Chapter 37 Raghav
Raghav
I can’t believe that I’m saying it, but it feels good. To have these people around, words and jokes and anecdotes flying about.
‘No, seriously, this boy has a separate protein shaker just for his post-workout post-workout shake,’ Tejal is saying, her voice ringing with laughter. ‘But it’s the same thing!’
Sumrit, sitting on the floor and shovelling biryani into his mouth, points a spoon at her defensively. ‘It’s about the mindset. You wouldn’t understand. It’s science. You can fool your mind into believing anything.’
‘It’s insanity,’ Kunal says with a slow smile. ‘But whatever works, man.’
‘Actually, I agree with Sumrit,’ says Shilpi. ‘I read it too!’
‘Sure, Shilpi. Sure,’ says Aditi, shaking her head with a smile.
I’m laughing too. Like I have been laughing all evening.
Every now and then, of course. This is not a very funny group, I have realized that now.
Not every group needs to be funny. The objective of why these people came together was something else, and that aim has been more or less achieved by now.
And for a moment, I let myself feel safe. I let myself feel like this is life again. But what if it’s a lie? The moment I stop laughing, the silence returns. The silence always returns. Will it return?
But every now and then, my eyes keep drifting to the boxes. And every now and then, my laugh dies a little.
They are stacked against the wall like a barricade. A monument marking her departure. Her life, kind of our life, sealed away with packing tape. Books. Clothes. Charging cables.
The boxes look bigger now. Heavier. They are not just lifeless cardboard boxes. They are screaming and mocking at me from across the room.
The sight of my handwriting is a physical blow every time I look at it. I signed on this. I’m letting her go. But she was going anyway. This wasn’t in my hands. This was written. I have to keep reminding myself of this. This was a long time coming.
But my chest still fights it. My lungs fight it.
My throat closes each time I remember. My heart asks, what if she stays?
Will she change her mind? Maybe one small miracle.
But why am I even leaning towards it? And then my eyes go back to the boxes, and the miracle dies.
Then the miracle starts again. Then it dies again.
Again. And again. Like waves. It’s happening. I have to accept it.
I watch her as she moves through the room, the undeniable centre of its gravity. She’s laughing at something Sumrit said, her face bright and animated, a lock of hair falling across her face.
She glows. She does not even know she glows.
She glows when she eats, when she laughs, when she pushes her hair back.
And I sit here, watching her glow, and I burn.
I burn because soon that glow will leave this room.
Soon this room will be dark. Why am I thinking like this?
I can’t. I have to move on. Everyone else clearly has.
She shares a quiet, intimate look with Kunal, a silent conversation that passes between them in a single, shared smile. And in that moment, I feel smaller. I feel ignored. The fucking irrationality of this feeling angers me. I try my best to push it out of my head.
But I can’t. I can’t. His smile is like a knife.
Her smile back is like a knife. Every time they look at each other, I bleed.
I bleed but no one sees. This is the last day I will see them.
Isn’t it obvious that the next time we meet it will be at her place?
But who cares? It’s fine. I had expected this.
What else could have happened here? Nothing. This is where the story ends.
The conversation eventually, inevitably, turns to them. Like it had to. At the end, it’s about them. It always has been.
To Aman and Megha.
It starts with Tejal.
‘You know,’ she says, her voice a little thick with emotion, looking at the boxes. ‘I never met the two of them. And it’s my shitty luck but I think they would be proud of today. Seeing the two of you happy. And Aman?’ She points at Aditi. ‘He would have been so ridiculously proud of you, Adi.’
‘And Megha would be of you,’ says Shilpi softly.
For a moment there, I get a glimpse of Megha, laughing, in this house, the house that was supposed to be hers, ours, the house that was earmarked for creating memories, not erasing them . . . and yet that’s what we sought to do here.
Forget them.
For a moment, I see him too . . . Aman . . . of what could have been . . . the double dates.
And I want to tell them to stop taking their names.
Stop pulling them back. Everyone else seems to find a strange comfort in talking about them, but for me there’s no comfort.
All I hear is them talking about their deaths.
For them, their names are warm. For me, their names are fire.
For them, their names are smiles. For me, their names are knives.
For them, their names are stories. For me, their names are graves.
I yank myself out of the thought.
The reality is fucked up too.
They left, and Aditi? She’s leaving too.
‘They must be looking down and feeling so proud of you guys, bro,’ says Sumrit.
I nod, my throat tight. I can’t speak. The panic is starting to rise.
I tell myself so what, so fucking what. I will deal with this.
I will deal with my grief alone. Who cares?
And yet, the panic climbs. It climbs up my throat.
It climbs up my eyes. It climbs up my skin.
I can feel sweat even though the AC is on.
I can feel my heart beating too fast, too wild, like it will break out of my chest.
This is it. This is the last time we’ll all be in a room together, talking about them like they’re still a part of our lives. Once she’s gone, the stories will stop. The memories will fade. I’ll be the only one left to carry them, and the weight is going to crush me.
