‘Aanchal, if you’re getting drunk to seduce me, you don’t need to. I have always been yours.’
‘I know,’ I say.
He tucks a few stray hairs behind my ear and lets his fingers linger there. His touch is warm, the pressure of his fingertips sending a tingle down my neck. He stares at his glass and then slowly tips the entire thing into his mouth. In a slow, raspy, determined tone, he says, ‘I think I’m ready for you.’
‘You make it sound like you’re going to operate on me,’ I say and giggle like a schoolgirl and hate that I do that.
‘Isn’t love a bit like that? Pulling yourself apart down to the atom, fusing yourself with the other and seeing how existence pans out?’
‘You always had the flair for dramatic and needlessly confusing metaphors.’
‘Would it be too much of a cliché if I say you bring it out in me?’
‘Keep saying these words to me.’
‘What else would you like to me to say?’ he asks me, his voice dreamy. ‘Like this, right here, sitting next to you, with the possibility of a future together will be one of the greatest things I will ever experience in my life?’
He stretches out his hand for me. I put my hand in his. His grip is strong, and makes me feel loved more deeply than words could ever describe.
‘Take care of me?’ I whisper.
He wraps his arm around me in a tight embrace, as if he is attempting to shield me from the world. I lean into him, and with his touch, a burden is lifted, allowing my soul to finally breathe. As if I have been reborn, I can now live. I close my eyes.
When I open them, I’m in my own bed. I have only a faint memory of lying down on the blanket, holding him. My mind constructs the past: of him picking me up and getting mehome.
That’s what I feel with him: like coming home.
11.
Daksh Dey
I arrive at the society gym and spot Gaurav at work with his personal trainer, doing bench presses and screaming like a little boy. But he has visibly put on more muscle in the couple of weeks since he began his regimen and it’s good to see. Despitehis performance in the gym, he’s all about protein and omega capsules and creatine these days. I’m proud of him and his recovery. He waves me over when he finishes, signals that he’d only need a few minutes to wrap up.
I wait. He flexes his puny arms for me.
Today, we are going to our favourite eatery: Gupta Rajma Chawal at Connaught Place. We used to avoid spots like this when Gaurav became Instagram famous. People would swarm around him asking for selfies, and though he would power through, smiling for them, it tired him out. But the universe has unfortunately conspired to give us that opportunity now with Gaurav’s following dwindling to nothing. Of the few times Gaurav and I have been out, no one bothered us. In times of ten-second attention spans, deleting your YouTube account and deactivating your Instagram account for six months is like going missing for a century. Countless others swarm and take your place like locusts. It’s like you never existed.
I have felt this first-hand. Since our parenting podcast shut down, listeners moved to other podcasts. The requests to restart our podcast—despite its wide listener base—ebbed with time.
But today, we are going to talk about none of that. I’m going to tell him about Aanchal and me, and our impending trip to Europe. We have submitted our passports under fast tracker premium services and we leave in a week. He wouldn’t mind it, of course, but it’s important that he hears it from me.
We climb into the car. He sits in the driver’s seat. His hands tremble as he fumbles with the key.
‘You never forget how to drive,’ I remind him.
Sweat glistens on his forehead. I can practically hear his heart pounding as he starts up the engine. This is his first time since leaving rehabilitation.
‘Go easy at first,’ I instruct him.
He gives a small nod before shifting into a higher gear.
Within fifteen minutes, Gaurav’s muscle memory kicks in and he drives like he used to. Fast but safe.
‘Don’t forget the indicators,’ I tell him.
‘Didi and you are going to Europe,’ he remarks out of the blue as he shifts into a higher gear.
‘Did she—’
