‘I’m here mainly because my parents want me to get married and have kids. That sort of thing,’ he says, leaning back into his chair.
I can see him relax, for now, that he has no future with me, he can be himself. And so can I.
‘Papa’s dead,’ I tell him. ‘... and Maa wants me to stop being alone.’
‘She is here? In Bangalore?’
‘Dehradun,’ I say. ‘They couldn’t bear to stay in the same city in which their son committed suicide.’
He lets out a silent gasp. ‘Oh.’
Another reason why it’s harder to get married late. There’s decades more of baggage you come with compared to a twenty-five-year-old. A twenty-five-year-old is probably untouched by death, by sickness, a life-ending failure.
He tries to change the subject. ‘How did you become a psychologist after, you know, SRCC? That’s where you went to college for undergrad?’
I suppress a sad chuckle. ‘Some people get a haircut when they want to change things. I got a graduate degree,’ I say softly. ‘I wanted to understand my brother’s mind.’
He has no option but to engage. Vanita frowns at me from the other table for letting the conversation get to this point.
‘Did you understand it?’ he asks.
‘At that time, I didn’t know that what I was really looking for was a time machine, to go back and stop him.’
‘Has it got any better since then?’
‘I get messages from my patients that I’ve saved their lives. They overstate, of course. It’s one thing thinking that you will kill yourself, another to be actually doing it.’
‘Do you enjoy your work?’ he asks, genuinely curious now.
‘More than anything in this world.’
He listens attentively as I tell him I’m part of a team of therapists who do roadshows for an organization dedicated to raising mental health awareness among college students. I’m in Bangalore for this reason.
‘What exactly do you do?’
‘So, a lot of kids need therapy, but, of course, they either can’t afford it or there’s a stigma attached to it, so they don’t go for it,’ I answer. ‘We create a safe space for students to talk about their feelings. These conversations start at a surface level but often end with someone revealing things about themselves—their sexuality, history with sexual assault, parental abuse andthat sort of thing—for the first time. We do it like storytelling sessions so it’s not very formal.’
‘Better than people like us who just bury everything,’ he says. ‘So, it’s just conversations?’
‘Pretty much. Sometimes they go on for, like, twelve hours. It’s very cathartic for them. And for us.’
I could take Anshul home with me. A few shots of vodka and he would start to look attractive—but this is something I’ve noticed as I age. When I was younger, sex felt like a currency to be used sparingly or made to work hard for; now, it’s something to do, like watching a show—nice if it’s good, but no big deal if it’s bad.
I don’t go back to my hotel with Anshul. Vanita drives me there.
‘No, Maa,’ I tell my mother on the phone. ‘He wanted me to move in with his parents.’
‘So what?’ scoffs Maa. ‘That’s what girls have to do. After a while, that’s where you live, beta.’
‘I’m not giving up my freedom, Maa. If I live with a boy, a man, I will have to think twice before coming to visit you.’
‘I agree,’ says Vanita. ‘It’s my fault. I should have screened him out.’
Maa disagrees. ‘You don’t have to come to me every week. I’m not a child.’
‘You’re alone.’
‘I’m the president of Lioness Club in Clement Town,’ Maa points out rather proudly. ‘You think I have time to be alone?’
