Chapter 20 Aditi
Aditi
There’s a knock on my door. Three taps. A rhythm I’ve come to associate with him.
I don’t answer immediately. I look around my room.
It’s embarrassing. But it’s not like he hasn’t seen it.
In fact, I like annoying him like this. He comes, he wanders, he cleans what he can and then walks out.
But the past few days have been hard for him—harder than usual.
His office has always been hectic, he has designed it to be hectic, but he’s drained by the time he comes back because of all the conversations he has had to have with everyone.
I try to do my part—cook a little, clean a little better, but sooner or later my willpower gives in.
It’s a hard job—to live. Dying is way easier.
He knocks again. I get up and open the door. He’s wearing jeans and a faded grey tee, and has an imperfect shave.
‘We should go,’ he says, eyes behind me, roving at how unorganized I am. I’m sure he’s assessing what he can fix.
‘Where?’
‘Please don’t be naive. I’m coming too.’
‘Of course, you’re not.’ The words hang there, heavier than I expect. Clearly, he hasn’t thought this through. People in grief seldom do. I know. I cross my arms and try to drive the point across. ‘And do what there exactly? Apologize to them?’
He nods again, now suddenly smaller.
I scoff. ‘That’s a fucked-up plan, Raghav.’
He doesn’t react.
‘It wasn’t your fault. How many times do I have to tell you that? If anything, they played a part.’
He shrugs. And then I tell him that I tell myself every few hours like a fucking mantra.
‘You weren’t the pilot. You didn’t build the plane.
You didn’t even want to be there that day.
You were forced to by circumstances. It was the perfect storm.
Or the perfect imperfect storm. Whichever way you look at it. ’
‘I could have gone to Lucknow to pick her up.’
I laugh pitifully. ‘Then you would have died too. What difference would that make to Megha’s parents? You’re not making any sense. And seriously, how stupid are you to think saying sorry will give them peace?’
He doesn’t answer.
I keep going. ‘You’re doing it for yourself. Just admit that. You want to get it off your chest.’
‘Maybe.’ A pause. ‘You coming or not?’
I look at him. At the shadows under his eyes.
I feel sorry for him. I feel angry. Because I see myself in him and I hate myself and I hate him and I hate everything about ourselves.
There was a time when he was him, and I was me, but ever since that day, we seem to be this congealed mass of sadness.
There’s hardly anything to distinguish between me and him.
We had the same stories of heartbreak with our families, the promise of a new love story, but now we are the same.
There are differences—he buried himself in work, cliché, and I buried myself in thoughts of Aman, cliché again, but we are the same.
I don’t remember who I was, or who he was.
I don’t even know who he was. He was a stranger, and he’s in many ways still a stranger.
Who could he be if that morning hadn’t happened?
Who would I have been? How would our double dates looked like?
Would we have hated each other? Would he have found me untidy?
Would I have found him to be uptight? Who would we have been?
At twenty-three, we are nothing except that day and our response to it.
‘No, you’re not coming.’
‘You know I am.’
Ten minutes later, we are in the cab. He’s stubborn like that.
The airline office is annoying. White walls, tinted glass, a logo that means pure evil to me.
I have spent countless hours here, jumping bureaucratic hoops.
The security guard at the gate is huge and is probably a deterrent for irate customers.
I remember the protests that happened here when the investigation was too long, and when they tried to palm off their responsibilities.
There were different guards then—smaller ones.
We’re barely five steps from the door when Raghav slows down.
I follow his gaze.
There, by the parking bay, is a taxi. A white Swift Dzire.
And stepping out of it, Megha’s parents.
Her mother in a soft cotton sari, hair tied in a low bun.
She looks like her. Raghav, of course, sees that too.
Her father, tall, shirt tucked in too neatly, holding her by the arm, in his other hand a file.
I know what the file contains: because I have a version of it with me as well.
To prove that the person once lived and had a family.
A beat later, Yash steps out. Megha’s brother.
And that’s where Raghav loses his courage. He turns away.
‘This is your chance,’ I tell him. ‘If you still want to do this, that is . . .’
He exhales deeply, rubs the back of his neck, nods and slowly follows me towards the gate.
We’re just a few steps from it when I see him again.
Naman.
Like he’s been waiting. He waves once, not as a greeting but a warning. And then he walks up to us fast. I watch Raghav tighten up. But he’s walking towards them, not us. He stops and greets Megha’s mother.
‘How do they—’
My words trail. They must have met at the protests.
