I take a deep breath and walk into the Indian-Chinese joint, Dragon Hut, which Daksh has picked for us to meet. ‘Just keep breathing,’ I give myself the same advice I give my clients. The restaurant reeks of soya sauce and the smell of stale momos. The place is still popular, I can see, because none of the tables are empty and there’s a buzz around. As I scan the restaurant, I see a familiar face sitting at a table in a corner.
Daksh.
He’s looking down at the menu. But even from here, I can see the signs of time. His hair is short-cropped and there are hints of grey in them that shine under the harsh, white tube lights. Helooks up and spots me. No smile, just a small wave, and his lips turn downwards. It reminds me of how difficult it gets to smile once you’re older. Kids, teenagers, smile and laugh easily. We, the older ones, don’t. We have seen too much to become too happy in this moment. There’s always grief peeking from the next corner.
I walk over to him, heart thumping, beads of sweat on myforehead.
‘You’re here,’ he says, dryly.
‘You seem surprised,’ I say, matching the coldness in his voice.
‘You have a way of disappointing me, Aanchal.’
‘And you have a way of ruining my life,’ I counter. ‘I think we are even in that sense. What are you doing here?’
‘I swipe right on everyone from the opposite sex. We have Chinese here, then we pick up a few bottles of beer and knock them back. Then I find a deserted back alley and I fuck them. That’s what I’m doing here, Aanchal.’
‘Looking to take me to a back alley and fuck me?’ I chuckle sadly. ‘You’re too sensitive to be an angry, vindictive fuckboy.’
‘I can be if I want to.’
‘You will never be anything more than an overly sentimental, understanding boy.’
‘You must make a terrible psychologist,’ he says, his voice pure acid. ‘For someone who claims to understand people, it’s pathetic that you have to date like this.’
‘And what does this say about you?’
‘That I’m horny, and I can do things like this.’
‘That’s misogyny, because you’re saying that I can’t do the same as you’re doing, Daksh.’
‘Good for you,’ he says.
Just then, the waiter hovers over us. He points towards the increasing line of waiting customers who are looking at our table.
‘American chop suey,’ he says. ‘And chicken corn soup.’
‘Make the soup into two,’ I add. ‘And one Hakka noodles and a chilli chicken dry.’
The waiter shuffles away, leaving us in a haze of anger and confused feelings. Looking at Daksh reminds me of those movies where an approaching tornado rips apart houses, flings cattle into the air and devastates entire ecosystems. That is what the thought of him does to my mind.
We sit in silence. The food comes to our table all at once. He floods his soup with extra soya sauce.
‘All those trips to Europe and you still like petrol with your food,’ I point at his now black soup.
‘Of all people, I didn’t expect you to be an elitist,’ he barbs. ‘We all turn into the people we hate.’
‘Then I should have turned into you, Daksh.’
He catches my gaze. His eyes first burn with anger and then change to shame, and then slowly to resentment.
‘I shouldn’t have said that.’
He exhales slowly. ‘No, you’re right to blame me.’
‘You were only a part of the problem,’ I concede. ‘But the easiest part of the problem for the blame.’
He nods as though he understands. Like he has done the same thing we have: blame him for Gaurav’s suicide.
