Chapter 16 Aditi
Aditi
‘Naman calling.’
I cut the asshole’s call again and find happiness in doing so. Happiness? Can’t really call it that, can I? Satisfaction, maybe.
He calls again and I cut it again.
‘Is it Naman?’ asks Raghav.
He’s sitting on the floor, trying to fix the robot vacuum he bought a few days ago.
It worked for a while after he paired it with his phone but now it just bumps into things, unsure of where to go.
A directionless robot. Raghav’s wearing an old college fest T-shirt with a hole near the shoulder seam.
He’s probably going to try and throw it away in the next couple of weeks, I need to keep an eye on it if he does that. It seems pretty nice otherwise.
I nod. ‘The group is alive today,’ I tell him. ‘Anniversary . . . also people have started getting cheques. Some people are leaving the group too.’
‘Grief has a timeline,’ he says, like he keeps telling me and himself. ‘So does anger.’
He puts the vacuum cleaner aside and starts scrolling through the updates on the Indigo Crash Support Group.
What started off as a grief support group, where people would post pictures of the people they’d lost, transformed into a channel for everyone’s anger to hold the airlines accountable and then get them to eventually pay the compensation that the relatives deserved.
Relative. That’s what I was. Legal spouse, they say.
For however little time I might have been.
‘Are you going to cash the cheque?’ he asks.
The cheque still sits on the table, the cheque that Naman’s calling for because he was, apparently, family.
‘It will end if I do,’ I say. ‘What will I do if this ends?’
‘Live?’
‘Oh please! As if you’re living.’
Before he can defend himself with something silly, my phone lights up. Naman’s texting now.
‘What’s he saying?’ asks Raghav.
‘Behen ki laudi . . .’ I say. ‘The usual. Should I call him?’
‘No.’
‘I think I should.’
‘You will do it as a joke,’ he says, ‘and then get stressed yourself.’ Then in a voice that’s more growl than words, he adds, ‘Don’t.’
But I like bothering Raghav. It gives me something to do, so I call Naman, and he picks up on the first ring. Obviously. He’s a money-hungry asshole.
‘Hi, Naman.’
I put him on loudspeaker and put on my most nonchalant voice because I know it pisses him off. And then, I brace myself for the stream of expletives that are sure to come.
‘Behenchod, if you try to take the money, you see—’
‘Is that how you talk to your widowed sister-in-law?’ I interrupt him and though the words scrape in my throat when I say them, I still do.
‘Three months, saali kuttiya! You were married for three months! No one cares!’
‘Apparently, the law does, Bhaiya,’ I say, just to irritate him.
‘Case kar dunga,’ he says. ‘This joke marriage will not stand.’
I know he’s recording the call, so I say, ‘It was a proper marriage, Bhaiya. Aman took a date, we went there, there were witnesses, and there are pictures.’
‘THEY WERE PAID TOUTS AT THE REGISTRAR’S OFFICE! Don’t teach me!’ he screams.
‘Are we done here, Naman?’
There’s silence from the other side.
Then: ‘Are you happy? Having killed him and now taking away the money from us? Listen, randi—’
The word hangs in the air, venomous and sharp. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Raghav’s hands pause on the vacuum cleaner. I cut the call before Naman can finish his tirade. Naman calls me again and I cut his call. These little revenges are what keep me alive.
‘Well,’ I say, my voice raspy. ‘That was fun.’
‘You want to talk about it?’ he asks, his gaze still on the defunct robot.
‘Absolutely not.’
It’s our familiar refrain, the wall we build between us every few days.
Raghav gives up on the robot. I can tell he has; his jaw is clenched, a tell I’ve learnt from seeing him on his work calls.
Two minutes later, he lightly kicks the vacuum—careful not to break it—then processes the return on his phone and hides the robot behind the sofa, out of sight.
He’ll order something else now; he had nine deliveries yesterday. It’s how he copes.
‘They could have just written “wife” in that letter,’ I tell him, the words coming out in a rush. ‘Instead of “legal spouse”.’
‘Technically, you never got to play wife,’ he replies, his voice flat.
That line stings more than it should. I don’t reply. Raghav was the third person to know about our marriage. After Aman and me. The first time a letter came from the airline, when the initial investigation was over, he was the one who read it out loud.
