And why? Because what am I without them in the world? What tethers me to this life? I tortured myself thinking of how things could have gone differently. The only way things could have gone differently was if I was brainwashed completely. If I’d led a life that they wanted me to live.
So slowly, I started reminding myself of the worst versions of them, not the nice ones. People at their best are easily likeable. It’s at their worst when you truly know whether they love us or not.
What would Maa have said if she knew I was working with Connect? Facilitating love stories? She would see me as the same: a pimp for unapproved relationships. My brother would see a sister who sometimes drinks. My father would see a girlwho lets a guy hug her. My didi would see an immoral girl who stays out till late, gets into cars with boys, lets them almost kiss her.
When a family can’t see your truth, what use are they? Except biologically, they aren’t related to you at all.
I kept reminding myself of this to be more angry than sad. Anger is dirty fuel that you can function on. So I just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the scene at the brewery over and over in my head: the flashing phones, his father’s contorted face, the cold, hard grip of Raghav’s hand as he pulled us away.
How easily could this be my father?
I finally drag myself out of bed. Shilpi’s not around. I can only imagine the state she’s in. I find Raghav in the kitchen, staring into a mug of black coffee. His shoulders are hunched, and the back of his neck is rigid with tension. His knuckles tap absently against the ceramic, the tiny sound filling the silence.
I fill up my water bottle, the sound of it filling up unnaturally loud.
‘How is she?’ I ask. ‘Shilpi?’
He doesn’t look at me. He just continues to stare into his mug. Steam curls up, fogging his glasses for a moment. Then says, ‘She cried herself to sleep. What did you expect?’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ I whisper.
‘You can apologize,’ he says, his voice flat.
‘I...’ My fingers tighten around the cold steel bottle.
‘You took her outside. You posted a picture with her on Instagram,’ he says in a low voice and turns to look at me. ‘How do you think Papa knew where she was?’
‘But . . . I didn’t know,’ I say.
‘You should have,’ he mutters, turning back to his mug.
‘Sorry, but your Papa could have come here too,’ I argue.
‘But he didn’t? Did he?’ he says. ‘And you should have asked me before taking her out.’ He drops his voice even lower. ‘Sheis my sister. My responsibility. You don’t get to make decisions about her safety.’
‘What safety?! I was with her all the time!’ I snap. My voice bounces off the tiles, louder than I intended.
‘You had no right!’ he roars. His fist slams the counter, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. ‘Why did you take her out?!’
‘She was feeling sad, Raghav,’ I say, my voice rising. ‘I was helping her out because you clearly are so wrapped up in your own misery that you can’t see it. I was trying to help!’
‘You’re not helping her.’
‘I am! At least she’s willing to be helped!’
He scoffs. He runs a hand through his messy hair, tugging at it. ‘Please go back to finding people love, okay? No need to meddle in my business.’
‘You’re being unfair, Raghav.’
‘Oh please, don’t tell me what I should do,’ he scoffs. He pushes the mug away with a clatter.
‘Because you know what to do?’ I say, and my eyes drop to his phone.
‘Yes, I do,’ he says, grinding his teeth.
‘You don’t have any clue!’
‘And you do?!?’
