While We Wait

Chapter 36 Aditi

Aditi

The sound of packing tape screeching seems like the soundtrack to an ending. The sound of separation. And with every strip of tape that I cut, I feel a sharp pain. Death by a thousand little cuts. A thousand little separations. But it also sounds like a beginning. And not only for me . . .

I’m sitting on the floor, surrounded by the ghosts of our life here, neatly contained in cardboard boxes. The life I had built on my own. Though saying ‘built’ is a misnomer. Gathered, accumulated, are more appropriate I think.

And Raghav . . . Raghav is actually helping.

I had braced myself for sullen silence, for taunts, for him rubbing his grief into my face, but instead, he’s been . . . normal.

Frighteningly, unnervingly normal.

He’s taping the bottom of a box with a focused efficiency.

His movements clean and precise, like they are when he puts his mind to it.

He’s present. Every now and then, he even smiles at his phone, at some silly video.

It’s not like him at all. Did I imagine everything?

His bitterness? His anger? To justify moving?

The silence between us is not sharp any more. It is soft. It stretches like a blanket. I almost forget we fought.

‘Remember this?’ he asks, his voice pulling me from my thoughts. He’s holding up a ridiculous, oversized ceramic frog from a pile of decorative junk I’d forgotten I owned. Its painted smile is chipped, its googly eyes lopsided.

We’d bought it at a roadside stall on a rare trip out for groceries in those first few months.

It was what Megha would do, he had said.

I had told him it would be my gift, that I would eventually pay him back for it, but as it was always the case with him, he didn’t ask and I didn’t offer.

There are many little debts that I owe him.

‘Oh yes!’ I laugh, taking it from him. The ceramic is cool and heavy in my hands. ‘It’s even uglier than I remember.’

‘Can you imagine this was mass produced? Like hundreds of these are across houses? And they all bought it unironically?’ he says, a small, genuine smile touching his lips.

It’s a real smile, one that reaches his eyes.

The sight of it is so rare, it feels like a punch to the gut.

We’re smiling? Sitting on the floor of what I had believed to be the wreckage of my departure, and we’re smiling?

For a second, I want to stop time. I want the boxes to vanish. I want us to stay like this.

Why am I leaving then? If smiling is possible in this house? If this is no longer the site of a grief group, why do I have to leave the house? The moment is so strange, so filled with a sad, tender nostalgia, that it makes my chest hurt. This is what it could have been. This is what we’re losing.

Why couldn’t we live like this?

He reaches into another box, this one filled with books, and pulls out a stack of thin paperbacks with titles like The Five Stages of Grief and Healing After Loss. The books we had picked out together. Ordered off . Ripped out of their packets but never read completely.

‘Remember this? Month two,’ he says.

‘Our “we can fix this with books” phase.’

The nights we spent reading passages aloud to each other, searching for a road map, a set of instructions for how to survive.

But we always gave up midway, complaining that no one knew pain as much as we did.

That this is kids’ stuff. In the Olympics of grief, our team of him and me had all the golds.

‘We were so lost,’ he says.

I look at him. His face is calm. Too calm. I wait for the mask to slip, but it doesn’t.

‘We thought a book could be a life jacket, keep us from drowning. How silly,’ he says quietly. ‘But take them.’

Later, I pull a 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle half-finished in its box from under the sofa. An impossible landscape of a blue sky. ‘And this?’

‘That,’ he says, ‘was month five. This will be the answer to our anxiety. Keeping ourselves . . . busy.’

I remember the only hour we spent on this, heads bent over the table, not speaking, just searching for the right piece, the right fit, trying to make something whole again.

We never finished it. The sky was too big, too empty.

There were too many pieces missing. And then it remained on the table for a couple of more months. The maid was forbidden to touch it.

We kept saying we would come back, fix it, and we never did.

The unfinished puzzle lies heavy in my lap. It feels like a mirror.

Later, I find him in the kitchen, with a cup of coffee. I have to ask the question I’m terrified to ask, but I have to.

‘I thought you’d be . . . I don’t know, angry,’ I say quietly, leaning against the doorframe.

He doesn’t look at me, just continues to stir the coffee, his movements slow and deliberate.

‘I’m sad, Aditi. Of course I’m sad.’ He finally turns, his eyes meeting mine. ‘But I’m not unreasonable. You have to build a life. You can’t do it here. It’s fine.’

The word ‘fine’ feels like a lie. But it is a kind lie, and I take it.

‘Raghav . . .’

