‘Don’t look up,’ she says.
I try to turn but she holds my face. ‘What is it?’
She catches my gaze and then says in the most consolatory tone ever.
‘Daksh. Daksh is on the plane.’
5.
Daksh Dey
‘You could have gone and said hi to her,’ says Amruta as sheslides the passports back into her backpack. ‘You two share history.’
‘Is this one of those tests?’
‘What tests?’
‘Where you want to check if I want to go and say hi to her. And if I say yes, you will be like, hmmm, why did you want to say hi?’
‘It’s almost insulting that you’re thinking I’m that type.’
It’s true that Amruta’s totally the opposite of that. Three things age you like nothing does. The death of a parent. The birth of your child. The death of your partner. All three have happened to her.
And to me. Sort of.
Not that I will ever admit it to Amruta. Or to myself. Maa’s death, which meant the birth of my child, because I became Rabbani’s de facto parent. Aanchal’s rejection wasn’t quite death, but it felt a lot like it. She took with her a part of me I rather liked. One who could trust beginnings. One who didn’t obsess about how everything could end badly.
‘Wasn’t the friend Vanita?’ she asks. ‘The one whose wedding I came to?’
‘Technically, you didn’t come to the wedding. I went to the wedding and my appendix burst. And you flew down panicking that I would die and wanted to marry me immediately.’
She rolls her eyes and quips, ‘Quite an elaborate plan to get me to go down on one knee.’
‘Both knees are preferable.’
‘Are we still doing eighth standard blowjob jokes?’
‘You said we need to find what we are beyond the kids. Turns out I’m the one with the double-meaning jokes.’
She points to the conveyor belt. ‘Our baggage is here.’
As I hoist our baggage from the belt, I catch a glimpse of Aanchal and Vanita emerging from behind the immigration counters. I feel a burn in my heart I hadn’t expected. An itchI can’t explain. I divert my gaze and load the suitcases on a trolley.
Stepping outside the airport, a hotel representative greets us with a warm smile and a placard that says, ‘Ritz-Carlton, Phuket’.
‘We are here,’ I tell him, pointing to the placard.
The man looks at his list of names and then at Amruta. ‘Good morning, good morning. Welcome to Thailand. Are you Aanchal Madan?’
Amruta squints. ‘I’m Amruta. He’s Daksh. We have a pick-up scheduled. Can you check the list again?’
She’s taking out her phone to show the representative the reservations message and he’s checking the list of names he’s supposed to pick up today.
He taps his head apologetically. ‘Oh, yes, yes. Sorry, sorry, two guests for pick-up,’ he says and grabs the trolley handle from me. ‘Get inside. Let me do this.’
We board the minivan that’s as big as a caravan, more than enough for two guests. We take the last seats.
‘We should get a car like this,’ I remark.
