‘This is a bus.’
‘Exactly.’
The hotel representative pops his head through the door and says, ‘Just two minutes.’
We wave him off that it’s no big deal.
‘It seems like now you will have to have a conversation,’ saysAmruta.
I shrug it off, convincing myself that seeing her is no big deal. She’s a relic of the past, a fragment of a life whose memories have begun to blur at the edges.
Five minutes later, Aanchal and Vanita come bouncing out of the airport. A porter drags their trolley while both carry what seems like duty-free alcohol bags in their hands. It’s 10 a.m.Amruta and I look at each other. I can sense she’s thinking the same thing I am, that we used to be them and that this trip can be a reset for us, a slow slide back, a rewind to being young, spontaneous, unburdened and carefree.
‘We used to be them,’ says Amruta.
‘You were never them,’ I remind Amruta who got married so early she didn’t have time for alcohol and bad decisions.
‘We could be them,’ she corrects herself.
‘It would be called a mid-life crisis.’
‘Twenty-eight and thirty is hardly mid-life. And we are getting younger. Our parents didn’t look like us or do the kind of stuff we are doing at this age. We are practically teenagers.’
Their suitcases are loaded in the back. I feel an uptick in my heart rate which takes me by surprise. Residual anger? Reflex? I take out my phone and pretend to click a picture of the sky from the tinted windows of the minivan. I don’t pretend, I actually click it and it’s surprisingly good.
Vanita’s the first one to board. She’s as lanky as I recall. Dressed in shorts and an oversized T-shirt, she looks like she’s just come off a football field or tennis court. She’s built-solid, her weather-beaten face which is no doubt a remnant from the hours she has spent on fields and courts always makes her look like she could beat you in a 100m sprint and crank out a few calisthenics moves that make you feel weak and blubbery.
Aanchal boards next. Her hair’s in a messy little bun at the top of her head, little strands going everywhere and catching the sunlight. There are beads of sweat on her forehead that are slowly trickling down the side of her cheek. She keeps her bag on her seat. Then, she swivels forward her handbag. The last time I saw her, two years ago, was at Vanita’s wedding, and I remember how she sparkled in that shimmering black lehenga. I recall being furious, the wounds still festering, gangrenous. Today, the wound’s healed. And yet something throbs.
‘Guys!’ says Vanita, turning to face us from her seat. ‘We saw you on the plane too but thought it would be too weird. But now it’s the same hotel too. Amruta, right?’
‘Vanita,’ says Amruta with a nod. ‘The last time I saw you I went hungry from your wedding.’
Vanita laughs. ‘That’s what happens with wedding crashers who come with no envelopes. Some people get appendicitis, others go back home hungry. By the way, I listen to your podcast. Top stuff.’
‘I can’t tell if you’re serious,’ I tell her.
Now, Aanchal has also joined her and is facing us. I scan her expressions to try and understand how she feels. She’s just smiling. No stacks of feelings like in my case. No signs of her mind throwing up images of the times gone by.
‘She’s pregnant,’ explains Aanchal. ‘And you two do a great job at raising kids. You’re practically homework for expectant couples.’
‘That’s so sweet,’ says Amruta. ‘So I’m guessing you’re about three months in?’
‘See!’ squeals Vanita. ‘That’s why you’re so good.’
‘Where are the kids? And Rabbani?’ asks Aanchal.
‘They are on their school trip,’ I answer.
‘Can we all sit down?’ The driver speaks in a thick accent.
Aanchal and Vanita nod and take their seats. Just then, my phone beeps. It’s Amruta’s text.
Was it weird?
It was. She seems okay though.
The people who break hearts usually are.
