‘What do you mean?’ snaps Rabbani.
‘I want to do this. That’s it! What’s so hard to understand?’
‘What do you mean do this one thing? Just say it clearly, dude, that you lost years of your life because of me... because of us.’
‘Both of you, shut up,’ scowls Baba.
‘It’s true, Rabbani, isn’t it?!’ I say, knowing I will regret the words.
‘When did I get to do something that only I wanted to do?’ I snap. ‘Let me do this!’
‘Fine. Fine!’ she says. ‘You don’t have to do anything for me! I will take care of myself! Just go date that—’
‘Don’t complete that sentence.’
She steps forward, tears streaming down her face. ‘And whatever we went through, it wasn’t just you, dude, it was all of us! Baba also went through it!’
‘I didn’t mean it like that. You know that.’
‘Of course you do! You walk around like a martyr!’
‘Rabbani, just stop speaking, okay?’
She doesn’t listen. ‘Someone who gave up so much for his poor sister and father! That’s what family does, Bhaiya. You stepped up and thank you but whatever... I don’t want to talk to you. Just stop making us feel like we are a burden!’
‘Rabbani, I never want you to feel like that. Listen to me—’
‘Don’t tell me what to do. I will do whatever I feel like. That guy, Arjun, I will go date him!’
‘Rabbani—’
‘Please keep quiet, Rabbani,’ Baba says.
‘Badtameezi mat kar,’ I warn Rabbani. ‘That guy is seventeen.’
Her eyes burn with anger. ‘I will do whatever I want!’
‘You can’t blackmail me, Rabbani. That’s not how it works.’
‘That’s exactly how it works!’
Rabbani shrugs and the fiery rage in her expression dies away. Instead, a strange, distant look comes over her face as she studies the passports in her hands. She throws one at me before tearing another passport—Aanchal’s—in half and tossing it to the ground in front of me.
‘She’s not going anywhere,’ she says menacingly. ‘Go be a martyr! Go alone! I assure you no one is going to miss you here!’
13.
Aanchal Madan
‘We are token number 43,’ Daksh says and sits next to me on the cold benches at the passport office. He’s wearing a grey T-shirt and black jeans, his go-to outfit. His minimalism also comes from a place of vanity. I think that’s how he likes to show off—looking handsome in even the most basic of clothes. His arms bulge against the fabric seams. I wonder what it would be like if he just put his arm around me. Would it feel infinitely better? It would. I steal glimpses of him periodically, take in his cologne and wonder,when did I become so smitten? Or had I always been? Every time our shoulders brush against each other, my head spins just a little bit.
We are carrying a letter from the commissioner of police, Delhi, Rajni Ahuja, a fan of Amruta, which will help us get the passport in three days. Following this, Abhishek Karan at VFS, Gaurav’s fan who now feels sorry for him, will help me with the Schengen visa stamping.
‘Rabbani’s too smart for this,’ I tell Daksh. What I don’t tell him is that I desperately want Rabbani to like me.
‘The tearing was symbolic, not literal,’ answers Daksh.
He gives his hand to me, palm up and I place my hand into his. Our fingers gently intertwine. Daksh’s hand is warm, his fingers gentle around my own.
