But fuck it.
Today’s a good day. He’s getting out. The doctors are optimistic. And who knows? He might even want to get back into gaming. People love a redemption story.
At the dhaba, I order for everyone. It would take them another twenty minutes to reach. Aanchal’s the last one to get out of the car.
‘That motorcycle is stupid,’ says Tejal as she hugs me. ‘Don’t bring that in front of Gaurav. Park a little away.’
‘I will run him over with that thing.’
Tejal flinches like she always does. She lacks a sense of humour when it comes to Gaurav. I can’t really blame her. She has been through a lot. I touch Uncle–Aunty’s feet and they lightly hug me.
I turn towards Aanchal. ‘Hey.’
‘Hi Daksh,’ she says in the softest tone I have ever heard her use. Or maybe it’s been too long since I heard her.
‘I need to go to the washroom,’ Aunty says.
‘I will take you,’ Tejal says immediately.
‘We are sitting there,’ I point at the table as Tejal holds Aunty’s hand and leads her to the washroom.
Papa walks over to the table and waves at the man sitting at the counter. Aanchal’s still standing there looking at me.
‘Do you want to wash your hands?’ I ask her to break the awkwardness in the air.
She breaks out of it. ‘You’ve grown older.’
‘So have you,’ I answer her. ‘It’s good to see you haven’t developed an accent.’
‘It’s good to see you have grown stupider,’ she remarks with a quick glance towards the machine, followed by a lingering look in my direction. ‘It looks hot on you.’
5.
Aanchal Madan
Daksh carefully sets his riding gloves down on the basin counter and reaches for the soap dispenser, pumping out a generous amount into his rough, weathered hands. The years etched into his skin are plain to see: the coarseness, the harsh lines. Farfrom the first time I had felt those hands, smooth as a baby’s. He washes his face. The water turns light brown from all the dirt. When he turns to look at me, there are deep crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes. He was just a boy when he met me and I was a little girl, but I feel like I’m still that girl, while he has grown into something more meaningful, something bigger.
‘Aanchal,’ he says as I start to wash my hands. ‘I never got to apologize to you.’ He takes a long pause and, in a tone lower than his usual register, his gaze dropping, he adds, ‘I should have taken better care of Gaurav.’
I shake my hands dry. ‘You have shown more faith in him than anyone in the world. And my stupid brother was always good at hiding things.’
We start walking towards our table. Tejal, Maa and Papa are already digging into their paranthas, something I have missed so dearly.
‘I keep seeing your positions change on LinkedIn,’ he says, with an appreciative nod of his head. ‘One every season.’
‘I used to hear your podcast,’ I tell him. ‘... then I stopped. You guys started to fight too much.’
He nods as if he knew that I was listening to him. I have to admit the thought of him knowing that I was listening to him all this while frequently crossed my mind.
‘We are announcing our divorce in the next podcast,’ he says in an even tone.
I begin to laugh because I think he means it as a joke. But when I meet his gaze, his eyes are dead serious.
‘You’re the first one to know, incidentally,’ he says with a smile. ‘After we drop the podcast, everyone will.’
A flush of inexplicable happiness courses through me.
For three years, I heard Daksh and that woman on the podcast,Kids Raising Kids—at first, once every week, then twice every week, then thrice a week, their conversations stretchingfor hours. I couldn’t resist it. Like scrolling through an ex’s social media, but worse because I knew everything about him. His words always broke my heart, but the pain was bittersweet, like a yearning for the past, an old wound that still aches, a scar that has healed but still calls for attention.
