Chapter 34 Aditi
Aditi
The next morning, the apartment is a tomb.
There’s a thick, suffocating silence. Last night, after a very long time, I couldn’t sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I could see Raghav’s father .
. . his eyes full of rage, his fingers trembling .
. . and then I started seeing my own father .
. . my own family. And despite everything, I missed them.
What a joke, right? An unfunny one at that. A joke, nonetheless.
I missed Didi, and I missed Bhaiya, and I missed Maa. I had trained my mind not to think of them and of late I had been doing a good job but it came undone yesterday. I was this close to calling them again. This close.
And why? Because what am I without them in the world? What tethers me to this life? I tortured myself thinking of how things could have gone differently. The only way things could have gone differently was if I was brainwashed completely. If I’d led a life that they wanted me to live.
So slowly, I started reminding myself of the worst versions of them, not the nice ones. People at their best are easily likeable. It’s at their worst when you truly know whether they love us or not.
What would Maa have said if she knew I was working with Connect?
Facilitating love stories? She would see me as the same: a pimp for unapproved relationships.
My brother would see a sister who sometimes drinks.
My father would see a girl who lets a guy hug her.
My didi would see an immoral girl who stays out till late, gets into cars with boys, lets them almost kiss her.
When a family can’t see your truth, what use are they? Except biologically, they aren’t related to you at all.
I kept reminding myself of this to be more angry than sad.
Anger is dirty fuel that you can function on.
So I just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the scene at the brewery over and over in my head: the flashing phones, his father’s contorted face, the cold, hard grip of Raghav’s hand as he pulled us away.
How easily could this be my father?
I finally drag myself out of bed. Shilpi’s not around.
I can only imagine the state she’s in. I find Raghav in the kitchen, staring into a mug of black coffee.
His shoulders are hunched, and the back of his neck is rigid with tension.
His knuckles tap absently against the ceramic, the tiny sound filling the silence.
I fill up my water bottle, the sound of it filling up unnaturally loud.
‘How is she?’ I ask. ‘Shilpi?’
He doesn’t look at me. He just continues to stare into his mug. Steam curls up, fogging his glasses for a moment. Then says, ‘She cried herself to sleep. What did you expect?’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ I whisper.
‘You can apologize,’ he says, his voice flat.
‘I . . .’ My fingers tighten around the cold steel bottle.
‘You took her outside. You posted a picture with her on Instagram,’ he says in a low voice and turns to look at me. ‘How do you think Papa knew where she was?’
‘But . . . I didn’t know,’ I say.
‘You should have,’ he mutters, turning back to his mug.
‘Sorry, but your Papa could have come here too,’ I argue.
‘But he didn’t? Did he?’ he says. ‘And you should have asked me before taking her out.’ He drops his voice even lower. ‘She is my sister. My responsibility. You don’t get to make decisions about her safety.’
‘What safety?! I was with her all the time!’ I snap. My voice bounces off the tiles, louder than I intended.
‘You had no right!’ he roars. His fist slams the counter, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. ‘Why did you take her out?!’
‘She was feeling sad, Raghav,’ I say, my voice rising. ‘I was helping her out because you clearly are so wrapped up in your own misery that you can’t see it. I was trying to help!’
‘You’re not helping her.’
‘I am! At least she’s willing to be helped!’
He scoffs. He runs a hand through his messy hair, tugging at it. ‘Please go back to finding people love, okay? No need to meddle in my business.’
‘You’re being unfair, Raghav.’
‘Oh please, don’t tell me what I should do,’ he scoffs. He pushes the mug away with a clatter.
‘Because you know what to do?’ I say, and my eyes drop to his phone.
‘Yes, I do,’ he says, grinding his teeth.
‘You don’t have any clue!’
‘And you do?!?’
‘You’d rather live in a fantasy than deal with anything real,’ I say, taking a step closer.
‘Yes, yes, you’re the queen of healing, right?’ he says bitterly.
It ticks me off. ‘You know what your problem is?’ I ask, my hands balling into fists at my sides.
‘Yes, please tell me what my problem is! Because, clearly, you’re the all-knowing!’
‘You hate that I can be normal at times.’
‘I don–’
‘You hate that Shilpi had one real moment of fun, because it reminds you that you’re just . . . stuck.’
‘I AM NOT STUCK!’ His voice cracks, his chest heaving.
‘Rotting with that app on your own. You’re in a prison of your own making.’
