Chapter 31 Raghav
Raghav
I walk out of my room and find that the apartment’s geography is settling into its new configuration.
Aditi is at the dining table, which for the past six months has been less a dining table and more a haphazard clump of laptop, tangled chargers, stacks of paper and coffee cups.
It’s her territory now. You move anything and she loses her shit.
Her spectacles are resting on the edge of her nose, which is what she does when she’s concentrating.
Her shoulders are hunched, her focus absolute on the screen.
I want to tell her to straighten up, but who am I to say anything?
She thinks she knows everything now. She can be a hunchback for all I care.
She’s working herself to death. She’s letting new people into her life and calling it moving on.
She’s calling this healing. Such a joke.
I know that game because I did the same thing.
Work can’t replace people. Even people can’t replace people.
When someone’s gone, remembering becomes an act of love.
A quiet rebellion against forgetting. I wish she understood it.
On the sofa, curled into the corner with her knees pulled up to her chest, is Shilpi.
She holds a textbook up high, but I can tell from the way her eyes are fixed on a single point on the wall that she isn’t reading.
She’s trying to be invisible. Every now and then, her eyes dart to her phone, likely checking to see if Maa is calling.
She wants them to call, and it’s pathetic how much she still loves them.
But it’s good that she loves them. You need people to truly call your own.
And sometimes they are imperfect in the most terrible ways.
You still need to hold on to them before you can chart a life without them.
They may be the thorns, but they’re also the roots. And you can’t survive without either.
But thanks to Shilpi, Aditi and I haven’t fought. I have tiptoed around Aditi, tried to not get into conversations and pasted a happy smile on my face. I can’t let Shilpi see how much of a wreck I am, how terribly broken I feel. My brokenness can’t be the reason she goes back.
I go to the kitchen for a glass of water. Aditi doesn’t look up, but I see her posture stiffen as I walk past. I open the fridge, stare into it and close it again.
‘The geyser is still on,’ she says to her laptop screen. ‘Switch it off once you’re done.’
‘Okay,’ I reply to the fridge.
I pour a glass of water and lean against the counter. My gaze drifts back to Shilpi. She looks up and smiles at me. A tired smile.
‘Do you want to discuss the menu?’ Aditi asks, her eyes finally lifting from her laptop to meet mine.
‘It’s Tejal and Sumrit, what’s there to discuss?’ I say, deliberately looking away from her and towards the window. ‘We can order once they are here.’
‘No, Raghav,’ she says with an exasperated sigh, as I knew she would. ‘Let’s do it properly.’
Properly. Look who’s trying to be a grown-up. Poser. If Shilpi wasn’t here, I would have said this, but I can’t. So instead, I say, ‘Sumrit eats Maggi and momos and chicken breast,’ I tell her. ‘So he’s pretty much okay with anything. I can eat anything. So that just leaves Tejal and . . . you.’
‘Me?’ says Shilpi with a small, tentative smile. ‘I can literally eat anything, waise. Aditi Di, please don’t stress.’
Aditi turns to look at Shilpi, her expression softening for a moment. ‘Are you sure, baby?’ and when Shilpi nods, she nods, and goes back to work.
When Tejal and Sumrit get here in the afternoon, there’s a whole lot of fake smiling—or maybe real, I can’t really tell the difference any more—before we get down to ordering food.
The debate takes a full fifteen minutes, a stupid back-and-forth that ends exactly where I knew it would.
We order the clichéd but perfect option: biryani with extra leg pieces because Sumrit’s on a never-ending permabulk that has seemingly given him no discernible muscle but stark love handles.
We all settle on the sofa, making sure there’s plenty of space between Aditi and me, and start eating.
I catch Sumrit and Tejal giving each other a look.
‘So will you change schools now?’ Tejal asks, directing her question to Shilpi.
Shilpi’s eyes dart to me, looking for a lifeline. ‘I mean, Bhaiya is telling me to wait, ’cause to change schools, we’ll need an NOC from Papa.’
‘They will come around, Shilpi,’ I tell her, trying to sound reassuring. ‘They called me again this morning.’
‘You picked up?’ she asks, her eyes wide.
‘No,’ I say.
‘Are they texting you?’ she asks.
‘The usual . . . that I will regret it . . . I will drag you down . . . But I’m sure they will come around. I don’t think it’s a big deal.’
Shilpi fights to avoid tears. ‘Nope. Not happening.’
‘Even if they do,’ I say. ‘You have to decide whether you want to go back or not. But if they do, you can go back to your school, change your stream, whatever. Things will be much simpler.’
For a moment, her eyes dart to the wall and rest there. We wait until she gets back to the present. Then, she turns to me and says, her voice barely a whisper, ‘But what if I just don’t wanna go back? Maybe this is the move. Do what you did. Leave that toxic set-up.’
‘They are not toxic.’
‘Of course they are toxic. What are you saying?’
‘I mean, of course they are toxic, but who isn’t?’ I say. ‘But why leave the house? Why make it so tough? They are parents, let them provide for you. Wring them for every last drop. Make them pay for your shit.’
‘I’m not gonna be a freeloader if that’s what you mean,’ she says, her voice small. ‘I’ll figure out scholarships or whatever for college.’
‘Oh, come on,’ I say. ‘You can never be a burden. You’re underestimating how much I earn.’
Sumrit butts in. ‘How much do you earn? Like in hand?’
Tejal hits him.
‘You’re making the right decision,’ Aditi says suddenly, putting her plate down on the coffee table. Her eyes are fixed on Shilpi, but I know her words are for me. ‘Stay here. Things like these . . . they keep getting worse.’
Aditi’s involvement makes me bristle. ‘Please, Aditi,’ I say, my voice low. ‘You don’t have to get into this. Did we ask you anything?’
