I move away from the window and take out the little taped container. I call the reception and check where the breakfast buffet is. As I walk towards it, my head starts to spin. Every corner of the hotel seems to whisper Aanchal’s name, reminding me of her laughter, her whispers, her sighs, her nervousness, her happiness. It feels like she’s still here, lingering just out of sight, just beyond my grasp.
Rabbani and Gauravi are tucked away at a corner table, diligently scooping spoonfuls of strawberry yogurt from tiny cups. While Gauravi is a mirror image of Aanchal, her movements, her mannerisms, are all unmistakably Rabbani. Upon spotting me, they wave synchronously—it’s uncanny, as if their motor neurons were interlinked.
I join them.
I can’t look away from the empty cups of strawberry yogurt, the same flavour Rabbani used to love as a kid. I feel an unexpected smile tug at my lips. It’s the small things, the tiny threads of the past that keep pulling me back.
I force myself to eat.
Once Gauravi is done, I take her out of the high chair and let her run about. There’s no screen-time rule for Gauravi. Not because of her, but because of me. Handing over my phone oriPad would start a slippery slope. Showering her with attention is what anchors me in the present, something I can’t afford to lose.
‘You look like shit, Dada,’ says Rabbani as she ladles poha into my plate. ‘You need to take better care of yourself.’
‘I’m fitter than most thirty-seven-year-olds,’ I argue. ‘Even kids your age.’
‘I’m talking about what’s inside, Dada.’
‘Don’t be over-smart.’
‘Everything tells us that I’m smarter than you,’ she quips. ‘Even if I try to be dumb, I will be smarter than you.’
‘Just eat.’
We sit together in silence, slowly picking at our food. Our eyes flit to Gauravi every so often, as she bounds around the room, bumping into furniture and giggling. It’s still hard for me to fully comprehend that Rabbani is a mature twenty-one-year-old woman. There’s an instinctive part of me that yearns to scoop her up in my arms and toss her into the air as I used to. The feeling Gauravi and Rabbani elicit in me—of them being babies of mine—doesn’t leave me.
A little later, Gauravi tires and climbs into my lap.
‘Do you want to go to the beach?’ I ask Gauravi.
‘Beach!’ she squeals.
Arm in arm, we three start walking towards the beach. The weather is pleasant, with a soft breeze gently caressing our faces, contrary to what our Weather app said: thunderstorm. Gauravi snuggles into me, her tiny nose nuzzling into the crook of my neck.
Stepping on to the sand, a tidal wave of memories crashes over me. I’m swept up in the sands of time, and for a moment, it feels as though Gaurav and Aanchal might come around the bend and stroll towards us, their whispers and chuckles drifting through the air.
I remember the beach being a lot quieter. But memory is a strange thing. It keeps shifting and morphing with time and from where you’re looking at it and what you have become. The version of me that came to this beach doesn’t exist any more. An eighteen-year-old who was angry with a girl for not replying to his texts. My entire life was about just that.
I put Gauravi down and she digs her fingers inside the sand, examining the texture.
‘If only she was as selfish as she was when I first met her,’ I tell Rabbani, barely being able to keep my voice from cracking. ‘Selfish down to her last bone. That could have worked out in everyone’s favour.’
‘Her selfishness wasn’t a choice,’ Rabbani replies softly.
‘I get that,’ I say. ‘It helps to be angry at times.’
‘You’re angry most of the time, Dada.’
‘Should I not be?’ I retort, my voice a brittle, angry whisper.
I deserve to be angry. I deserve to be furious.
The last words I ever spoke to Aanchal as I looked at her ashen face, her laboured breaths in the ICU, struggling to stay alive, were, ‘Thank you.’
I thanked her for giving me a child, as if that’s what I wanted from her. How ridiculous is that? I remember her soft eyes, her lingering touch. I couldn’t place the emotion when she gently closed her eyes, but now I can’t help but think it was relief. She said, ‘I love you.’ I didn’t even say, ‘I love you too.’ I just fucking thanked her, turned and went to check if Gauravi was doing okay. That’s how Aanchal saw me.
‘You had no idea things would end up like this, Dada.’
‘But I should have, yes?’ I retort.
