PART 2 #4
Rabbani has long outgrown the days when she was small enough for me to hoist on to my shoulders, back when I was seventeen and Mumma was still with us.
She’s no longer the little sister who needed me to envelop her in my arms, whisper into her ears that everything would be all right after we lost Mumma, when grief threatened to consume Baba.
Gone is the nine-year-old whom I coached through badminton matches and swimming lessons, the kid whose homework used to be a shared project where I learnt to mimic her handwriting and she mine till both our handwritings were indistinguishable from each other.
Now, she’s immersed in her own world, spending days engaged in her own things, picking her own favourite songs, her own clothes, telling me I wouldn’t understand the things she talks about with her friends.
She doesn’t need me, not as much as I need her.
‘In your head, yes, she is,’ she says. ‘Both of us, our youth went into raising kids. As we keep saying in our podcast, we are kids raising kids. But maybe it’s time we look at ourselves now. Five or six years from now they will be in college. What will we do?’
‘I was thinking I could burn her board exam certificates. She will sit at home.’
Her expression turns into one of seriousness, and she says, ‘If we get married, we have to figure out what we are without our kids.’
‘She’s my sister, to be honest.’
‘You’re still joking. You know she’s your kid. You have never thought of her as your sister. Or you would have let her go.’
I nod because she’s right, because Amruta’s always right.
She continues, ‘We need to find out who we are. Because right now, we are really the weirdest couple. Let’s take our shot at normality.’
4.
Aanchal Madan
The airline employee peers at Vanita over his thick-rimmed glasses. ‘Your luggage is 10 kilos over the limit,’ he informs her.
Vanita narrows her eyes. ‘Oh-kay. Can you adjust it with her?’
‘It would still be 5 kilos extra. Do you want to put some in your hand baggage?’ The staff guy leans over and assesses Vanita’s cabin baggage. It’s already bursting. ‘You will have to pay, ma’am.’
‘But I don’t want to,’ protests Vanita.
‘I wanted to be a cabin crew member but I’m ground staff. Seems like we all have to do things we don’t like.’
An amused Vanita takes out her debit card and slides it on the counter. ‘How often do you use that line?’
‘Aren’t you guys trained to be more polite?’ I ask the staff, a little surprised, mostly curious at the sassiness.
The ground staff guy types loudly on his keyboard and answers without looking up. ‘We are the cheapest airline. We are not really service-first. We can say whatever. People will still travel our airline.’
‘Really?’ asks Vanita.
The guy breaks out into a big smile. ‘No, actually, it’s my notice period. I’m quitting to be an assistant to a content creator.’
He processes the boarding cards and hands them to us. ‘Flight UK234 to Phuket. Gate number 34. Boarding closes at 7.30. Have fun there, okay?’
We both smile at him. Boarding passes in hand, Vanita and I walk towards the security checkpoint.
No sooner does she unzip her carry-on than an impatient queue forms behind us.
She fishes out an impressive knot of chargers and cords, a veritable electric octopus in her hands.
The crowd grumbles as Vanita begins loading the security tray: the web of chargers for her laptop, phone, watch and camera; the gadgets themselves—a laptop, a phone, an iPad, a Kindle; and not to forget, her office phone and laptop.
‘Are you fleeing from your in-laws?’
Her eyes glint with mischief.
‘On the contrary, Aditya and I are closer than ever. I needed these clothes because this is the last time I will fit into them.’
‘Next!’ The CISF woman calls out. ‘Hey? Hey? Madam!’ She points at the metal-detector frame. ‘Through here, ma’am. What are you doing? You can’t come from the side.’
‘Pregnant, huh,’ Vanita responds.
She turns to smile at me before she disappears behind the curtain to be patted down.
My shock’s unwarranted. Vanita got married two years ago at an embarrassingly young age of twenty-five to have two kids in quick succession and get that out of the way. But then her mother got sick and then Aditya’s father got sick, and they kept putting it off. This was always on the cards.
‘I’m so happy for you!’ I tell her on the other side, watching her pack her things into her bag.
‘Give it time and then be genuinely happy,’ says Vanita.
‘Arre?’
She raises her hand.
I walk through immigration behind Vanita, still trying to string my thoughts together.
She, of course, isn’t convinced about me being happy about her pregnancy.
She thinks I’m not that person and not without reason.
The last time we met was at her wedding two years ago, and I bluntly told her she was crazy to get married at twenty-five and to even consider having children.
