouts with potential event venues sits precariously close to a half-eaten bowl of Chocos. A bunch of charging cables lies entangled. My laptop screen glows—a dozen tabs open. Kunal keeps saying that it would completely nuke my battery, but there’s no other way I know how to work. Right now, I’m toggling between a spreadsheet of RSVPs and Canva where I’m tweaking the font on a new event poster. We have a couple of designers with fragile egos, so I prefer making the finishing changes myself. The headline: ‘Stop Swiping, Start Talking’ font is beautiful, but we are going to run ads on this and this won’t fly.
I toggle through the various fonts when I get and receive the conference call. It’s Sameer from on-ground activation and Kunal, my boss.
‘Hello?’ I say.
‘The final number?’ asks Kunal, in his low, calm voice.
‘We’re looking at eighty-five confirmed, but we are going to run ads now. So expect around a hundred and ten,’ I inform him.
‘Cool,’ says Sameer.
‘Let’s close the list at a hundred,’ says Kunal. ‘The venue is unevenly spaced. We should avoid overcrowding and people getting overwhelmed. Remember that—’
I complete Kunal’s sentence. The one he has said multiple times and has become a little bit of a mantra in the team. ‘... this is their last chance at love.’
That’s what Connect strives to do: match people. To create love from where there wasn’t any.
He gives a small laugh. ‘Good work with the promotions though.’
‘The analytics on that last video are insane,’ I remind him, referencing the funny, sometimes terrible and cringey videos we have started making for Connect’s social media handle. ‘We should double down on that strategy. That’s what works these days. Aesthetics are out, craziness is in.’
‘Yeah, yeah, you were right. You don’t have to hard sell that any more. I’m onboard,’ he says. I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘Also, we are starting the Vizag chapter next month. Aditi—’
I cut him lest he hears reluctance in a pause. ‘I will be on it,’ I say. Automatically, I start pacing the small area between the table and the sofa, a habit I’ve picked up during these calls. It feels good to move, to feel the energy of what I’m working on.
‘Brilliant,’ he says. ‘If it gets too much, let me know, okay?’
‘No, it won’t,’ I say categorically. And then add before he changes his mind, ‘By the way, I’ve spoken to the brewery manager. He has agreed to give three wait staff just for us.’
‘You’re a rock star, Aditi,’ says Kunal, and adds after a quick pause. ‘You too, Sameer. Don’t feel left out.’
Sameer laughs throatily. ‘Yeah, yeah.’
Just then, the sound of a door opening makes me look up.
My pacing stops. Raghav emerges from his room. It’s almost noon. He’s wearing the same grey T-shirt I’m tired of looking at, and a pair of faded shorts. He walks past me like I don’t exist. The usual. Then, he goes to the kitchen, opens the fridge, stares into it for a full minute, then closes it without taking anything out. It’s a ritual I’ve seen a hundred times. That’s usual too.
‘Anything else, guys?’ asks Kunal.
