‘Doing a podcast isn’t an Olympic sport, or studying for an exam.’
‘Exactly! So, chill!’ she exclaimed.
‘You’ll regret it when you’re older, giving up your privacy.’
She threw up her hands and shook her head. ‘Dada, you’re literally raising me! You really think I won’t grow up to understand this stuff? C’mon!’
I kept stalling her. Eventually, she recorded a podcast anyway and put it out. Following that, I buckled, and we restarted the podcast.
‘If I clear the exam today,’ says Rabbani, ‘you’re defo gonna make a Bumble profile, okay?’
‘Nothing’s more tragic than a thirty-five-year-old on Bumble.’
‘Then go for Shaadi.com. I don’t care, Dada,’ she argues. ‘I’ll be gone, and you and Baba will just sit around, low-key missing me. It’s gonna be a whole sad vibe. Don’t want that for you.’
‘You’re overestimating how much I’ll miss you.’
‘You’ll be lost without me, Dada,’ says Rabbani, stating the obvious, because, well, it is obvious.
Sometimes, I close my eyes and wish that when I open them, she will be three years old again, totally dependent on me for everything. Looking at me like I’m the most amazing thing in the universe. Chiming, Dada is amazing, Dada is the best every few minutes.
‘Baba’s always so busy with his running and his consultancy gig. I don’t think he will miss you all that much, Rabbani,’ Iremind her.
‘I legit don’t know how he makes money,’ says Rabbani with a shrug. ‘I still can’t believe he blew 1 lakh on a cycle. Acycle!?’
‘I’m guessing hawala?’
‘So we’ve been raised by a smuggler,’ she says with a nod.
‘Maybe.’
‘You need a new project, Dada. You’ve spent the last two years hiding behind my entrance exams and the podcast. What now?’
‘I’ll fly to Mumbai and record our episodes.’
‘And the rest of the week?’ she asks. She looks at me with a bright smile and continues. ‘You’ll go on dates, and fall in love again. That’s what you’ll do.’
I shake my head.
‘It’s been four years, Dada,’ reminds Rabbani. ‘Go out, have some, like, casual hook-ups and—’
‘Stop.’
‘Sorry,’ she says, sulking.
‘It’s twelve,’ I point out.
‘Shall I?’ she asks, sliding the keyboard towards herself.
I stop her and pull the keyboard back towards me. ‘People say I’m lucky.’
I enter her roll number. A sense of déjà vu hits me, along with all the pain from the past. The years gone by, the emotions wasted, a life not lived, of what could have been. Of Aanchal, and of us.
The page loads up.
Rabbani Dey
Roll No. 07042024
