‘Just think for a moment,’ she exhorts me. ‘We don’t have to be up at seven, fix their clothes, then make sure Rabbani, Nishant and Naman are having breakfast. We don’t have to scream at them to wear their clothes and leave the house. It will be... just us. Think about it. We will be young again.’
We will be young again.
‘I don’t feel particularly old,’ I mumble.
‘You’re a thirty-five-year-old mother trapped in the body of a twenty-eight-year-old boy. You mothered Rabbani, you raised her, there should be more to you than—’
‘She raised me too. She made me all that I am today. Taking care of her is all I have known since I was nineteen.’
Amruta continues, ‘Maybe now it’s time to let go. You have to wean yourself off her. She’s a big girl now.’
‘She’s still little,’ I say, not fully believing my words.
Rabbani has long outgrown the days when she was small enough for me to hoist on to my shoulders, back when I was seventeen and Mumma was still with us. She’s no longer the little sister who needed me to envelop her in my arms, whisper into her ears that everything would be all right after we lost Mumma, when grief threatened to consume Baba. Gone is the nine-year-old whom I coached through badminton matches and swimming lessons, the kid whose homework used to be a shared project where I learnt to mimic her handwriting and she mine till both our handwritings were indistinguishable from each other. Now, she’s immersed in her own world, spending days engaged in her own things, picking her own favourite songs, her own clothes, telling me I wouldn’t understand the things she talks about with her friends. She doesn’t need me, not as much as I need her.
‘In your head, yes, she is,’ she says. ‘Both of us, our youth went into raising kids. As we keep saying in our podcast, we are kids raising kids. But maybe it’s time we look at ourselves now. Five or six years from now they will be in college. What will we do?’
‘I was thinking I could burn her board exam certificates. She will sit at home.’
Her expression turns into one of seriousness, and she says, ‘If we get married, we have to figure out what we are without ourkids.’
‘She’s my sister, to be honest.’
‘You’re still joking. You know she’s your kid. You have never thought of her as your sister. Or you would have let hergo.’
I nod because she’s right, because Amruta’s always right.
She continues, ‘We need to find out who we are. Because right now, we are really the weirdest couple. Let’s take our shot at normality.’
4.
Aanchal Madan
The airline employee peers at Vanita over his thick-rimmed glasses. ‘Your luggage is 10 kilos over the limit,’ he informs her.
Vanita narrows her eyes. ‘Oh-kay. Can you adjust it with her?’
‘It would still be 5 kilos extra. Do you want to put some in your hand baggage?’ The staff guy leans over and assesses Vanita’s cabin baggage. It’s already bursting. ‘You will have to pay, ma’am.’
‘But I don’t want to,’ protests Vanita.
‘I wanted to be a cabin crew member but I’m ground staff. Seems like we all have to do things we don’t like.’
An amused Vanita takes out her debit card and slides it on the counter. ‘How often do you use that line?’
‘Aren’t you guys trained to be more polite?’ I ask the staff, a little surprised, mostly curious at the sassiness.
The ground staff guy types loudly on his keyboard and answers without looking up. ‘We are the cheapest airline. We are not really service-first. We can say whatever. People will still travel our airline.’
‘Really?’ asks Vanita.
The guy breaks out into a big smile. ‘No, actually, it’s my notice period. I’m quitting to be an assistant to a content creator.’
He processes the boarding cards and hands them to us. ‘Flight UK234 to Phuket. Gate number 34. Boarding closes at 7.30. Have fun there, okay?’
We both smile at him. Boarding passes in hand, Vanita and I walk towards the security checkpoint. No sooner does she unzip her carry-on than an impatient queue forms behind us. Shefishes out an impressive knot of chargers and cords, a veritable electric octopus in her hands. The crowd grumbles as Vanita begins loading the security tray: the web of chargers for her laptop, phone, watch and camera; the gadgets themselves—a laptop, a phone, an iPad, a Kindle; and not to forget, her office phone and laptop.
‘Are you fleeing from your in-laws?’