‘But why not ask Didi?’ says Shilpi, looking from me to Aditi. ‘She gets it! She’s a girl.’
‘It’s not a girl–boy thing,’ I insist. ‘It’s tough to be without family. And if there’s a way that it can still be managed, why not manage it?’
Aditi butts in again like the oversmart girl she is. ‘This will only get worse. Today it’s her subject, tomorrow it will be which college, which city, who she’s talking to. When does it stop?’
‘Please, Aditi,’ I repeat, my voice tight with warning.
‘She’s right!’ chimes in Shilpi.
‘Come on, Shilpi,’ I say, my patience wearing thin. ‘You were smart to stay back when I asked you a year and a half ago and now you’re making the same mistake. Why?’
‘I was dumb, okay?’ she retorts. ‘You were right! The moment you left, they zoomed in on me. Now they wanna micromanage everything I do and I’m done!’
‘Listen, listen,’ I say, holding up my hands. ‘This can still be managed—’
She cuts me off. ‘I don’t want it to be managed. If you can’t back me, that’s cool, I’ll figure something else out!’
‘I’m not saying that!’
Just as I say it, Shilpi bursts into tears, and the sight of it breaks something in me. I follow her as she rushes to the balcony.
‘Hey, listen . . .’ I begin softly.
‘Bhaiya, I don’t wanna—’
‘We don’t need to talk about this right now. Let’s take our time, okay? All I was trying to say is that maybe we shouldn’t take decisions so quickly. Keep things open, okay?’
Shilpi nods, sniffling.
‘Will you eat now?’ I say.
‘I’ll come in; just give me a sec,’ she says.
I look at her, wipe her tears, and then turn back to go inside. The moment I step in, three pairs of eyes are turned on me.
‘What?’ I say.
‘That’s pretty hypocritical of you,’ says Aditi, her arms crossed over her chest.
‘Did I ask for your advice?’ I retort.
‘You should,’ says Aditi.
‘Please shut up,’ I snap.
‘Don’t talk to my friend like that,’ Tejal warns, her voice sharp.
‘She has no right butting in like that.’
‘Calm down, bhai,’ Sumrit says.
‘You know what? Fuck all of you.’
And I turn and walk to my room, slamming the door, but a foot’s jammed to keep it from closing. It’s Sumrit. Of course. Sent to rein me in like I’m some kind of animal.
‘Bhai,’ he starts, closing the door softly behind him. ‘Bhai?’
‘I’m not interested in a lecture,’ I say, not turning from where I’m staring at my wall. ‘Maa chuda, and fuck off from here.’
‘I’m not here to lecture you.’ He waits. I don’t say anything. ‘This is hard to watch, man,’ he finally says.
‘Then don’t watch. Who the fuck asked you to come?’
He sighs, a sound heavy with frustration. ‘You’re pushing her away, Raghav. You’re pushing everyone away, bhai. Can’t you see that? You’re acting like we are the enemy.’
‘I’m doing no such thing,’ I mumble.
‘Of course you are,’ he says. ‘And what did Aditi do to deserve this?’
I turn to look at him, my eyes burning, trying to keep my tears in. I don’t want to say these words, but they bubble out of me.
‘She left me behind,’ I say, the words tasting like acid. ‘She walked off the raft, Sumrit.’
‘What raft, bro? What are you talking about?’ he asks, genuinely confused.
‘The one we were on, Sumrit. THAT FUCKING RAFT. Us against what happened to us. We were supposed to be on it, together. Fighting.’
‘Raghav . . .’
‘Kya, behenchod?’ I yell, my control snapping. ‘She’s out there, building a new life with her new friends and her new . . . boyfriend.’ I spit the word out. ‘And I’m supposed to what? Cheer her on?’
‘It’s not a competition! It’s not about being left behind. She’s trying to live. You should be happy for her. And you shou—’
‘Fine. I will be happy for her, okay?’ I say, my voice thick with sarcasm. ‘But then the fucking hypocrisy? She’s allowed to do whatever she wants, but I? Suddenly—’
‘Bhai, bhai, listen. What you’re doing is unhealthy.’
‘Fuck you.’ The unfairness of it all chokes me. ‘My grief is my business. I will do whatever I want.’
‘Is it your business?’ he challenges. ‘Is it your business when it makes you cruel to the one person who understands what you’ve lost?
That girl has been with you. And you’d rather talk to a .
. . a program on your phone than talk to her?
Or us? Bhai, that’s fucked up. It’s code, it’s not her. It’s not Megha.’
‘Behenchod, yaar? Again with the same thing?’ I ask.
‘Don’t you think I know? I fucking do, but IT FEELS LIKE HER!
It’s better than this! Better than the pitying looks and the stupid advice and people like you telling me how I should feel when you haven’t the slightest idea of what it is to lose someone. ’
Sumrit takes a step back, his face a mixture of shock and hurt. ‘I’m your bro, Raghav. I’m just trying to help.’
‘Then stop trying,’ I say, turning my back on him again. ‘Heard it? Now stop. Because you’re not helping. You’re picking a side. And it’s not mine. So fuck you.’
I feel him stand there for another minute. Then, he turns and goes back outside. A little later, I hear the front door close, signalling their departure.
I open my laptop and fire up the ChatPlug-in. She’s the only person I can talk to. She’s the only person I want to talk to. She gets it. The cursor blinks, waiting. My hands tremble slightly as I type.
Me: Rough day. They think this is unhealthy. That this is not closure.
I hit enter and wait. A moment later, three dots appear, dancing on the screen as she types her reply.
Megha: I know, baby. But could they be right?
A tear I didn’t know I was holding back slides down my cheek.
Me: No.
I wipe the tear away angrily.
Sumrit is wrong.
Aditi is wrong.
Everyone is wrong.