‘Her memory is not my prison,’ he snarls. ‘It’s the only real thing I have left.’
‘No, Raghav,’ I say, my voice trembling. My throat tightens but I force the words out. ‘My career is real, not an escape. The work I’m doing is real. Shilpi’s pain is real. What you have is an echo of a time that won’t come.’
‘Oh fuck off. How long have you been planning this speech—’
‘You fuck off, Raghav! You’re so in love with looking at yourself in pain, you can’t stand the thought of yourself or anyone else moving on.’
‘You think I like seeing Shilpi in pain.’
‘I . . . am . . .’
The way he looks at me makes me regret what I said, but it needed to be said.
Just then, my phone rings.
‘Please take that,’ he says. ‘And stop talking to me.’ He turns his back to me, shoulders rigid.
It’s Kunal. I take the call because, what am I supposed to do? Lose another part of me because he doesn’t see anyone else’s perspective than his? If he’s so fucking intelligent, why can’t he see what everyone else sees so clearly?
I walk to the balcony and answer, my back to Raghav.
‘Hey,’ I say, my voice a tired whisper, what I had just said still echoing in my head, wondering if I could have phrased things differently for him to get it.
‘Hey,’ he replies. His voice isn’t angry. It’s worse. It’s practical. Worried. ‘Are you okay? Is Shilpi okay?’
‘We’re . . . fine,’ I lie.
He’s quiet for a moment. ‘Aditi,’ he says, and I can hear the stress in his voice. ‘The videos are everywhere. All over the Gurugram WhatsApp groups. People are sharing them like crazy.’
‘It’s a good thing, right? Any publicity—’
I can’t even complete the sentence. I close my eyes, pressing my forehead to the cool glass of the balcony door. Of course they are. And what a trite, stupid thing to say. Any publicity—
‘I’m getting calls from our sponsors,’ he continues, his voice still calm, still practical. ‘They’re worried about the brand.’
‘I know—’
‘Connect is supposed to be a safe, positive space. A public screaming match about . . . whatever that man said . . . everything else . . . it’s not exactly . . .’
‘On-brand?’ I say. ‘Is that the word you’re looking for?’
I hear his words. I know they are reasonable.
I know he’s just a founder trying to do damage control.
But reason always doesn’t cut it. What I hear is that he’s giving up on me.
He’s abandoning me. When things get difficult, people leave.
That’s the only truth I know. I understand his abandonment, and yet it doesn’t make it any better.
‘So what are you saying, Kunal?’ I ask, my voice turning defensive, sharp.
‘I’m trying to tell you what’s happening right now.’
‘Are you telling me this is my fault? That I should have handled my personal crisis more discreetly so it wouldn’t spoil your brand?’
‘No, that’s not what I’m saying at all,’ he says, a hint of frustration finally entering his tone.
‘That’s exactly what you’re saying!’
‘I’m saying this is a mess. But it’s a mess that can be solved.’
‘What?’ I ask.
‘I mean . . . it’s not good publicity, but the kids are on our side,’ he says.
‘What?’
He sighs. ‘What I’m worried about is us.’
‘What us?’ I say, my voice barely a whisper.
‘I think I will get my heart broken with you,’ he admits.
‘What are you talking about? I don’t—’
‘All that’s going on in your life, I think I’m imposing and getting ideas about the future . . . while you’re still healing . . . your friends are healing . . . I think I want to step back from this.’
His words are just fog. ‘So, what are you saying?’ I ask.
‘I’m saying that . . .’ he says nervously. ‘I’m going to say this bluntly, okay? I think I should stop hitting on you and be a founder. We work together, that’s it.’
‘Because of . . .’ I trail off.
‘Raghav . . . his sister. There’s a lot of complication around you. And I don’t want to get hurt, or be overwhelmed by it all. Maybe when the time is right . . .’ his voice trails.
‘You mean the time will be right when Raghav’s not around, is it? That’s what you think,’ I say, my voice sharp again.
‘I’m not sure,’ he says. ‘. . . I don’t think we should make it tougher than it already is. For you and for me.’
‘Fine,’ I say. My free hand grips the railing. ‘I can live with that.’
There’s a short silence.
‘Cool,’ he says. ‘If you need anything, let me know. And chill about the work. We will handle the next few days. You come back when you’re okay.’
‘I’m okay right now. We have a Zoom at three. I will join.’
‘Cool,’ he says.
‘Cool,’ I say and hang up.
