Chapter 23 Raghav
Raghav
The suitcase doesn’t shut.
It’s not that I’ve overpacked. I’ve just packed badly.
I look at the chaos of half-folded clothes and a hostile tangle of wires.
I don’t pack like this. I’m a ninja at organization.
Tucked between a pair of jeans and a shirt Megha bought me two birthdays ago are a bunch of diaries.
When Megha used to tell me that sometimes she writes her feeling out, I had assumed she meant on loose pieces of paper, thrown away.
Not these bound memories. Not these feelings. Dated.
Every day for the last many years.
I don’t know if I have space for any more feelings. I only skimmed them . . . the rest . . . it was too painful . . .
The zip catches on the corner of a pair of shorts I have packed.
It angers me so much that I have fucking tears in my eyes.
This is when it happens—these fucking annoying childish tears.
Not for the big things, never for the big things.
It’s always the small, stupid injustices.
The stuck zip. The warm water in the car.
The protein shaker I forget to wash . . .
the fact that she’s gone and my suitcase won’t close.
Across the room, Aditi is rolling her socks with a clinical, almost robotic efficiency.
There’s a strange change in her in the last few days.
She seems more collected. Which doesn’t take a lot.
She’s placed her things in three neat piles—clothes, toiletries, tech.
I wonder where she’s put her grief. Where has she folded that and organized it?
She looks up, her eyes catching mine. ‘You want help?’
‘No, I’m good,’ I say, pulling the zip.
We haven’t talked much this morning. I don’t know what to say to her. How will I explain to her why I want to go? So I just keep talking to her about the things that need to be done. Pack. Cab. Passport. Airbnb.
An hour later, we are done.
Outside, the Uber’s already waiting. The app says it’s a blue Wagon R.
‘Should I cancel and book a big one?’ I ask sarcastically.
‘Why?’ she asks, her tone already defensive. ‘Because you think I want to show off now that I have money?’
‘Well, you have it, don’t you?’ I say, the jab landing before I can stop it.
‘Don’t,’ she says, her voice suddenly fragile. ‘It still hurts.’
I apologize instantly. Sometimes we have to do this. Poke and needle and figure out what parts still hurt, what can be joked about, figure out where the limits are. I do a final, frantic check: passports, wallet, phone. The holy trinity of modern travel.
‘Are you sure you have them?’ I ask her.
‘I do.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure, sure. You’re sure?’
I nod.
We lock up the house. The click of the deadbolt sounds final.
It feels like we’re stepping off a cliff.
This house had been our sanctuary for the last thirteen months.
We were safe here. Away from the world. Shielded.
Shrouded in our own grief. But now, we have decided to go out—expose ourselves to experiences.
The drive is quiet.
After a few minutes, Aditi turns to me.
‘I still don’t get it,’ she says.
I keep looking out the window. ‘Get what?’
‘Why you changed your mind. About coming. You were so against it.’
A long moment passes.
‘Just,’ I say, finally.
She waits for more, but I offer nothing else.
I remember another drive like this. Different Uber, same terminal.
I had been nervous and on edge then too.
I was unsure, scared, happy. Happiness, such a distant dream?
How fragile is happiness? One moment and it’s gone.
Grief is permanent. It seeps down into your bones and becomes you.
Happy is what you can be, but sad is who you are.
Aditi is beside me now, scrolling aimlessly on her phone, like she always is.
Her thumb moves up, up, up, a pointless motion.
I don’t see why people lambast social media.
It’s great to run away from feelings. Her knee bounces lightly against her handbag.
A tiny, rhythmic earthquake of anxiety. When we reach the airport, the driver helps us with the bags.
Then we’re standing on the pavement in front of the sliding glass doors of Terminal 3.
I don’t move. My feet feel bolted to the concrete. So are hers.
‘It’s a stupid, automatic door,’ I tell her.
‘Just a sheet of glass,’ she tells me.
‘We’ve walked through it a dozen times before,’ I tell her.
‘Not me,’ she says. ‘I have only taken two flights before.’
‘Ready?’ I ask her.
‘No,’ she replies.
‘Me neither,’ I say. ‘Let’s get it over with.’
I take a breath and step forward. We both do.
The door whooshes open. The airport breathes us in.
Inside, the industrial-strength wind curtain slaps us with cold air.
The terminal is chaos. No matter how big they build them, eventually they are all small.
People who are early are sprawled on the ground, people who are late are running to their counters.
I feel nothing. I feel everything. It’s hard to tell the difference. The check-in line is short.
We check in.
At security, the real test begins. This is where we can still turn back.
What would we say at the immigration? Why are two unrelated people going on a trip?
Not friends, just two people bonded in grief.
Just two people going on a trip the love of their lives wanted them to go on.
Or just two people using that as a pretext to leave their grief behind?
To wash it over. My bag slides through the X-ray machine.
No one asks anything at the immigration.
We walk towards our gate. And just before Gate 23, the memories crash over me.
And that’s when I see her.
Not really. But sort of. A ghost image superimposed over the bustling crowd.
Megha, walking ahead of me in her old, faded blue jeans and that stupid yellow backpack she loved so much, carrying that stupid mug and the stupid photo frame.
She’s stopping to tie her shoelaces, causing a minor traffic jam of trolleys. She’s turning around, laughing.
She’s not here.
The thought hits with the force of a physical blow. She’s not anywhere.
Aditi places her hand lightly on my back. It’s not a hug. Not comfort, not really. It’s just . . . contact. As if to say I know where you are. Come back.
She’s the only one who knows where I am.
‘Thanks,’ I mumble, not looking at her.
We find our gate. Aditi immediately opens her Kindle. I just stare at the departures board, watching the city names flip over, one after another.
‘Do you think this is a mistake?’ I ask her.
She doesn’t look up from her screen for a long moment. Then, she says, ‘Probably. But staying home was also a mistake. At least this is a new one.’
There’s an announcement and boarding begins for our flight. First and business class first. Families first. Then Zones A and B.
Aditi closes her Kindle. ‘Window or aisle?’ she asks, her voice low.
I see her scared. I feel it too.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she says.
‘What?’
Her voice is now a soft whisper. ‘That what would it be like for this plane to crash? For us to die?’
She’s right. ‘What would it be like?’
‘It would be freedom.’
‘But I’m not wishing for it,’ I say.
‘Neither am I,’ she says. ‘There are children on the flight.’
‘And people,’ I add. ‘And people waiting on the other side. People going back home thinking their families will be back after a trip.’
She smiles. ‘Too bad we can’t even wish for our own deaths.’
‘Collateral damage,’ I say.
‘If we ever make a band, that’s what we should name ourselves,’ she says. ‘Collateral Damage.’
At least that makes me smile.