‘There’s no difference whether I do it now or later. As you said, the worst has passed,’ insists Gaurav.
‘There’s a lot of ugliness.’
‘I have seen death. What can be worse than that?’
‘Oye, don’t try to be philosophical with me.’
He raises his hands in mock anger. ‘I think I have seen enough shit to say a few heavy lines.’
‘No, please.’
‘Can I have it?’ he asks with his outstretched hand.
I warn him as I pass him my phone. ‘I need to know that you will be okay. Because this time if you enter a spiral, I swear I’m going to end your life myself.’
‘You worry too much, Bhaiya.’
‘If I had worried the right amount, we wouldn’t be sitting here.’
He takes the phone from me.
Saved in my Notes app is Gaurav’s Instagram password. Going back online will bring in a torrent of hate; some of it he deserves, some no one does. Having run his account for years and interacted with his fans online, I know what’s going to happen. Hundreds of thousands of people are going to unfollow him immediately as soon as he reactivates his accounts. His DMs will be flooded with abuses, angry voice notes, death threats.
He looks at me and says, ‘I know the things that matter to me. My family, you, Tejal. But I need to go out there again, toexist. To do that, I need to apologize and start afresh. There’s still a lot left in me. I will go back to the grind again.’
‘You think you can compete again?’
‘A few drug tests, clean blood. A few months of practice. I will be ready to chart my redemption journey,’ he says with a smile. ‘Just like you said.’
I keep my scepticism within me. It’s the only thing he knows to do so it’s natural that he would want to get back to it. But if he has to have an addiction, I’d rather it be this.
‘Sure.’
He takes out his phone. Then logs into his Instagram account. I hold my breath wondering if he would be able to take all the hate that was poured into his Instagram account before he deactivated it. He scrolls through the comments, the messages, the vitriol that had flooded his account. I scan his face for reactions. After an eternity, he locks his phone and looks up at me with a half-smile so fragile it could break at any moment. And then he smiles, wide and bright.
‘Honestly,’ he says. ‘I thought it would be a lot worse.’
We finish the rajma chawal and no one disturbs us.
12.
Daksh Dey
We pooled our resources in the kitchen today. We had decided we would make an elaborate lunch before I leave for the Eurotrip next week. Both Rabbani and Baba don’t want me to leave.
‘It’s a boring midlife crisis,’ Rabbani had said.
‘Unnecessary waste of fuel,’ Baba had added. ‘And what’s there in Europe that’s not here?’
Baba, of course, has an ulterior motive for not wanting me to leave. He doesn’t want to bear the wrath of Rabbani’s teenage angst all by himself—the unfinished lunches, the banged doors, the upturned shoes in the living room. However, surprisingly enough, today the queen has kept her laptop aside and graciously lent her aid in the kitchen. We have made roti, bharta, paneer sabzi, raita, papad, pulao and kosha mangsho.
‘You’re going to miss all of this,’ she warns me.
We are about to sit down to eat when the bell rings.
‘I’ll get the door,’ says Rabbani from the kitchen.
Baba and I start to serve ourselves. Baba doing so with one hand while texting on his WhatsApp running group with the other.