‘Legal spouse,’ he had said, raising his eyebrows. ‘You lied to me?’
‘You were a stranger,’ I’d told him, and I remember the way his face softened then.
‘Still,’ he’d said, ‘kind of impressive. I mean, I get it.’
‘Impressive?’
‘I mean . . . commitment. Even if it was just on paper.’
I remember asking him if he and Megha had ever thought of doing something like that.
‘We talked about it since every apartment that I liked wanted married people,’ he’d admitted. ‘I asked around too. But there was a five-month waiting period.’
Aman and I were impulsive. We joked about it all the time—‘Let’s just get married today’, ‘Can’t wait to be married to you’, until one day, he got a date at the registrar’s office.
Why did he do it? To call my bluff? Because he thought I’d run if he didn’t?
He’s not here to tell me anything any more.
Back then, I didn’t question it one bit.
‘And you went through with it?’ Raghav had asked.
‘Wouldn’t you have?’
He’d nodded. ‘If I were that sure? Yes.’
Everyone else who’s heard the story since—Tejal, my parents, Aman’s family—they all think it’s bizarre.
Everyone except Raghav.
We spend the next few hours, refreshing and doomscrolling.
Today’s the day we can really lean into what happened.
The compensation disbursement has given news outlets a story to report on.
They will forget about it tomorrow. That’s just the nature of news, of people.
I know I should shower. But today feels like the wrong day for any sort of movement.
But Raghav has now showered. He has a lead on me.
Which is rare in the grief Olympics of this house.
I’m about to get up when there’s a knock. Three quick raps.
Neither of us moves.
Then, a voice:
‘Open the door, gadhon.’
It’s Tejal.
‘Khol bhai!’
It’s Sumrit too.
Raghav sighs. Doesn’t budge.
I go.
The door creaks as I open it. It always does.
Raghav says he’s fixed it, but everything he fixes still creaks like this.
This house is . . . unfixable. Us, the door, the burning smell of the stove, the vacuum.
Tejal’s standing there, worry creasing her forehead.
Next to her is Sumrit, her boyfriend. She’s wearing Sumrit’s XL T-shirt with leggings.
Tejal’s tall, 5’6” and even then the T-shirt looks like a large shopping bag on her.
It used to be a medium, then a large. Now XL.
Apparently, Sumrit’s bulking up and I want to tell him he should stop.
There are two momo trays peeking out of her bag. Her eyes scan me, then the hallway.
She raises an eyebrow. ‘We expected worse.’
‘Why? Is today special?’
Sumrit rolls his eyes. ‘Where’s Raghav? We’re going out.’
‘I’m going nowhere,’ Raghav calls out from inside.
Tejal barges in. ‘Both of you can’t just sit here.’
Raghav flops down on the sofa, grabs the remote. ‘Of course I can. I pay the rent here.’
‘Again with the rent?’ Tejal groans.
Sumrit’s on the sofa too, peeking at the highlights Raghav’s put on the television and tells him, ‘Bhai, let’s go. It will be a nice change. We can’t leave you alone.’
‘Please, guys. Get up,’ Tejal insists. ‘This is not good. Both of you alone, like this.’
‘Like what?’ I ask.
Tejal rolls her eyes. ‘You look like you were just about to cry. So shut up.’
Neither of us replies.
Sumrit takes the remote from Raghav and switches it off. ‘Bhai, Tejal’s scaring me that you . . . you guys are on the seventh floor. It’s risky. So, who knows what you might do? So . . . come bhai.’
‘You think we’ll kill ourselves?’ I ask.
‘Don’t say that,’ Tejal protests. ‘Don’t put that energy out into the universe.’
Raghav half-smiles. Or whatever his version of a smile is these days. ‘Not a bad idea. Instant death. We could look into it.’
‘Point,’ I say. ‘Of all the instant death methods, this one ranks the highest.’
‘Guys, seriously,’ Tejal interrupts. ‘Stop feeding this thought. Let’s go.’
‘No,’ Raghav says flatly. ‘I have a match to watch—’
‘GUYS. PLEASE,’ Tejal yells. ‘I’M NOT STOPPING TILL YOU COME.’