‘I know I’ve been an asshole,’ he continues, cutting me off. ‘I know I’ve been . . . bitter. But that’s my problem, not yours. You shouldn’t feel guilty for this.’

His maturity is a gut punch. It makes my decision to leave feel like a betrayal.

‘I feel like I’m leaving you.’

He shakes his head. ‘Our old families were shackles. We chose each other . . . we can’t be the same, right? You have to go, you go. I will be okay.’

I want to believe him. But his eyes tell another story.

I nod. I don’t know what else to say.

‘My biggest event is tonight,’ I say finally, my voice a little shaky. ‘The collaboration with the gin brand. It’s a huge deal for Connect.’ I take a breath. ‘You should come.’

He’s quiet for a long moment, just staring into his coffee mug.

I expect him to refuse. Because he too understands what I haven’t said.

I don’t want him to be there for me. I want him to be there for himself, to find someone.

Does it feel like I’m palming off my responsibility to someone else?

Maybe. But as Kunal says, we are too complex to be understood by just one person.

‘Okay,’ he says finally, looking up. ‘Yeah. I’ll be there.’

I blink, not trusting my ears. I wait for him to take it back. He doesn’t.

For a moment, I think I misheard him. But then, I see the small smile on his lips. And I feel a warmth in my heart I didn’t think I would ever feel.

‘I will wait,’ I say.

And then, we get back to packing more of the boxes. But every now and then, I look up, dreading he would change his mind, but he says nothing and I keep praying he comes.

When we’re done, I ask him again, ‘You’re going to come, right?’

‘If you don’t start getting ready right now,’ he answers, ‘you’re going to be late for your event.’

And that’s what I do. As I get ready, I hear his shuffling in the other room. Maybe things can be right? And today’s the starting of it all? I can’t help but think that this is my doing. If I can do it, he can do it too, that sort of thing. I can’t help but smile at my own hubris and ego.

I pause in front of the mirror, lipstick in hand. My heart is restless. My hands shake. Why do I feel like I’m waiting for an exam result?

When I’m at the event, that’s all I can think of. Will he come? The air is thick with the smell of craft beer, expensive perfume, and the nervousness of a hundred people trying to find love, but all I can think about is him.

Then I dive into the work, managing the check-in desk, coordinating with the bar staff, making sure the playlist is just right, and yet nothing can keep me from stealing glances at the door.

Every few minutes it would open and close and it would not be him.

I think of dropping him a text, but I don’t want to push my luck here.

And then, it happens.

Raghav arrives an hour later.

He’s wearing a blue polo T-shirt, straight-fit jeans, and he looks clean. Easily the handsomest boy in the room. But he looks terrified, and I don’t blame him. I have been through this and it wrecks you. To reach out for love, when all you had was drained out from you. It takes a toll.

The crowd doesn’t notice him. But to me, it feels like the whole room tilts in his direction.

I watch him from across the room, my heart a nervous drum against my ribs. I start saying a small prayer, hoping he doesn’t turn away and bolt.

I walk over to him, weaving through the laughing, talking crowd. ‘Hey. You came.’

‘I said I would,’ he says, his eyes darting around the room.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ I say, and I mean it.

Then, I take a deep breath. This is it. The real test. The thing I have been meaning to tell him, the thing I should tell him, that I should have the courage to tell him. ‘But if you’re really here, Raghav . . . if you’re really trying . . .’

The words choke me. My tongue feels heavy. I almost stop.

I can’t bring myself to say it. Should I spoil everything the day it’s gotten better? But what would anything mean if I don’t say this? Friends should be able to say the tough things. Things that no one else would say.

‘I know what’s coming,’ he says, his voice quivering.

‘. . . there’s one more thing you have to do . . . you need to delete it.’

He freezes for a bit. His eyes move towards the phone in his hand.

I say. ‘Right now. In front of me.’

The music keeps playing. People laugh around us. But to me, everything goes quiet. Only his silence matters.

I see a flicker of panic in his eyes, a cornered, desperate look. He shakes his head slightly. ‘Aditi . . . but . . .’

‘Yes, here,’ I insist, my voice firm. ‘It’s not fair to you. It’s not fair to her. She deserves to rest. And so do you.’

He keeps staring at me for a bit. I tell myself not to waver. This is the time. He has to do it today.

Then, he looks away.

He lifts up his phone, his hand trembling slightly.

He unlocks it, his thumb hovering over the app icon. I can see the war happening on his face—the desperate need to cling to his last remaining comfort, and the terrifying possibility of letting it go. The moment stretches on to what seems like an eternity.

