Her lips turn into a smile. A fucking smile.
‘You say it like it’s an insult, Daksh. And yes, you’re right. I will never abandon it.’
‘Great then, fuck you, fuck your work, best of luck for your life.’ I flash her two middle fingers as if I’m a high-schooler and she’s my school crush. ‘Fuck you, Aanchal.’
‘HEY!’
A loud voice booms from the side. We both turn. I don’t see them at first with all the crowd that’s gathered around us to watch the drama. Three policemen are marching towards us, their hands on the holsters of their guns, their eyes stern.
Before I can react, they surround me and spout angrily, ‘You can’t do that in here, habibi!’ says a tall, bulky policeman as he grabs hold of my arm. ‘You can’t swear in public. You have to come with us.’
‘She deserves it,’ I hear myself mumble.
7.
Daksh Dey
Aanchal and I sit on opposite sides of a small glass table in a room in the hotel’s business centre. I have the choicest of slurs sloshing about in my brain. The uniformed police officers are telling me that swearing in public in the UAE is a jailable offence. Unless of course, the hurt party grants pardon. I want to tell the policemen that Aanchal is indeed deserving of all the expletives I can think of and she’s not thehurtparty. If they knew our story, they would agree with me as well. They are men too. I stay quiet. My brush with UAE law has taught me that, king or pauper, the rules don’t bend. Actually, they do bend. But only for the literal king of the UAE. Aanchal asks the policemen to wait outside. Reluctantly, with their hands on their guns, they move outside.
‘Just tell them I apologized and we can get out of each other’s way,’ I demand from Aanchal.
She looks at me unmoved. ‘I’m not going to lie,’ she answers with a straight face. ‘You need to apologize, Daksh. That’s the only way it ends. That’s what the law is.’
‘Don’t waste my time, Aanchal. I have had enough of these fucking games.’
‘Careful, you’re swearing again,’ she warns me.
I lean back into my chair.
She continues, ‘And your client is in Dubai. Where do you have to go that’s so important?’
‘You call your brother my client rather than Gaurav?’
She doesn’t react.
I continue, ‘It’s not syntax, it’s a window to your shitty soul. Everything is a transaction.’
For the first time, I see signs of anger on her face. I enjoy it. I commit it to memory for future pleasure.
‘And you’re the noblest boy in the world, Daksh Dey, aren’t you?’ she says, her voice now venom. ‘Step off your high horse and for once see things from other people’s perspective.’
People like her don’t change. Who does she think she is?
‘You still have pig-headed confidence that you were right,’ I try to rein in my fury.
She shrugs like she did no wrong.
‘Listen, Aanchal. We can trade insults all night long, but I don’t have the time and you have a wedding to attend.’
Leaning into her chair, she gives out a weary sigh.
‘Why can’t you see that I had to do what I had to do? Can you please see that for once?’
‘Aanchal, I don’t want to talk to you, see you, be around you. You’re a fucking stranger to me. I wish you always were a stranger.’
My heart races like a runaway train. The policeman outside probably sees the anger in my eyes. He steps closer to the glass.
‘Don’t say that,’ she says.