I told her she would regret losing the prime years of her career to impressing in-laws and preparing purees for toddlers.
She had borne my taunts with a grace only she has.
For the past two years, she has been obscenely happy.
I can see it, I can feel it, and I’m genuinely happy for her.
What she doesn’t know yet is that my way of looking at things has shifted.
I just haven’t told her yet. About my Bharat Matrimony profile, about Saket, and about me wanting to ‘date with the intention of getting married’.
‘Congratulations!’ I say again and hug her.
She wraps her arms around me. She kisses me on the forehead and says, ‘You will be the best maasi ever! Okay, maybe not the best. But you will be on the list. Shower them with money, okay? Buy their love.’
The immigration officer takes our passports, checks if everything’s in order and then waves us through the gates. We check our gate number and then head to the food court.
‘You will be amazing. Like you are at all things. You will be an amazing mother.’
‘You don’t have to tell me that. I know I will.’
We grab a dosa and a plate of idli, polish them off swiftly, and opt out of buying something from Starbucks—a choice that whispers we’re beyond our teenage years.
As we meander on, we pick up a pair of neck pillows and a bottle of water. Vanita glances at my credit card, and I brace for the inevitable question. Her questions remain the same, yet the way she poses them evolves over time.
‘Could you have afforded a business class ticket easily? With some difficulty? Or would it have been the luxury purchase?’
She asks these questions without malice. She merely wants to know how close I am to the dreams I had spelt out to her, sitting in the canteen of SRCC. I want to be the richest of our batch, I had declared. And then added, as a footnote, among the salaried people.
‘With very little difficulty,’ I answer.
Her face beams with joy. ‘Look at you! You got everything you wanted.’
Suddenly, Vanita goes silent. We walk towards the gate of our flight. I can sense there’s something on her mind, but I don’t prod her. She’s not the one to hide her emotions. We find Gate 34 and quickly lay claim to the loungers.
She finally speaks, ‘I should have waited two years. You were right. There’s no point in getting married at twenty-five.’
‘But you have been happy!’
‘I am, trust me, I am. But nothing would have changed in two years, right? I’m here, I’m pregnant now. I could have spent a year more with Maa,’ she says wistfully.
‘You were with her right till the end,’ I argue.
Throughout the six months her mother fought cancer with such grace that her passing seemed sudden, Vanita was by her side every step of the way.
She nods pensively. ‘You’re right. It’s never enough though, is it? I keep thinking that I hurried myself.’ Now she forces a smile. ‘To be honest, my mother wanted me out of the house, too. So it’s her fault.’
I extend my hand to hers, and she leans her head against my shoulder.
My mind takes me back to those calls Vanita would make, raw with grief, in the months following her mother’s passing.
She warned me against coming to India. But she also warned me against missing her calls.
We sit in shared silence. As the announcement for our flight boarding breaks the moment, my mind says, screw it, tell her.
‘Now I want what you do,’ I say.
People have flocked to the boarding gate now.
‘I feel there should be more,’ I confess. ‘More than the ease of getting a business class ticket.’
Vanita looks into my eyes and seems to understand all that I’ve been hiding from her, reading the entire story behind the few sentences I have spoken.
‘Because you’re greedy, Aanchal, you have always been,’ she says with a chuckle. ‘You want everything. And there’s nothing wrong in wanting everything.’
‘I had been wrong about—’
She cuts me with a shake of her head. ‘We all make trade-offs. You have made yours. I have made mine. And there’s a high chance that you would have been unhappy with Daksh.
And I’m not saying that because you suddenly want, I’m guessing, a partner.
Had you taken that decision all those years ago, against your will, you would have lived your life in resentment. ’
I frown at her. ‘This is not about Daksh, though. It’s a general statement. It’s not regret. It’s just what I want now. I have changed. That’s what I want to say.’
‘Oh.’
She’s not convinced so I put it in clearer terms.
‘I’m over him.’
‘Wait, so you’re saying you’re just looking for someone right now? Like to seriously date?’
‘I got on a few matrimony websites.’
‘What?! What?! Why didn’t you tell me! Also, that’s awesome! That’s so awesome!’ squeals Vanita. ‘I didn’t know you were ready. I mean, to be honest, I thought you were still hung up on him. And maybe you were regretting having lost him.’
I take a deep breath and say, ‘No, I don’t regret it.’