I want to grab the phone for him. But I force myself to be still. This has to be his choice.

Finally, he presses down on the icon. The small ‘x’ appears. He hits it. A confirmation box pops up. Are you sure you want to delete this app?

He closes his eyes for a second, takes a breath, and taps ‘Delete.’

The app vanishes.

He looks up at me, his face pale, his eyes looking lost. ‘It’s done,’ he whispers.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Now join them . . .’

For the next hour, I watch him. He makes a genuine, painful effort to engage. He stumbles at first. His hands twitch. His eyes search for the exits. But he stays.

I see the old him emerge—of whatever little I knew of him. He talks to a few people, his conversations awkward at first, then surprisingly . . . not. He’s witty, he has always been. He’s smart too, and he’s almost too good-looking for an offline mixer to be his last resort to find someone.

I feel a huge wave of relief and hope wash over me as a couple of girls start fawning over him. As Raghav used to say, hope is the most dangerous drug of all for someone who has learnt to live without it, but I’m clinging on to it now. Maybe he can do this. Maybe we can do this.

I’m talking to Kunal later, buzzing with the success of the event and the fragile hope for my friend. ‘I think he’s really trying,’ I say. ‘I’m so happy.’

Kunal smiles. ‘I’m happy for him. And for us. We can do with some guys like him in our mixers. But . . . where is he?’

I look around. The spot where he was standing is empty. I scan the crowd, my heart starting to beat a little faster. He’s not by the bar. He’s not talking to anyone. He’s gone.

My stomach drops. The hope I was holding slips away like sand.

‘I’ll be right back,’ I say to Kunal, the panic already starting to rise in my throat.

‘Aditi,’ Kunal says quietly, his hand on my arm. ‘See?’

‘What?’

‘You can’t be his keeper.’

I frown. ‘This is hardly the time for a lesson, Kunal.’

I pull my arm away and rush through the crowd, my earlier triumph forgotten. I push my way outside, into the cool night air. The parking lot is dark and mostly empty. The distant sound of traffic on the main road is a low, constant hum. I run around trying to find him. He can’t have gone too far.

And then I see him.

He’s hunched over on a concrete bench at the far end of the lot, under the weak glow of a streetlamp. His shoulders are shaking. He’s crying. Not with loud, theatrical sobs, but with a silent, body-racking grief that is a thousand times more painful to witness.

The sight freezes me. I don’t know whether to run to him or back away.

I walk over slowly.

‘Raghav?’

He looks up, his face a mess of tears, his eyes red and raw. He wipes them away when he sees me.

‘It’s so empty . . . to do this.’

I sit next to him, our knees touching.

‘It is,’ I say. ‘I know it is.’

We sit there for a long time, in the dark. The distant sound of the party seems a world away. After a while, he composes himself, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He looks at me, his eyes red but clear.

‘Okay,’ he says, taking a deep breath. ‘Okay.’ He manages a small, watery smile. ‘I just . . . I need to try harder.’

‘One step at a time,’ I say.

He nods. ‘Call me for the next event too.’

I smile at him.

‘You should go back,’ he says. ‘I will call a cab for myself.’

I shake my head. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m coming home with you.’

‘Are you—’

‘Sure?’ I ask. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

Back in the living room, the smell of cardboard hangs in the air.

The boxes stare back at us. We don’t talk.

We just wordlessly resume our task. He hands me the last of my books.

I place them in the final box. He folds the flaps down, one over the other.

I pull a long strip of tape from the dispenser, that screeching sound again: it echoes in the quiet room.

I press it down firmly, sealing the box shut. Sealing this chapter of my life shut.

The sound rings in my ears. Louder than it should. Final.

We both stand up. The room is bare now, stripped of my presence, it’s just his apartment again, like it was that day, two years ago.

‘Well,’ I say, my voice thick. ‘That’s it.’

He just nods, his throat working.

‘I don’t think this is it, is it?’

He looks at me, his eyes filled with a universe of unspoken things. Sadness? Gratitude? A terrifying, bottomless fear? Because I feel all of those things?

And then he steps forward and pulls me into a hug.

It’s not romantic. It’s not even really a hug between friends.

It’s the desperate embrace of two survivors.

His arms are tight around me, and I can feel his shoulders shaking slightly.

I wrap my own arms around him, burying my face in his shoulder, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself cry.

We stand there, in the middle of the empty room, holding on to each other like we’re the only two people left in the world.

And in a way, we were for the longest time.