Her eyes glint with mischief.
‘On the contrary, Aditya and I are closer than ever. I needed these clothes because this is the last time I will fit into them.’
‘Next!’ The CISF woman calls out. ‘Hey? Hey? Madam!’ She points at the metal-detector frame. ‘Through here, ma’am. What are you doing? You can’t come from the side.’
‘Pregnant, huh,’ Vanita responds.
She turns to smile at me before she disappears behind the curtain to be patted down.
My shock’s unwarranted. Vanita got married two years ago at an embarrassingly young age of twenty-five to have two kids in quick succession and get that out of the way. But then her mother got sick and then Aditya’s father got sick, and they kept putting it off. This was always on the cards.
‘I’m so happy for you!’ I tell her on the other side, watching her pack her things into her bag.
‘Give it time and then be genuinely happy,’ says Vanita.
‘Arre?’
She raises her hand.
I walk through immigration behind Vanita, still trying to string my thoughts together. She, of course, isn’t convinced about me being happy about her pregnancy. She thinks I’m not that person and not without reason. The last time we met was at her wedding two years ago, and I bluntly told her she was crazy to get married at twenty-five and to even consider having children. I told her she would regret losing the prime yearsof her career to impressing in-laws and preparing purees for toddlers. She had borne my taunts with a grace only she has. For the past two years, she has been obscenely happy. I can see it, I can feel it, and I’m genuinely happy for her. What she doesn’t know yet is that my way of looking at things has shifted. I just haven’t told her yet. About my Bharat Matrimony profile, about Saket, and about me wanting to ‘date with the intention of getting married’.
‘Congratulations!’ I say again and hug her.
She wraps her arms around me. She kisses me on the forehead and says, ‘You will be the bestmaasiever! Okay, maybe not the best. But you will be on the list. Shower them with money, okay? Buy their love.’
The immigration officer takes our passports, checks if everything’s in order and then waves us through the gates. We check our gate number and then head to the food court.
‘You will be amazing. Like you are at all things. You will be an amazing mother.’
‘You don’t have to tell me that. I know I will.’
We grab a dosa and a plate of idli, polish them off swiftly, and opt out of buying something from Starbucks—a choice that whispers we’re beyond our teenage years.
As we meander on, we pick up a pair of neck pillows and a bottle of water. Vanita glances at my credit card, and I brace for the inevitable question. Her questions remain the same, yet the way she poses them evolves over time.
‘Could you have afforded a business class ticket easily? With some difficulty? Or would it have been the luxury purchase?’
She asks these questions without malice. She merely wants to know how close I am to the dreams I had spelt out to her, sitting in the canteen of SRCC. I want to be the richest of our batch, I had declared. And then added, as a footnote, among the salaried people.
‘With very little difficulty,’ I answer.
Her face beams with joy. ‘Look at you! You got everything you wanted.’
Suddenly, Vanita goes silent. We walk towards the gate of our flight. I can sense there’s something on her mind, but I don’t prod her. She’s not the one to hide her emotions. We find Gate 34 and quickly lay claim to the loungers.
She finally speaks, ‘I should have waited two years. You were right. There’s no point in getting married at twenty-five.’
‘But you have been happy!’
‘I am, trust me, I am. But nothing would have changed in two years, right? I’m here, I’m pregnant now. I could have spent a year more with Maa,’ she says wistfully.
‘You were with her right till the end,’ I argue.
Throughout the six months her mother fought cancer with such grace that her passing seemed sudden, Vanita was by her side every step of the way.
She nods pensively. ‘You’re right. It’s never enough though, is it? I keep thinking that I hurried myself.’ Now she forces a smile. ‘To be honest, my mother wanted me out of the house, too. So it’s her fault.’
I extend my hand to hers, and she leans her head against my shoulder.
