She tosses her head back in frustration.
‘So generous, Daksh, so fucking generous. You were willing to do everything that was okay by you, not me. You wanted to be my knight in shining armour but I didn’t need all that. I needed a guy who would love me the way he said he would. So with all due respect, fuck off, Daksh. You can leave. I will handle the police.’
8.
Aanchal Madan
Up on the top floor of the Atlantis, Vanita and Aditya’s presidential suite is a chaos of colour and movement. Vanita’s walk-in wardrobe has turned into a makeshift beauty salon, with a squad of people fussing over her hair, make-up and outfits, making Vanita look even more amazing, if that was possible. But despite the whirlwind of activity around me, my mind rests with him. The memories of Daksh’s betrayal flood my mind and overwhelm me. Sometimes things so bad happen to you that once you heal, you wonder how you even bore the pain.
‘Oye?’ calls out Vanita.
‘Huh?’
‘Get your make-up done. Only fabulous people in my wedding video.’ She motions one of her girls towards my suitcase. ‘Hey, can you get her clothes out and iron them carefully?’
‘I will do it myself.’
‘No way,’ cuts in Vanita. ‘You have other duties. Call the in-room dining and order us some ice and set up the drinking station. I’m not reminding you again that it’s my wedding. And whatever your deal with Daksh is, it can wait till later,’ she says. ‘But on a side note, has he gotten hotter?’
‘Vanita—’
She swivels in her chair to look at me. ‘I’m just saying. He looked like one of those boys who grow into men and not uncles. Has that happened?’
I don’t dignify it with an answer. The answer is yes, the boy is now a man, and he’s infinitely hotter than I last saw him and I hate him for that. Whatever little baby fat was there—there was very little—is gone and his face is all jawline, all structure. His hair was cut short on the side, almost a buzz and a little longer on the top. I know it because I loved his long floppy hair, but now I love this more. It’s occurred to me I might even like a mohawk on him, so it’s immaterial. His deep-set eyes are even more hypnotic, even more angry, even more kind, even more expressive. It’s tiring to look at him, there’s so much going on, on his face. So much emotion. So much beauty. So much history. He was in a black polo T-shirt and black trousers that fit him snugly and was wearing white sneakers. That’s what he wears these days. It is the attire of a coddled spoilt brat, perhaps, the kind that plays leisurely games of golf or indulges in extravagant brunches with his equally spoilt friends.
‘Did he apologize for what he did and ask you out again?’
‘He told me that he hates me and would like to keep it that way,’ I answer.
A girl named Parul makes me sit on the sofa and asks me to close my eyes. Then she opens her make-up kit and pumps foundation out on her palm.
‘And you? Do you still hate him?’ asks Vanita. ‘I need to know because I will behave with him accordingly.’
‘Please hate him.’
This question has haunted me for three long years. Every time I delve into my brief relationship with Daksh, I find a new answer. But as I continue to examine those forty-three days we spent together, two things become increasingly clear.
First, I didn’t fall in love with Daksh when we were together. I fell in love with Daksh after he turned his back on me and abandoned me. Even then, I didn’t fall in love with the complete version of him, but the bits I wanted to cherry-pick. Not the whole of him, but parts of him. And even parts of him were enough. When we were together, despite the happiness he brought into my life, I was still too broken from my past to open my heart and truly love him.
Second, our break-up was not my fault—it was his. He might claim victimhood, but the blame rests entirely on him.
‘I never got to start loving him properly. He broke my heart, Vanita. After knowing everything, he...’ I explain myself.
The make-up person carries on. I wonder how many secrets make-up people and cab drivers know about their clients.
‘See, I stand by whatever you do. I also feel he’s too intense,’ says Vanita. ‘He’s not for everyone.’
‘I can’t believe it was just forty-three days. It just... seemed longer.’
‘How often do you think of Daksh?’
‘Every day,’ I say, without a second thought.
Vanita waves off the hovering make-up brush. ‘Every day? For three years?’
The presence or the absence of Daksh in my life is like an interesting scar. You touch it every day, but it doesn’t mean anything any more.
‘Don’t you think there’s something there?’ asks Vanita.
