‘You’d rather live in a fantasy than deal with anything real,’ I say, taking a step closer.
‘Yes, yes, you’re the queen of healing, right?’ he says bitterly.
It ticks me off. ‘You know what your problem is?’ I ask, my hands balling into fists at my sides.
‘Yes, please tell me what my problem is! Because, clearly, you’re the all-knowing!’
‘You hate that I can be normal at times.’
‘I don–’
‘You hate that Shilpi had one real moment of fun, because it reminds you that you’re just... stuck.’
‘I AM NOT STUCK!’ His voice cracks, his chest heaving.
‘Rotting with that app on your own. You’re in a prison of your own making.’
‘Her memory is not my prison,’ he snarls. ‘It’s the only real thing I have left.’
‘No, Raghav,’ I say, my voice trembling. My throat tightens but I force the words out. ‘My career is real, not an escape. The work I’m doing is real. Shilpi’s pain is real. What you have is an echo of a time that won’t come.’
‘Oh fuck off. How long have you been planning this speech—’
‘You fuck off, Raghav! You’re so in love with looking at yourself in pain, you can’t stand the thought of yourself or anyone else moving on.’
‘You think I like seeing Shilpi in pain.’
‘I . . . am . . .’
The way he looks at me makes me regret what I said, but it needed to be said.
Just then, my phone rings.
‘Please take that,’ he says. ‘And stop talking to me.’ He turns his back to me, shoulders rigid.
It’s Kunal. I take the call because, what am I supposed to do? Lose another part of me because he doesn’t see anyone else’s perspective than his? If he’s so fucking intelligent, why can’t he see what everyone else sees so clearly?
I walk to the balcony and answer, my back to Raghav.
‘Hey,’ I say, my voice a tired whisper, what I had just said still echoing in my head, wondering if I could have phrased things differently for him to get it.
‘Hey,’ he replies. His voice isn’t angry. It’s worse. It’s practical. Worried. ‘Are you okay? Is Shilpi okay?’
‘We’re . . . fine,’ I lie.
He’s quiet for a moment. ‘Aditi,’ he says, and I can hear the stress in his voice. ‘The videos are everywhere. All over the Gurugram WhatsApp groups. People are sharing them likecrazy.’
‘It’s a good thing, right? Any publicity—’
I can’t even complete the sentence. I close my eyes, pressing my forehead to the cool glass of the balcony door. Of course they are. And what a trite, stupid thing to say. Any publicity—
‘I’m getting calls from our sponsors,’ he continues, his voice still calm, still practical. ‘They’re worried about the brand.’
‘I know—’
‘Connect is supposed to be a safe, positive space. A public screaming match about . . . whatever that man said . . . everything else . . . it’s not exactly . . .’
‘On-brand?’ I say. ‘Is that the word you’re looking for?’
