She chuckles. ‘Your generation. You sound forty now.’ And then her voice grows soft. ‘Dada, you are a bit extra about everything. But I’m proud of you for doing this.’
‘Says the girl who had ripped up that passport.’
‘I was a child!’ she protests.
‘You’re still a child.’
‘I think... I think Aanchal is good for you,’ she says.
‘You’ve come a long way from hating her.’
Rabbani gave me a quick glance, her face breaking into a grin. ‘She’s still annoying. Too haughty about her intelligence and her beauty or whatever. But you... you seem less
miserable with her around. And I guess I want you to be happy.’
I nod. We enter the town that no longer looks like the idyllic hill station straight out of children’s story books. It’s now a dusty, busy half-city, half-town stuck in an identity crisis. Aanchal’s house is on the outskirts of Clement Town, where the narrow lanes are also home to packs of stray dogs and cows. As we count the numbers down to her address, a knot of anxiety begins to form in my stomach. I can see her mother in the front yard, her face behind a plant she’s watering.
‘You can do this, Dada,’ Rabbani says. ‘Just be yourself. Which is, sickeningly sweet. Always remember, no aunties have ever hated you.’
‘Except the ones whose sons I killed.’
Rabbani throws me a murderous look. ‘Don’t self-sabotage.’
‘I’ll try my best, Rabbu.’
We switch off the engine and I sit there for a bit, trying to form the words in my head into sentences. I hear Rabbani take a deep breath.
‘Do well, Dada,’ she says. ‘It’s literally killing me to leave you alone and, you know, do my thing.’
‘Now who’s being extra?’
She scoffs, rolling her eyes, but the soft smile on her lips and the little wetness in her eyes betray her. ‘I will always hate Aanchal, Dada... because you love her so much.’
‘Not more than I love you, Rabbu.’
‘There’s a hierarchy?’
‘Yes, there is.’
‘Then I’m okay,’ she says and bursts out laughing. When she stops, she reaches across and flings open the driver’s door. ‘Now, do this.’
As I step out on to the pavement, I feel the weight of my past and the possibility of my future pressing down on me.
Rabbani steps out of the car, her voice drifting over to me on the warm breeze. ‘And Dada?’
I turn to look at her, my hand on the gate of Aanchal’s house.
‘Dada is the best. Dada is amazing.’
9.
Aanchal Madan
Sometimes, when I’m at an airport counter, the person checking me in asks, ‘Where are you going to?’ and I find myself disoriented, not knowing which city I came from, or where I’m going to. In the past three weeks, I have been to thirty-two colleges in nineteen cities as a part of the organization’s team. The work’s rewarding, but it’s taking everything out of me—emotionally and physically. All the new therapists in the organization had been warned against compassion fatigue, which a lot of overworked therapists feel. There is so much chronic stress and pain around you, that you feel numb to it. I’m not numb yet. I can feel everything. And for now, I enjoy helping make a difference. In our group, there’s a running joke we ask each other, ‘Can you still feel things?’ And I do a quick mental check. I do, I do feel something.
After I get my boarding pass, I navigate through the labyrinth of Mumbai Airport, feeling a mix of excitement and apprehension. My destination is Manipur, a place where the air smells of damp earth and rain, which has the coolest students Ihave ever met. I have been there twice before and both times I extended my trip.
My phone buzzes. It’s Maa, her name shining brightly on my screen. I swipe to answer, nestling the phone between my shoulder and ear, ‘Hello, Maa.’
