Chapter 21 Raghav
Raghav
The envelope sits in the centre of the table like it’s not ours.
I feel on edge.
The ceiling fan ticks with each rotation.
Someone has to start speaking or I will go mad, I think.
I can’t get Megha’s mother’s eyes out of my mind.
Or her father’s. But mostly, her brother’s.
I mean, in all honesty, fuck grief. Why isn’t there a timeline for this?
When will it lessen? When will it feel manageable?
Look at me, cribbing. I just met her parents and look at me.
But fuck them too, right? They didn’t love her enough to let her live her life.
Our food comes to the table.
It looks coloured and disgusting, and great at the same time.
I look up at Aditi. Her arms are folded so tightly that her shoulders have inched up closer to her ears. Her eyes flick to the envelope again and again.
Tejal, across from her, has started stabbing her noodles impatiently. Sumrit, next to me, has started eating already. Good that he has, or he would have started boring us with how he needs to put carbs in, or his muscles will waste away.
Unfortunately, he still speaks, ‘Look . . . I think you can give this Naman guy a part of it. They are shit, I’m sure, they are shit, bro, but I mean . . . you will at least get him off your back.’
Tejal puts her fork down. ‘What are you saying, Sumrit? Please just eat. You don’t know the story.’
Even Tejal doesn’t know the entire story, but coming to Aditi’s defence is now a reflex for her.
Sumrit would also help me hide a body, but Tejal would convince Aditi that murder’s acceptable.
The story Tejal’s talking about, I know snatches of it—things Aditi let slip over the last year in moments of anger, sadness or exhaustion—and pieced together my version.
But for Tejal and Sumrit, all they know is that Aman’s family are ‘bad people’ and don’t deserve the money.
They’ve taken her word for it until now.
Sumrit starts to argue, ‘Bro. I’m worried there are going to be more fights. People kill over this amount of money. Why not get rid of him? 20 lakh? 30 lakh? Is that a stupid idea?’
‘It’s not about the money, man,’ I say quietly. ‘It’s not that simple.’
But Aditi looks up, her eyes locking on to Sumrit’s. Her face hardens.
‘No,’ she says, her voice quiet but clear. ‘It’s fine. You want to know why that’s a stupid idea?’
Her voice trails. Sumrit looks at us, confused, unsure of what to say next.
Aditi continues, ‘I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you about Naman, about his parents. Then you can tell me whether they should get a single rupee or not.’
She takes a breath, and then, piece by painful piece, she tells them:
‘He was always the good boy. The chirag of the family. The elder son,’ she begins, her voice low and flat. ‘Completed his studies on a loan and got a good job. And the minute he did, he took out more loans.’
‘For them?’ asks Tejal.
‘Why would he not? It’s family, right? You do these things for family, don’t you?’ she says. ‘Moved his parents, his brother, out to a better flat. He was just being a good son. He didn’t mind it. He worked and worked and worked so that he could give them whatever they pointed at.’
‘They were using him?’ asks Tejal, wanting to quickly establish that the family was evil.
Aditi doesn’t take the bait. ‘And he kept working. It was what one does. But then . . . he fell in love with someone.’
‘The first wife?’ asks Sumrit.
‘You don’t say that!’ Tejal slaps Sumrit.
Aditi doesn’t seem to be distracted by it.
She says, ‘They turned on him. Love marriage would mean no dowry, nothing. They knew the girl would have power in the relationship. So they started full-on emotional blackmail, reminding him of everything they did for him, they kept poisoning him . . . all because he dared to fall in love.’
‘Kutte saale,’ says Tejal.
‘But Aman didn’t budge. Like a stupid boy, he thought he could fix everything.
Got married, got the girl home, but what do you think happened?
The marriage was doomed from the beginning.
The girl didn’t allow herself to be bullied,’ narrates Aditi, and her gaze shifts to the noodles on her plate.
‘From here the timeline gets unclear. Who decided first? Did the girl decide she wanted to leave? Or did the family just decide they wanted to make her leave, at any cost? It doesn’t matter.
She left. It left him a shell of a man. He was shaken, sad, depressed.