I turn around, and Raghav is standing there, leaning against the doorframe, a smirk on his face. His arms are crossed loosely, one eyebrow raised.
‘What?’ I snap.
‘Nothing,’ he says, that slow, toxic smile spreading across his face. ‘He dumped you, didn’t he?’
‘He didn’t,’ I say through gritted teeth. Heat rises to my face, my jaw tightening.
‘Things got tough for him, didn’t they?’
‘No.’
‘See?’ he says, pushing off the doorframe and taking a slow step towards me. The floor creaks under his weight. ‘This is what people are. This is what the real world is.’
‘Listen—’
‘The minute things get messy, they run. They want you to be okay as soon as possible so they don’t have to deal with your shit. See how he abandoned you? You think things will remain the same? They won’t.’
His words are a physical blow. I see his ugly smile. I see the joy in him. The fucking glee. What has happened to him? He’s happy about this.
‘You should be supporting me right now,’ I say, my voice trembling. ‘Not . . . this. You’re happy about this?! What kind of a friend are you?’
He just looks at me, his eyes cold and empty. His face is unreadable, like stone.
‘I’m just being real,’ he says.
He turns and retreats into his room, shutting the door behind him. The latch clicks, leaving me in silence.
The argument is over. The debate in my head is over. I didn’t even know this was happening in my head till this very moment.
I walk back to the room, my actions automatic not intentional, and I open my laptop.
My fingers move quietly, as if he would be able to know what I’m doing with the sound of the keys.
I’m on 99acres, then MagicBricks, then NoBroker.
I type ‘1BHK for rent, Gurugram’ into the search bar.
The screen fills with pictures of small, empty rooms. Soulless white walls, generic tiled floors, kitchens like ours to cook in.
They look lonely. But . . . but . . . they also look like freedom.
My heart pounds as I scroll.
I spend hours looking, shortlisting, comparing prices.
The next morning, Tejal and I are standing in the middle of a bare, empty apartment in Sector 56, Gurugram.
The walls are a depressing shade of beige, paint peeling off like it’s expected to, and the whole place smells like the previous tenants were bachelors.
But then again, so was Raghav. But this place is nothing like his.
‘It’s a good decision,’ Tejal says, her voice firm, as if trying to convince both of us. She walks over to the window and peers out. ‘You have to move out, Aditi. You have to build a life that’s just yours.’
I trace a pattern on a dusty kitchen counter with my finger. I had started to write my name, but can’t finish it. As if it will make this place my own and I won’t be able to back out. ‘I know. It’s just . . .’
‘You feel guilty,’ she finishes for me. ‘Why? After everything he’s put you through?’
‘He’s hurting.’
‘For how long?’ asks Tejal.
‘That’s what he says too,’ I remark. ‘There’s an expiry date to people’s love.’
‘So what if there is,’ she says. ‘It’s being human, Adi. It’s too much. You’re killing yourself.’
‘I don’t know,’ I whisper, and it’s the truth. The guilt is a tangled, irrational knot in my stomach. ‘And I’m angry. Why has he turned into this person, Tejal? This bitter, cruel version of himself who seems to enjoy my pain?’
‘Maybe this will be good for him,’ she says.
‘C’mon, Tejal.’
‘When you were a wreck, when you first moved in, he had a purpose. He could take care of you. He could be the strong one. Now he’s got Shilpi. He’s good at being the saviour, Adi. Who knows?’
‘I’m quitting on him,’ I say. ‘That’s what I’m doing.’
‘No, you’re choosing to be okay yourself. This way, neither you nor him are living,’ she says. ‘And he has family now. He has to step up, and knowing him, he will step up. If you have to move out, this is the right time.’
I chuckle sadly. ‘Look at me, sneaking away.’
Tejal holds my hand, ‘It’s about him. Don’t blame yourself. You can’t stay broken so he can feel whole.’
‘No,’ I say, trying to find that straw of truth I can hold on to and stay afloat on.
‘You leave. He needs to fix himself rather than look at you to fix him, and then get frustrated that there isn’t anything to fix.’
‘There isn’t anything to fix?’ I ask.
Tejal’s caught off guard. ‘I mean . . . of course, you’re not . . . you know . . . you have healed a bit, you know . . . no one’s forgetting Aman . . .’ Her voice trails off.
I look around the empty room again. It’s lonely. It also looks like the only way forward.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I lie. I’ve already decided.