Sumrit, sitting on the floor and shovelling biryani into his mouth, points a spoon at her defensively. ‘It’s about the mindset. You wouldn’t understand. It’s science. You can fool your mind into believing anything.’
‘It’s insanity,’ Kunal says with a slow smile. ‘But whatever works, man.’
‘Actually, I agree with Sumrit,’ says Shilpi. ‘I read it too!’
‘Sure, Shilpi. Sure,’ says Aditi, shaking her head with a smile.
I’m laughing too. Like I have been laughing all evening. Every now and then, of course. This is not a very funny group, I have realized that now. Not every group needs to be funny. The objective of why these people came together was something else, and that aim has been more or less achieved by now.
And for a moment, I let myself feel safe. I let myself feel like this is life again. But what if it’s a lie? The moment I stop laughing, the silence returns. The silence always returns. Will itreturn?
But every now and then, my eyes keep drifting to the boxes. And every now and then, my laugh dies a little.
They are stacked against the wall like a barricade. A monument marking her departure. Her life, kind of our life, sealed away with packing tape. Books. Clothes. Charging cables.
The boxes look bigger now. Heavier. They are not just lifeless cardboard boxes. They are screaming and mocking at me from across the room.
The sight of my handwriting is a physical blow every time I look at it. I signed on this. I’m letting her go. But she was going anyway. This wasn’t in my hands. This was written. I have to keep reminding myself of this. This was a long time coming.
But my chest still fights it. My lungs fight it. My throat closes each time I remember. My heart asks,what if she stays? Will she change her mind? Maybe one small miracle. But why am I even leaning towards it? And then my eyes go back to the boxes, and the miracle dies. Then the miracle starts again. Then it dies again. Again. And again. Like waves. It’s happening. I have to accept it.
I watch her as she moves through the room, the undeniable centre of its gravity. She’s laughing at something Sumrit said, her face bright and animated, a lock of hair falling across her face.
She glows. She does not even know she glows. She glows when she eats, when she laughs, when she pushes her hair back. And I sit here, watching her glow, and I burn. I burn because soon that glow will leave this room. Soon this room will be dark. Why am I thinking like this? I can’t. I have to move on. Everyone else clearly has.
She shares a quiet, intimate look with Kunal, a silent conversation that passes between them in a single, shared smile. And in that moment, I feel smaller. I feel ignored. The fucking irrationality of this feeling angers me. I try my best to push it out of my head.
But I can’t. I can’t. His smile is like a knife. Her smile back is like a knife. Every time they look at each other, I bleed. I bleed but no one sees. This is the last day I will see them. Isn’t it obvious that the next time we meet it will be at her place? But who cares? It’s fine. I had expected this. What else could have happened here? Nothing. This is where the story ends.
The conversation eventually, inevitably, turns to them. Like it had to. At the end, it’s about them. It always has been.
To Aman and Megha.
It starts with Tejal.
‘You know,’ she says, her voice a little thick with emotion, looking at the boxes. ‘I never met the two of them. And it’s my shitty luck but I think they would be proud of today. Seeing the two of you happy. And Aman?’ She points at Aditi. ‘He would have been so ridiculously proud of you, Adi.’
‘And Megha would be of you,’ says Shilpi softly.
For a moment there, I get a glimpse of Megha, laughing, in this house, the house that was supposed to be hers, ours, the house that was earmarked for creating memories, not erasing them... and yet that’s what we sought to do here.
Forget them.
For a moment, I see him too . . . Aman . . . of what could have been . . . the double dates.
And I want to tell them to stop taking their names. Stop pulling them back. Everyone else seems to find a strange comfort in talking about them, but for me there’s no comfort. All I hear is them talking about their deaths. For them, their names are warm. For me, their names are fire. For them, their names are smiles. For me, their names are knives. For them, their names are stories. For me, their names are graves.
I yank myself out of the thought.
The reality is fucked up too.
They left, and Aditi? She’s leaving too.
‘They must be looking down and feeling so proud of you guys, bro,’ says Sumrit.
I nod, my throat tight. I can’t speak. The panic is starting to rise. I tell myself so what, so fucking what. I will deal with this. I will deal with my grief alone. Who cares? And yet, the panic climbs. It climbs up my throat. It climbs up my eyes. It climbs up my skin. I can feel sweat even though the AC is on. I can feel my heart beating too fast, too wild, like it will break out of my chest.
This is it. This is the last time we’ll all be in a room together, talking about them like they’re still a part of our lives. Once she’s gone, the stories will stop. The memories will fade. I’ll be the only one left to carry them, and the weight is going to crush me.