He went about his life like that for five long years, and his parents .
. . they didn’t care. They were just blind to his depression.
As long as the salary was coming in, right? ’
Her voice falters for a moment.
‘And that’s when we met. At the clinic. I felt sorry for him because I could see he was the nicest person for everyone else, but himself. That’s when I told him to take therapy. He started doing it, and he was actually feeling better,’ she says, her eyes little pools of tears.
From here, I know the story better.
‘But his family found out,’ she says, a bitter edge in her tone. ‘About the therapy, about me. And all hell broke loose. They told him he was falling into the same trap as before. Losing his heart to a slut—whatever they could call me to make him think he was crazy. They called my home.’
‘Why are all these fucking people all the same? Call home, call home. Fucking horrible,’ Tejal rails.
Aditi looks at me. ‘That’s when all those things happened . . . the pushing, the slapping . . . the threats . . .’
Sumrit just stares, his earlier stance completely changing in real time.
‘But love found its way,’ she says quietly.
‘He hid it from them, and slowly, he realized that the trap . . . the trap was his family. That’s when he decided to leave them .
. . but they got to know. That’s when the second round started .
. . and we decided we would start over . . . without our families.’
She’s hurting, I can see that. I want to reach out, hold her hand, but why? Why now? It would be weird. She can handle it. Of course, she can handle it.
Sumrit lets out a long, slow breath. ‘Okay,’ he says softly. ‘I get it now, bro. He deserves nothing. My idea was stupid. I’m sorry, bro.’
Tejal swears under her breath. ‘To be honest? They can go to hell.’
I look at the envelope. ‘You should do whatever the fuck you want to do with it,’ I say. My voice sounds harsher than I intended. ‘Burn it. Frame it. Mail it back. Keep it. Doesn’t matter. Your grief. Your decision.’
Tejal smirks. ‘Okay, full support mode. This is your family. You were his family. He chose you. That’s what matters.’
‘If you’re spending it on us,’ says Sumrit. ‘I need a new weightlifting belt, bro. Those things are expensive.’
Tejal slaps Sumrit on the arm and Aditi lets out a small chuckle.
Tejal continues, ‘You cash the cheque. And first things first, I think you should pay his rent.’
I let out a real laugh. ‘True, I support that,’ I say.
Aditi rolls her eyes. It’s tiny, but it feels like light cracking through a door.
Tejal jabs her fork in the air. ‘And if you’re spending money now, maybe get your own place. Get out of Raghav’s hair.’ Then she turns to look at me. ‘Hey? It’s been a year, right? Isn’t your lease expiring—?’
‘No,’ I say, the words come out sharply. ‘I mean . . . he gave me a grace period.’
‘Great, then,’ says Tejal. ‘Both of you can start looking for new places. A fresh start, right?’ Then she clutches Aditi’s hand. ‘And I will help you decorate your new apartment! It will be so much fun!’
A beat of silence. The world suddenly seems a bit dimmer. Out of my hair? New apartment?
Aditi laughs.
And I . . .
I feel something in me pull tight.
I don’t want her to leave. I don’t say any of it, of course. I don’t want to make it worse.
The rest of the conversation shifts. I don’t register any of it. I can’t stop thinking of the house being empty. I eat my noodles but they taste like ash. Once we pay the bill, we step outside. The heat wraps around us like a fever. Or maybe I’m getting one. These days, it’s hard to tell.
We drop Tejal and Sumrit off first.
In the car, parked in front of our building with the engine off, the night hums around us. I’m still sitting in the car, still replaying Aditi’s laughter in my mind when I find her hand on mine.
‘Don’t worry,’ Aditi says, her voice low. ‘I’m not moving out.’
I look ahead. ‘Wasn’t worried. Who cares?’
She turns to me. Her expression is soft. Tired. Honest.
‘Did you renew the lease already?’
I look at her and nod. ‘I didn’t know where else to go . . . Is she decorating your—’
She cuts me off. ‘I wouldn’t know where to go as well.’
I don’t answer. We head upstairs.
Home. Family. Whatever shape that takes now.