PART 2 #5
My mind throws an image of Daksh and Amruta in the hospital room, promising each other a forever.
‘He looks really happy with Amruta, though,’ I say.
‘Does he?’
‘Oh c’mon. Don’t pretend. Of course, you listen to their podcast.’
Vanita smiles. ‘They are very informative. But I hate Amruta if that’s what you wanted to ask.’
‘I don’t hate Amruta. And neither should you,’ I say. ‘As I said, he’s ancient history. It’s been five years.’
We pass on our boarding cards to the flight crew who guide us to our seats. We trudge along to 17 A and 17 B. At the seat, I hoist her cabin bag into the hat rack.
‘It’s been five years?!’
‘Okay, fifteen. Ten years since I first met him. Five years since that short-lived fling with him.’
‘It was not a fling, Aanchal, but . . . whatever! This is so cool! Which means I get to log in to your profile and find you a nice guy. This is so exciting!’
‘You’re absolutely NOT doing that.’
‘I’m so going to do that. The second you sleep now, I’m going to steal your phone,’ she says.
The flight crew asks us to put our seats upright and concentrate on the safety demonstration. Vanita looks up at the flight attendant who’s waving an oxygen mask in front of her face and telling us how to breathe in case of an emergency. And just then, I see Vanita’s face lose all colour.
‘What happened?’
‘Don’t look up,’ she says.
I try to turn but she holds my face. ‘What is it?’
She catches my gaze and then says in the most consolatory tone ever.
‘Daksh. Daksh is on the plane.’
5.
Daksh Dey
‘You could have gone and said hi to her,’ says Amruta as she slides the passports back into her backpack. ‘You two share history.’
‘Is this one of those tests?’
‘What tests?’
‘Where you want to check if I want to go and say hi to her. And if I say yes, you will be like, hmmm, why did you want to say hi?’
‘It’s almost insulting that you’re thinking I’m that type.’
It’s true that Amruta’s totally the opposite of that. Three things age you like nothing does. The death of a parent. The birth of your child. The death of your partner. All three have happened to her.
And to me. Sort of.
Not that I will ever admit it to Amruta.
Or to myself. Maa’s death, which meant the birth of my child, because I became Rabbani’s de facto parent.
Aanchal’s rejection wasn’t quite death, but it felt a lot like it.
She took with her a part of me I rather liked.
One who could trust beginnings. One who didn’t obsess about how everything could end badly.
‘Wasn’t the friend Vanita?’ she asks. ‘The one whose wedding I came to?’
‘Technically, you didn’t come to the wedding. I went to the wedding and my appendix burst. And you flew down panicking that I would die and wanted to marry me immediately.’
She rolls her eyes and quips, ‘Quite an elaborate plan to get me to go down on one knee.’
‘Both knees are preferable.’
‘Are we still doing eighth standard blowjob jokes?’
‘You said we need to find what we are beyond the kids. Turns out I’m the one with the double-meaning jokes.’
She points to the conveyor belt. ‘Our baggage is here.’
As I hoist our baggage from the belt, I catch a glimpse of Aanchal and Vanita emerging from behind the immigration counters. I feel a burn in my heart I hadn’t expected. An itch I can’t explain. I divert my gaze and load the suitcases on a trolley.
Stepping outside the airport, a hotel representative greets us with a warm smile and a placard that says, ‘Ritz-Carlton, Phuket’.
‘We are here,’ I tell him, pointing to the placard.
The man looks at his list of names and then at Amruta. ‘Good morning, good morning. Welcome to Thailand. Are you Aanchal Madan?’
Amruta squints. ‘I’m Amruta. He’s Daksh. We have a pick-up scheduled. Can you check the list again?’
She’s taking out her phone to show the representative the reservations message and he’s checking the list of names he’s supposed to pick up today.
He taps his head apologetically. ‘Oh, yes, yes. Sorry, sorry, two guests for pick-up,’ he says and grabs the trolley handle from me. ‘Get inside. Let me do this.’
We board the minivan that’s as big as a caravan, more than enough for two guests. We take the last seats.
‘We should get a car like this,’ I remark.
‘This is a bus.’
‘Exactly.’
The hotel representative pops his head through the door and says, ‘Just two minutes.’
We wave him off that it’s no big deal.
‘It seems like now you will have to have a conversation,’ says Amruta.