At the hearings. Maybe from the group. The conversation is brief.
Raghav and I watch it unfold. And then, Megha’s parents turn.
They are looking straight at Raghav. And there it is—I see it in Megha’s mother’s eyes.
They well up immediately. But she doesn’t cry.
Doesn’t break. Just folds her tissue, presses it to her face and turns away like she never saw us.
Megha’s father glares at Raghav, but what’s there to say, really.
It’s only Yash and Naman now: the bereaved brothers.
Naman’s clearly talking about us because every now and then, they both turn towards us.
Although saying that Naman is bereaved is a bit much.
Or he is, I don’t really know any more. Sometimes I wonder what my parents would have felt had I been on the flight.
Bereaved? Or relieved? Do people who kill their daughters feel relief?
What happens after? Is their honour restored?
I want to leave. Right now. But it’s too late. They are walking in our direction. Naman stops right in front of me and Raghav does that familiar dance of coming between us.
‘Aditi,’ Naman says, looking straight at me. Then, to Raghav, his voice a notch colder, ‘You too came.’
Raghav just nods. ‘We did.’ He adds, quietly, to Yash, ‘Hi—’
‘I have nothing to do with you,’ Yash cuts in tersely, not even looking at Raghav. ‘I’m just here because Naman said that the last time he requested you guys for the money, you got physical with him. So please, don’t talk to me.’
I see what Naman’s trying to do. Recruiting people for his cause, and who would be easier than Yash.
‘I’m not here to fight,’ Naman says quickly, hands raised slightly, palms open. He’s playing his role well. ‘I know you don’t care, but it’s been hell. For everyone. I know you guys don’t understand. You think you do, but you don’t. So please, make it easy for us.’
Such a bastard. I should have recorded those calls where he called me names.
‘She will make her own decision,’ Raghav replies, calm but firm. ‘When she feels prepared.’
‘For someone who led them to death,’ Yash says, eyes now on Raghav, voice flat but slicing, ‘you guys are shameless.’
That stuns Raghav into silence. His shoulders stiffen.
Yash’s tone isn’t cruel, but it’s cold. Surgical.
Like he had been planning to say this. I haven’t seen Yash before today, but Raghav told me he’s nineteen.
Looks much older. Despite his harshness, I only feel sorry for him.
He’s the only one who’s not responsible.
He knew of Raghav, he knew Megha would run away, and he told Megha that she needed to do what she needed to do despite him feeling that it was stupid.
He’s the only one who is blameless and who deserves to be felt sorry about.
He continues, his voice venomous, ‘What, Raghav? You thought your regret means anything? No. Zilch. Nothing.’
Naman adds, ‘Be a decent person, and give the money to me. Both of you have no idea what you have done to us. Both of you got the love story, right? We got the news article. You should end it here.’
Is Naman trying to guilt-trip Raghav into convincing me to give him the money? How low can he go?
‘Yash—’ Raghav starts.
‘No one’s talking to you,’ Yash snaps. ‘How the fuck will you understand that?’
Naman’s eyes lock on to mine.
‘You don’t deserve to hold on to what’s left of him just because you were the last person there,’ Naman says like the asshole he is. ‘Go inside. Pick it up. Do the right thing.’
‘She will do what she wants to do,’ Raghav says, edging in between us.
Yash shakes his head, scoffs under his breath—‘Shameless’—and turns, walking towards the building without looking back.
Naman glares at me one last time. ‘I want the money,’ he says, low and hard, then strides off after Yash. ‘I will do whatever it takes—’
‘You have done it already,’ I hiss. ‘You killed him.’
Before he can answer, I walk past him.
Inside, the office is too cold. A potted plant near the entrance is dying. A place of death, this. There’s a woman behind the desk, typing like her life depends on it, her nails clicking sharply against the keys.
I step forward.
‘Aditi Gupta,’ I say. ‘Aman’s . . .’
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even register the pause.
She pulls open a drawer and slides out a thick white envelope.
‘Sign here,’ she says, her voice devoid of warmth.
I sign.
The envelope reads: Aman Sareen—Beneficiary: Aditi Gupta
I hold it like it’s radiating heat. Like it could burn through me if I hold it too long. I carry it like hot metal. Outside, Raghav is waiting, shifting from one foot to another, nervous like the first day I saw him. I hand it to him silently. And then we walk to the car.
In a distance, we see Naman on his motorcycle, fuming.
‘It’s your money,’ Raghav reminds me.