Chapter 4
Aditi
‘There’s no way I’m going to a hotel!’
‘Hey, jaan. Listen,’ Aman says, as he always does to get me to agree to whatever he feels is right, and more often than not, I have to agree. He’s seven years older on paper, but it’s only when he uses this tone—commanding, yet soft—that it feels like it.
‘Don’t jaan me. I’m not unnecessarily spending on a hotel room. We aren’t,’ I insist.
‘It’s just one day,’ he says, his voice patient.
‘And I’m not becoming a burden on Day One, okay? The waiting room is comfortable, don’t worry about it. I’m not an oldie like you.’
‘Jaan,’ he repeats, a warning note in his voice. ‘You’re not a burd—’
‘No,’ I insist now. ‘I won’t. You keep saying it, but I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.’
‘Should I also stay at the airport then?’ he asks, his tone dropping a little.
‘Yours is free, Aman! If mine were free, I would have ordered room service ALL THE TIME!’
‘Room service is not included,’ he says. ‘Listen to me. What will you do there the entire night? Look, my money is your money—’
‘I’ll read my book, sleep a little. And anyway, you’re landing at six. I’ll have to leave the hotel at four. It’s not like I’ll get any sleep,’ I urge him. ‘And I’ve made a friend who’s staying here the night, so I’m sorted.’
‘A friend?’ he says with mock jealousy. He’s the not the possessive kind.
He’s the exact opposite. He jokes that once you’ve had a long-term relationship go bust, you know it’s seldom someone outside the relationship.
It’s you. In the past one and half years that we have been together, he has mentioned his failed relationship thrice—which is not a lot, I know—but I would have liked it to be zero times. I’m the possessive kind.
‘He was waiting for the same flight,’ I explain. ‘And guess what?’
‘What?’
‘His fiancée is travelling too on the same flight!’
‘Okay?’ he says, plainly. ‘Is that really a big coincidence?’
‘There’s something else too,’ I say and drop my voice to a whisper. ‘Though that’s a sad bit. Their situation . . . it’s a bit like ours.’
‘Like ours?’
‘Their parents didn’t agree to their relationship. They are also running away.’
Aman drops his voice and says, a little softer, ‘We are not running away. We are walking away. There’s a difference. We don’t need to be guilty about what we are doing here.’
I nod. ‘You’re right. They are also walking away.’
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Yeah, that I would say is quite a coincidence.’
‘Her name’s Megha,’ I tell him. ‘Go say hi if you find her.’
‘There are 250 people on the flight,’ he says with a laugh. ‘I doubt I will find her. Achcha listen, they are just telling us where to catch the shuttle. I will call you in a bit.’
Click.
When I look up, I find Raghav buying himself a book from the bookstore.
It’s a productivity book, The Best You, that touts to change the reader’s life and make them reach their absolute potential.
I have been through the phase too. However, unlike the others, I was drowning in assignments while many coasted and I started to believe there was something wrong with me.
Having paid, he stands there, completely absorbed, running a hand through his short, well-managed hair.
He has a nice face. Not handsome in the easy, bright way Aman’s is.
Aman is in his final form—handsome, built well, but Raghav’s still .
. . a work in progress. You can still see a boy in him.
His tan is uneven, a tell-tale that he must be spending a lot of time outdoors, and it kind of suits him.
He’s wearing a simple, dark-grey linen shirt.
Looks expensive. And so do his dark trousers that he’s wearing over Nike minimal sneakers.
I wonder what his salary is. Should I Google Glassdoor and find out?
That would be too weird. I slip into these patterns every now and then every time my own employment smacks me in the face.
‘Have you read this?’ he asks when he catches me staring at his book.
I nod.
‘Did it help?’ he asks.
‘For a day, and then I resorted to my old habits. So, I’m guessing I will never reach my potential. The best me,’ I say.
‘There are some other books too that I can recommend,’ he says. ‘There’s one by—’
‘I’m beginning to think there’s no compelling reason to find out what the best, most productive version of me will be like,’ I say and point to the cover of the book.
‘If I were a world-changing genius, I would have known by now.’ He doesn’t say it, but I know what he’s thinking, so I say, ‘You think that’s giving up, right? ’
‘I didn’t say that,’ he says. ‘By the way, Megha says the same thing. That we are trying too hard to be perfect and then one day AI or something will replace us.’
‘Will it?’ I say, and before he can respond, I tell him, ‘By the way, I told Aman about Megha and you. They are getting shifted to a hotel now.’
And that’s when my phone rings. It’s Aman on a video call. He usually never video-calls.
‘Hello?’ I say.
‘Hey. Is he . . .’ And then Aman turns to the side. I hear a girl’s voice, assertive and smooth, like a radio host’s, say, ‘Raghav.’ And then Aman says, ‘Is Raghav around?’
‘Yes,’ I say, confused.
Raghav hears his name and gives me the same confused look that I give him.
And then, Aman turns the camera towards a girl who waves at me.
She’s not really a girl, a proper woman.
Her face structure is perfect? I don’t see why Raghav’s parents .
. . but then I see what it is. Suddenly, I feel intensely sad about Raghav.
A man smitten by who Megha is, beyond what I can see—her beauty, but I can’t imagine that how she looks didn’t play a huge part in his love for her, and yet it’s the reason why they have had to run away.
She’s sitting down, and I can only see her face, weaving in and out of frame, but she feels like she’s tall.
Like, really tall. And beautiful, like proper beautiful.
‘Hi guys,’ the girl says, her voice as smooth as I imagined.
Raghav now steps closer and looks into the camera. ‘Hi?’ Was he blushing?
‘They were calling out names for the bus,’ explains Aman. ‘And she was right in front of me.’
‘Today’s a day of coincidences!’ I squeal, but none of them share my excitement.
‘By the way, both of you are crazy that you’re staying at the airport,’ says Megha. ‘Raghav, go home, and Aditi, please, you too.’
‘Can we not discuss this?’ says Raghav, his voice firm. ‘I’m here.’
‘See?’ I say. ‘Don’t worry about us.’
‘Listen, guys,’ says Raghav. ‘We’ll be okay here. It’s just a few hours.’
‘How’s it okay?’ says Megha. If someone with the quiet ferocity of Megha had told me to go, I would have gone.
But Raghav doesn’t move an inch and says, ‘Of course not, Megha.’
‘You’re not going to do it,’ says Megha, her voice full of certainty.
‘Of course not,’ I say, crossing my arms.
‘Fine,’ says Megha, letting out a small, defeated sigh.
‘Okay, guys,’ says Aman. ‘We are here, I’m cutting the call. Nice meeting you, Raghav. See you in Delhi? Aditi, I will call you in a bit.’
‘Bye,’ says Megha.
The call ends abruptly.
I look at Raghav. ‘Megha’s hot.’
‘Amongst other things, yes,’ he says, unable to hide a proud smile.
‘How did you like Aman?’ I ask.
‘He has nice teeth,’ Raghav says, looking right at me.
It makes me crack up and think maybe the night’s not that long too.