I shrug it off, convincing myself that seeing her is no big deal. She’s a relic of the past, a fragment of a life whose memories have begun to blur at the edges.
Five minutes later, Aanchal and Vanita come bouncing out of the airport.
A porter drags their trolley while both carry what seems like duty-free alcohol bags in their hands.
It’s 10 a.m. Amruta and I look at each other.
I can sense she’s thinking the same thing I am, that we used to be them and that this trip can be a reset for us, a slow slide back, a rewind to being young, spontaneous, unburdened and carefree.
‘We used to be them,’ says Amruta.
‘You were never them,’ I remind Amruta who got married so early she didn’t have time for alcohol and bad decisions.
‘We could be them,’ she corrects herself.
‘It would be called a mid-life crisis.’
‘Twenty-eight and thirty is hardly mid-life. And we are getting younger. Our parents didn’t look like us or do the kind of stuff we are doing at this age. We are practically teenagers.’
Their suitcases are loaded in the back. I feel an uptick in my heart rate which takes me by surprise. Residual anger? Reflex? I take out my phone and pretend to click a picture of the sky from the tinted windows of the minivan. I don’t pretend, I actually click it and it’s surprisingly good.
Vanita’s the first one to board. She’s as lanky as I recall.
Dressed in shorts and an oversized T-shirt, she looks like she’s just come off a football field or tennis court.
She’s built-solid, her weather-beaten face which is no doubt a remnant from the hours she has spent on fields and courts always makes her look like she could beat you in a 100m sprint and crank out a few calisthenics moves that make you feel weak and blubbery.
Aanchal boards next. Her hair’s in a messy little bun at the top of her head, little strands going everywhere and catching the sunlight.
There are beads of sweat on her forehead that are slowly trickling down the side of her cheek.
She keeps her bag on her seat. Then, she swivels forward her handbag.
The last time I saw her, two years ago, was at Vanita’s wedding, and I remember how she sparkled in that shimmering black lehenga.
I recall being furious, the wounds still festering, gangrenous.
Today, the wound’s healed. And yet something throbs.
‘Guys!’ says Vanita, turning to face us from her seat. ‘We saw you on the plane too but thought it would be too weird. But now it’s the same hotel too. Amruta, right?’
‘Vanita,’ says Amruta with a nod. ‘The last time I saw you I went hungry from your wedding.’
Vanita laughs. ‘That’s what happens with wedding crashers who come with no envelopes. Some people get appendicitis, others go back home hungry. By the way, I listen to your podcast. Top stuff.’
‘I can’t tell if you’re serious,’ I tell her.
Now, Aanchal has also joined her and is facing us. I scan her expressions to try and understand how she feels. She’s just smiling. No stacks of feelings like in my case. No signs of her mind throwing up images of the times gone by.
‘She’s pregnant,’ explains Aanchal. ‘And you two do a great job at raising kids. You’re practically homework for expectant couples.’
‘That’s so sweet,’ says Amruta. ‘So I’m guessing you’re about three months in?’
‘See!’ squeals Vanita. ‘That’s why you’re so good.’
‘Where are the kids? And Rabbani?’ asks Aanchal.
‘They are on their school trip,’ I answer.
‘Can we all sit down?’ The driver speaks in a thick accent.
Aanchal and Vanita nod and take their seats. Just then, my phone beeps. It’s Amruta’s text.
Was it weird?
It was. She seems okay though.
The people who break hearts usually are.
I’m not heartbroken, by the way.
She links her hand in mine. As we drive away from the airport, Phuket starts to reveal itself. The lush green hills in the distance, standing tall against the bright blue sky, the small markets at the sides of the road and locals on scooters weaving through the traffic. I get my breath back.
6.
Aanchal Madan
‘Look at you,’ remarks Vanita, swirling her straw in her coconut, roving her eyes over me and the bikini I had been waiting to wear.
‘I’m assuming that’s a compliment,’ I say.
Vanita can rock anything she wears, and if she’s looking at you and appreciatively nodding, then it really means something. The weight of Vanita’s nods outstrips any other attention I might attract.
She takes a big sip of her coconut water. ‘It was more of a realization.’
I sit next to her and wave the waiter down for a menu.
She says, ‘You lost a few years because of wearing a bikini. And Vicky.’