Women are weeping softly every now and then. Men are talking so that they don’t get swept away. I had been steeling myself not to feel anything. I keep telling myself it’s Vanita’s dream, Vanita’s wedding, Vanita’s marriage, her new beginning. I should just feel happy for her and not want it myself.
But it’s heartbreakingly beautiful. Every time Aditya looks at Vanita and she at him, it feels like the rest of the world has ceased to exist for them. When she gets up from the mandap, Vanita seems to be a new woman. Her fingers intertwine with Aditya’s, she looks powerful—the exact opposite of what I thought she would seem. Marriage is surrender. And yet she looks bolstered by it. As if now, forged in the ritual fire, she has access to Aditya’s courage, strength and intelligence too.
My gaze shifts to the camera, the one that’s live-streaming the wedding to all the guests who couldn’t make it today. Daksh is among them. Even though the link says there are fifty-four viewers, it feels like he’s the only one on the other side. I can almost hear his voice in my ear, full of love and pain.
‘This could’ve been us,’ he whispers.
My heart aches at his words, but a little voice in my head whispers back, ‘It could still be us.’
Every time I blink, my heart wages war against my mind. My heart conjures up an image of Daksh in a black kurta, hair perfect as it always is, his sharp jawline glistening, his eyes as watery as they can get, a small smile on his face. It’s warmth and sex and comfort and love and adoration and security all rolled up into one. My heart reminds me of the time we were together. Daksh was right—it was a forever. Our little forever. I remember how alive I felt, how deep was the happiness, how fuzzy the comfort, how passionate our touches, how inviting the future.
Daksh likes to think I severed all ties with him with the coldness of a serial killer. That’s how he sees me. First, I got the abortion, and then I walked away from him as if it was nothing.
But he saw none of the nights I spent crying for him. He doesn’t know of the searing longing I felt for him for months on end. He knows nothing of the crushing pain I felt, the long hours I used to stare at the phone waiting for his call, the envy I used to feel looking at other couples and how my heart used to break every time he used to talk to Gaurav and all I wanted him to say wasHi Aanchal.
I felt starved of his love.
He got me addicted to the drug that was him and then left me to deal with the withdrawal cold turkey. After the anger of his abandonment petered out, all I felt was pain. A sharp piercing pain that wouldn’t go away, that seeped into my bones and became a part of my being. Every other happiness paledin comparison. Sometimes I think if Daksh didn’t work with Gaurav, it would have been easier to get over him. Instead, I saw Gaurav and Daksh become best friends and then brothers. I could see how much love Daksh was capable of, how much love I could have received from him, but missed out on. If he could love Gaurav, how much would he love me? Every time Daksh stayed up nights driving Gaurav from one gaming competition to another, cooked meals for him so Gaurav wouldn’t get lethargic during sessions, made his bed, laundered his clothes, took care of him, coddled him—it all made me burn with envy.
I could see what we could have been. He would have beenperfect.
Had he come back, would I have accepted him? In a heartbeat. They say your idea of love is shaped by what your first love story teaches you. My first love story, which I know is with Daksh and not Vicky, taught me to wait. Wait for time to heal all wounds and for the love story to begin.
Daksh never came back.
As Vanita steps down from the stage and comes to hug me—her first time as a married woman—my heart feels full. The logic of whether it’s right to get married so early to someone who apparently doesn’t tick all the boxes drains out of my body. It’s love. That’s it, a simple, dumb explanation for life’s biggest, messiest decision. It’s love.
‘Now you can have non-dirty, legitimate sex in the eyes of God,’ I whisper.
‘It’s still going to be dirty,’ she whispers back with a laugh.
The rest of the relatives swarm around her, showering her with blessings and wishes. Her mother bursts into tears. The others don’t. They know Vanita will invade any house she goes to and make it her own.
I find my own parents tearing up when Aditya and Vanita touch their feet to get their blessings. Gaurav sulks in thecorner, playing the part of the heartbroken lover as he gazes longingly and smiles sadly at them. Then Tejal links her hand with his, and he breaks character and smiles.
When they leave the wedding venue for the hotel lobby among cheers, I feel a sudden void inside me. Maa–Papa tell me that they are going to the room to change, and get some rest before the reception dinner. Gaurav has already begun chatting with Tejal animatedly.
Aditya and Vanita’s friends are making their way to grab another drink. They implore me to join them, and I promise to catch up in a little while. I know I would be lonely with them. Which is strange because I have never felt lonely in my own company.
Seeing Daksh again after so many years has opened up the wound again. This time I can’t slap a Band-Aid on it and hope for it to heal. No matter how far I run, this yearning that has taken root in my heart again is only going to rise and consume me. Ihad ripped him out of my heart once, but I know I won’t be able to do it again. Back then, I had a well of anger to draw from. I felt wronged, betrayed, but now I have nothing. I just have love in my heart for him.
The residual anger I felt for him petered out the moment I saw him and his kind eyes. I searched for love in his eyes. I think there’s still some. Where there’s so much anger, there must be love. And every moment since, I have found myself drowning in a sea of emotions—the love I feel for him and the love he still has for me; he has to have love for me. How can he not? I have not imagined this relentless current of connection that still crackles between us.
Ten minutes later, I find myself in a taxi hurtling towards the Saudi German Hospital. What do I have to lose that I haven’t lost already? I want to tell him that I want to give us another chance. I want to propose a truce and a love story. A difficult,long-distance love story, but a love story worth a shot. I’m going to go down on one knee and ask him to give us one more chance. I understand this would require an apology, that’s mission-critical. And I would give him one.
Who says relationships are built on the truth and complete truth? If an apology would set things right, then why not? I can’t throw away a lifetime of love because of my stupid, stupid ego. I’m going to cry, bawl, beg, crawl and I will claw back into his life. We are going to build a life together and what happened in the past three years is going to be a distant memory. We will erase it, cover it with so much love, that we will wonder if it was ever real.
I burst through the hospital doors, the frigid air blasting me in the face. The hallway feels as though it has been dipped in ice, sending shivers down my spine. And then I notice it, my lehenga is not meant for the morgue-like cold. All around, eyes turn to look at me as the clacking of my heels echoes through the hospital corridors. Then their eyes stay on me: a girl in wedding finery, sprinting through the halls of a hospital. I know what they must be thinking, how crazy I must seem. Little do they know, this is the least crazy, most obvious thing I have ever done. I catch a glimpse of the nurse from earlier as she exits his room. With every step, I’m surer of what I’m doing. A picture of us in the future conjures up in my mind. Him, me, kids if he wants them, dogs if he doesn’t. We will be together. And then I’m there, standing in front of the nurse.
The nurse shakes her head. ‘Another one? There’s already a visitor inside.’
Visitor? I wonder how Gaurav could have got to him before I did. My heart pounding, I slowly nudge open the door and freeze in my tracks. My breath catches in my throat as I see her.
Even with her back turned to me, I know exactly who is sitting on Daksh’s bed.
Amruta Thakur. The sound of her voice, so familiar and so detested, fills the room.
‘... no ceremony... just you and me...’ the voice says. ‘Seeing you like this, it’s scary, Daksh. We shouldn’t be alone, should we? It makes sense, you and I, our kids... it’s like we were custom-built for each other.’
