Tejal is the first one he hugs. It feels bad to see someone take your position, but it’s warranted. After all, she wrote the most letters, a minimum of one every day. Gaurav’s mother looks on longingly, waiting for her turn, but still manages a smile, as if accepting that sons grow up and move on. Then she rubs Gaurav’s back, happy tears streaming down her face. Gaurav’sfather doesn’t seem like he wants to slap his son any more. He’s fighting tears while Aanchal weeps uncontrollably. As Gaurav breaks free from Tejal’s embrace, he pulls his family in for a tight hug. Tears stream down their faces as they hold each other. They console each other, wiping away each other’s tears until their eyes are dry.
Then, he turns to me.
‘You’re an asshole,’ I remind him.
‘I agree,’ he tells me. ‘Thank you for not dying.’
7.
Aanchal Madan
As I knew I would, I type out my resignation letter and mail it to my company. I forward the same mail to my friends, one of whom calls first, then another, and then both on a conference call to curse me. They list out all the reasons why living in India is way worse than living in the US. I assure them that I will see them on a backpacking trip to Europe, or a vacation to Thailand.
But unlike them, I didn’t see myself living my entire life in a country of people who weren’t my own. The entire world is not your family. Only your family is your family. Gaurav’s painful stay at the hospital is a reminder of that. I can’t leave them now. Not now, not ever. What good is my career if Gaurav has no one to confide in, if Maa–Papa have to die a thousand little deaths alone in an empty flat? No matter how comfortable the apartment they live in, their loneliness won’t be cured.
Today, we are finally shifting into the apartment Gaurav had bought and was insisting that Maa–Papa move into for years.
‘I knew this would happen someday,’ Gaurav says with a silly smile.
And before I can answer, he’s already on the phone, probably texting Tejal because that’s what he does all day like a teenager.
When the packers are done, I realize Gaurav’s apartment is much too big for all our possessions. The curtains are too short for the huge windows, the sofa looks tiny in the massive living room, and the entire showcase looks like a shoe rack when his 65-inch TV rests on it.
‘We need to get a few things, fill this place up,’ I tell Maa–Papa.
‘We need nothing else,’ Maa responds. ‘We have everything now.’
Of course, we do.
I leave to pay the packers and movers who are waiting downstairs. I’m scrolling through my phone when the lift door swishes open. A girl in loose fits, an oversized sweater and mismatched baggy jeans is standing inside, reading a thick book, tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses resting on her nose.JAVA Programming, I read on the cover.
She looks familiar, I think, and then recognition flashes in my mind. I know her. She used to be much smaller.
Rabbani.
‘Rabbani!’ I say, like we know each other. Having listened to so many of her stories on the podcast, she’s no longer a stranger to me.
Rabbani looks at me sceptically, recognizes who I am and rolls her eyes.
‘Ugh, this day just keeps getting better and better!’
Rabbani’s pretty, like her brother would have been had he been a girl. I ignore her comment and the exaggerated roll of her eyes. Daksh had pointed it out in the podcast.
‘Wow, you’ve grown up so much!’
‘Congrats. You understand how time works.’
Before I can say anything though, Rabbani speaks up again.
‘I’m sorry about your brother,’ she says softly. ‘Bhaiya told me about that crazy drug thing. Hard stuff.’
‘I’m sorry about your brother’s divorce.’
‘Yeah, well, life’s a mess.’
‘It will be—’
‘It’s not like I didn’t see it coming, Aanchal,’ she says, sharply. ‘He has always been in love with you. Why else would he leave Amruta?’