Of course they will say that they will still come, but will they come? No, they won’t. And after a while, I won’t expect them to come.
That’s how friendship dies. Not in a fight. Not in a bang. But in a slow silence. In a slow forgetting. In a slow stopping of visits. And I know. I know this is the last night. I know it. But then, do I even want this? Everyone forgets everyone. Eventually.
The party continues, but the energy has shifted. The easy laughter is replaced by a more subdued, nostalgic tone. But as the night winds down, everyone gets a bit tired. They want to leave, and who am I to stop them?
Tejal and Sumrit give me long, meaningful looks as they go.
You will be okay, their eyes say. But they don’t know. They will never know. They will go home and sleep. I will sit here and count the cracks in the wall till morning.
Kunal shakes my hand, his grip firm, his expression unreadable. ‘Take care of yourself, man,’ he says.
I know his tone. He’s telling me that it’s finally time to get my shit together. I shake his hand with the same intensity.
And then they’re gone.
It’s just us. Aditi and I.
Alone in the room with the boxes and the ghosts.
The silence is not silence any more. It is a body. It is breathing with us. It is heavy on my shoulders. It sits between us on the sofa. It crawls into my ears.
I can hear the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of traffic on the main road. I watch her as she starts to gather the empty glasses, her movements small and slow.
I know this is the last time I will watch her do something as simple as picking up a glass in this house. Tomorrow she will pick up glasses somewhere else. In someone else’s house. Not mine. Not ours.
‘Don’t go,’ I say, the words so quiet they’re barely a whisper.
She stops, her back to me. ‘What?’ she asks.
‘Don’t go,’ I repeat, my voice breaking.
The words are too small. The words are nothing. But they are all I have. So I throw them out, again and again, hoping they will grow. Hoping they will be enough.
I cross the room in three long strides, and then I’m standing in front of her.
‘I can’t . . . I can’t do it.’
‘Do what?’ she asks, the useless question that she knows is useless because she has tears in her eyes too.
The tears stream down my face. I haven’t cried like this since the day it happened.
‘I’m so jealous of him,’ the words bubble out, and I gesture to the door Kunal just walked out of. ‘Of Kunal. I hate him because he gets to have this.’
I laugh, but it is a broken laugh. It sounds like choking. It sounds like drowning. Because even I know how stupid it is. But knowing it is stupid does not kill the pain. The pain stays.
‘What do you mean, Raghav?’ she whispers.
‘The easy laughter. The future. Your future. I got the broken you and now that you’re healed, he gets to have you while I’m here . . . alone . . . and it’s fucking scary, Aditi. I can’t live like this, here. Alone, with all the memories.’
I gesture wildly at the empty room, at the ghosts and the memories that haunt it.
‘I deleted her,’ I whisper. The pain tears through me. ‘I deleted her, and there’s nothing left. Just this . . . this giant, empty space. And if you go, I . . . I don’t know what I’ll do.’
The silence after this is like thunder. It crashes on me. It crushes me. My knees shake. My lips shake. I want to take the words back. But I can’t. They are out. They are in the room now. They are alive now. Unlike the others, my words will always be alive.
I take a breath, my eyes locking on to hers. And then I say the words that shatter the last of my defences.
‘I’m in love with you,’ I say. ‘I know it’s insane. I know it’s fucked up. But it’s the truth. I’m in love with you. Please. Please don’t go.’
The words are knives leaving my mouth. I can feel the cuts as they pass my throat. I can feel the blood in my chest. But I still say them. Because I have nothing else.
I’m begging now, my voice a raw, desperate plea.
‘But what happened?’ she asks. ‘You were okay . . .’
‘And now I’m not,’ I say. ‘I’m not okay. I need you, please.’
She just stares at me, her face a chaotic mix of anger, pity, and a deep, profound sadness.
‘I love you, Aditi,’ I repeat, my voice cracking.
And yet she stands there, saying nothing.
‘I really do,’ I say, my voice pleading now.
And she stands there, stone-faced. Quiet. And my world slowly starts to crumble.
‘Please,’ I beg, ‘tell me you love me.’
The room is shaking. Or maybe it’s me. The boxes lean closer. The lights dim. The walls bend and close up on me. The ground is soft under my feet. I feel like I am falling but I am still standing. I am standing and falling at the same time. I wish I was dying.
I watch a tear escape her eye. ‘I don’t,’ she says, her voice flat and dead. ‘I don’t love you, Raghav.’
The words cut through me. They don’t just cut. They sit there, inside my chest, heavy, sharp, their jagged ends tearing me from the inside.
I feel my heart splinter.
But then . . . she reaches out, and holds my hand.
‘ . . . but I will never leave you . . . I can’t.’
And I want to believe her. I want to hold her words like rope. But my heart knows better. My heart knows this is the beginning of the end. I’m done.
I know I’m done.