‘I didn’t care about what people said.’ She shook her head. ‘My boys listened to it. They were like, “Stop complaining about us!” I don’t want to do it again.’
‘But you have to.’
She trained her eyes on me with a look like a stern teacher. ‘I don’t have to do anything.’
‘Do you mind if I sit?’ I asked her.
‘I have class in fifteen.’
I pulled up a chair. ‘I listened to your podcast when my sister was four. She’s nine now, and she’s the most amazing nine-year-old you will ever meet.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘And she’s like that because of you. Had I not heard you for all those years, I would have damaged her.’
She leans forward. ‘Parents often don’t know the unique ways they harm their children. Are you sure you have not damaged her now?’
‘Even if I have, it’s not very obvious.’
She chuckled at that. ‘My answer is still no.’
It took me three months to convince her to get back into podcasting. It took her three months to convince me that I should be part of the podcast too.
‘Ready?’ Amruta asks me.
I check the levels on her laptop, adjust the gain and pull the microphone towards myself.
‘Welcome back guys! I’m Daksh . . .’
‘... and I’m Amruta! And welcome to our podcast,Kids Raising Kids! Where two accidental parents discuss their parenting goof-ups and hope you do better!’
She reaches out for my hand. I hold hers and feel the warmth radiate through me. It’s been nine years since her husband died. When I first met her, her skin was lighter where there had once been a wedding band. Time has filled colour in it. As I caress her finger, I wonder if I should put a ring on it.
It will be the most practical thing to do.
3.
Aanchal Madan
‘WHERE ARE YOU?!’ Vanita screams right into the phone.
‘I’m on the airport floor, bleeding from my ear.’
‘I’m outside! Come quickly! I can’t be picking up people at my own wedding.’
‘I told you I will take a cab,’ I protest. ‘And I’m not coming out without getting alcohol. If you’re really going through with this wedding, I’m not watching it sober.’
‘Stop wasting my time and run, Aanchal! Everyone has already brought alcohol, yaar.’
‘I’m buying gin and a little vodka. Is there anyone for whisky?’
Vanita sighs heavily into the phone. ‘Bring a bit of everything,’ she concedes. ‘So, there is a signboard saying Dubai Airport Taxi Stand... I am on the road next to it. Quick, quick, run faster. Bye!’
My work phone vibrates in my pocket. Despite a three-week notice for this holiday and multiple warnings, my team is escalating everything to me like little kids. Some of the hires are my fault—I recruited them straight out of management schools thinking they would be skilful. All they have is a degree. Looking at them makes me happy that I didn’t waste two years in a management college learning marketing jargon that is as useless as climate change protests in China. I record a voice note for the office messaging group.
‘YOU GUYS ARE ONE MORE MESSAGE AWAY FROM SHITTY APPRAISALS! NO. MORE. MESSAGES!’
Last week, I received a stern e-mail from HR. Apparently, I was being ‘too friendly with the juniors’, and that ‘can backfire if one of them complains’. I delete the voice note even thoughI don’t have to. I’m on my notice period after five crazy, but amazing years at the start-up, DeliverFood. In the years, DeliverFood has given me everything: fast-track success, but stress so bad I don’t remember what it’s like not to have a headache; bosses who have grabbed my ass at off-sites, but other bosses who have picked up my slack and taught me everything I know; some friends, some assholes, experience, a rich CV, hair fall and a ton of savings. In the spirit of gratitude, I instead send the team a mail. Because I need one last favour from DeliverFood: a glowing letter of recommendation.
