‘I miss him every day,’ he says. ‘That . . . stupid . . .’
I believe him. It won’t be surprising if he misses him more than I do. That’s a reason for a part of my anger with him. He knew my brother more than I did. In the last few years of his life, Gaurav had a more meaningful relationship with him than I did. I hate that he can say ‘I miss him’ with such a sense ofnostalgia. Like he can remember the good bits. For me, when I miss him, I still can’t shake his violent death from my eyes.
‘I’m sorry, again,’ he says.
‘And that makes it the ten thousandth time you have saidthat.’
My words come out as a reflex. I want to stop the words that form at the back of my throat.
‘I really am.’
‘Stopping just there? None of the other stuff you usually say? That we should talk, you would support me, all that sentimental bullshit.’
When Gaurav’s life ended tragically, we turned our fury towards Daksh. It wasn’t totally misplaced. After all, he had lured Gaurav into gaming in the first place. Then years later, he assured us of his recovery post-rehab and returned the social media keys that led to Gaurav’s relapse.
After we knew who to blame, Daksh, Papa brutally assaulted him, and Maa and I joined in with words. Despite the torment, Daksh bore our wrath and his own grief with unwavering grace. It only made us angrier. Our hatred fuelled our healing journey. We had so much grief, we had to put it somewhere, and we put it into hating him. For months, he offered help through his own pain. He loved us despite our hatred, which we harboured intensely. Our grief morphed us into merciless monsters. He was the villain of our story. Daksh endured, his grace and apologies only made us curse him more. We craved his defiance, we hoped he would fight back, but every time he came in front of us, his eyes were downcast, defeated, crumpled in his own sadness.
Hating him, blaming him, healed us a little. By the time we were done with him, we were a little ashamed of how badly we had treated him. But from that point, there was no coming back. Daksh had no place in our lives. He was a reminder of thedarkest period of our lives. His presence only meant death and pain. He was the worst part of our lives. Ultimately, we sold the apartment, left the city and moved away from where Gaurav had died.
‘I don’t know,’ he says, frustration evident in his voice. ‘I just want to make things right between us.’
‘After all that we said to you, why are you still here? Sitting in front of me?’
He looks at me, catches my gaze and then doesn’t answer the question. We eat in silence for the rest of the meal, both lost in our own thoughts. As we finish, Daksh looks at me. When the waiter comes back, we order a plate of momos to keep sitting there.
‘What else is there to do if not wait for you, Aanchal?’ he says. ‘Nothing.’
6.
Daksh Dey
As Aanchal and I walk out of Dragon Hut, the desperation of my last comment still hanging thick in the air, we are greeted by a warm, sticky Delhi night. Eager families rush past us to claim our table. As we stroll towards the parking lot, my eyes keep darting towards Aanchal. The soft yellow of the street light dances on her skin and casts shadows of her laugh lines and delicate wrinkles. Her hair is now thinner but still frames her face beautifully, and her narrower eyes seem to hold the wisdom of someone older than she is. Yet, as I think this, I recognize that labelling someone as having ‘aged gracefully’ can be iffy because it implies there’s a wrong way to age. For instance, Baba has aged gracefully, hopping around spritely on one leg, while others have grown fat and unsightly. Viewing Aanchal this wayinsinuates that other people in their thirties are ageing worse than she is, as if she stands above them in a hierarchy. But then again, when has that not been true?
She catches my eye, her eyes sparkling. At once, I can sense the sadness, yearning and longing between us, but for now, we’re here together. That’s all that matters.
Maybe.
She smiles at me, for the first time this evening. I don’t want to belittle her, so I keep my thoughts to myself: her patients’ problems could be swiftly remedied if she simply smiled at them. After all, her smile has just sent a wave of happiness through me.
I have gotten over all the misbehaviour from Aanchal, her father’s beatings and Aunty’s curses after Gaurav’s death. Most of it was warranted; I deserved it for failing Gaurav. To be honest, it purged me of a part of the guilt I felt. I embraced the punishment. And now that it’s been some time, I can look at Aanchal and feel other things than just that fucking guilt of letting my best friend down.
Aanchal doesn’t call for a cab.
‘Who would have thought that one day my mind would make a strong connection between Chinese food and acidity?’ I say.
She smiles. ‘I was about to suggest ice cream, Daksh.’
‘Cup or cone?’
‘I changed my mind.’
‘Now that doesn’t happen often, does it?’ I remark. ‘What do you want? Paan?’
She points at a wine and beer shop on the other side of the road. ‘That.’
‘Hoegaarden? Budweiser?’
‘What are we? Seventeen? Hoegaarden.’
