PART 3 #7
She looks at me to ascertain if I’m serious. ‘One cliché after another. Is this where the podcast money’s going?’
‘We will be in hostels, and eating out of supermarkets. It will be cheap, it will be awesome.’
‘You have money, why skimp?’
‘Minimalism? Maybe? I don’t know,’ I tell her. ‘Just gives me a kick to know I can be happy with the little things I have. It’s a game.’
‘It doesn’t sound like a good game.’
‘Do you want to eat papdi chat?’
‘What?’
‘It was a simple question.’
‘Do you?’
Manoj butts in. ‘I thought you would stay till your
bike’s fixed.’
‘Just give her the helmet.’
9.
Aanchal Madan
We sit at the plastic table outside Haldiram’s on unbalanced chairs that threaten to topple with our weight and order two plates of spicy papdi chaat.
The flavours melt in my mouth, and I tell Daksh that people have tried and failed to recreate this in New York.
He calls me bougie and I remind him that he’s the OG bougie, the guy whose parents had spent lakhs on a holiday package to the Andamans.
For a moment we both fall silent. I wonder if he, too, is reminiscing about that time, and of course, he is.
It feels like it was a dream, a distorted memory, a movie.
It feels like it wasn’t us, it was someone else.
Then, my mind wanders from that time to Mumbai, to Vicky, to our mezzanine floor rendezvous, which I remember like yesterday. My skin still feels like it’s on fire every time I think about our first kiss.
‘Vicky has a boyfriend,’ I reveal to Daksh and wait for his expression.
As I had expected, his mouth falls open, like mine had the first time I heard it.
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘I mean . . . I’m not sure, but it sure looks like it. He’s not married though I know his parents would have pressured him, so that’s a giveaway. And he’s with a guy who some of my classmates think is his boyfriend. They post a lot of pictures together, kind of obvious—’
I search for Vicky on Instagram and show it to Daksh.
‘Singapore?’ he asks me.
‘He works with Goldman Sachs,’ I explain. ‘Everyone from my class in school is doing okay. SRCC, no SRCC, doesn’t matter. Seems almost unreal that I used to panic so intensely those days.’
‘When you’re hungry, the fight is all you see,’ he says.
‘But when do you stop?’
He shakes his head. ‘By the way, you’re not doing “okay” like the rest of your classmates. You’re the senior management type. You’re going to have million-dollar bonuses in your forties.’
‘You haven’t done badly yourself.’
He wolfs down a big piece of papdi. ‘Thanks to your brother. I am a parasite who leeched on him. That’s what you used to say, right?’
‘He became what he was because of you. I didn’t want to admit it back then, but it’s true.’
‘Without Gaurav, there’s no way I would have made as much money as I did in such a short time. It’s my fuck-you money.’
‘What’s fuck-you money?’
‘I can go on this Europe trip without thinking about anything. Even if I don’t work for the next four years, I will be fine. If I live like I am right now, spending very little, maybe even six.’
‘Who are you saying fuck-you to, actually?’
‘The set notions of how life must be lived,’ he says. ‘Are you going to start looking for a job here?’
‘I have a few offers.’
‘Of course you do,’ he says. ‘Anything that you particularly like?’
‘Haven’t done a deep dive yet. I haven’t even unpacked yet. Let’s see.’
He nods slowly and then meets my eyes. He keeps staring at me for a long time, his gaze weighed by what’s on his mind and if he should say it. My heart beats in anticipation.
He finally speaks, ‘I think about us every now and then.’
‘What about us?’
‘Everything,’ he answers.
‘. . . of how the universe brought us together?’
‘I don’t believe in fate or the universe or cosmos or whatever.’
I lean forward. ‘Daksh, it’s the only explanation why we keep meeting. No matter what happens, our paths cross.’
‘I had always wondered who the audience of those gooey Instagram poets and pop philosophy writers was. You are.’
I shrug.
‘So much in this world is left unexplained. I think it’s arrogant to think we understand everything and have all the answers,’ I say.
If I were to ask Daksh why he used to love me so passionately, or maybe still does, there’s no rational answer he could give. He, too, would say something like, I feel it in my soul. That’s no different from the mysterious power of the universe to make things happen. Or fate.
‘What’s your plan now?’ I ask Daksh. ‘Long term?’
I mask it like a career plan, but what I really want to ask him is what the future holds for us.
‘I have junked making plans. They have never worked out for me.’
‘So now you will be a dirty teenager caked in mud going on a drunken bike tour in Europe with a backpack of dirty clothes?’
‘You’re making the most exciting trip I’m going on sound horrible,’ he says with a chuckle.
He might not believe in the universe conspiring to put us in each other’s path but I do.
The more time passes, the more I’m convinced of it.
Daksh and I are made for each other—at least in parts, maybe not in whole.
Words bubble at the back of my throat. I want to tell him this, but I weigh the possibilities of what might happen.
But when has our relationship followed reason?
‘I don’t want you to wake up in other girls’ hostel beds in Europe.’
He looks at me for a second. ‘No one’s lining up in Europe to sleep with me. As you just said, I will be dirty and caked in mud.’
‘You will come out of the shower, water dripping from your hair and all those white women will go crazy about your tanned, toned look. You know that’s what’s going to happen,’ I say, no longer bothering to mask the scorn in my voice.
‘I’m not going there for that. I’m going for the silence.’
‘There’s absolutely no need for a soul-searching Eurotrip. And absolutely no need to share common bathrooms with other hostel mates, some of whom will be women.’
He leans forward and locks his gaze with mine. I can smell his cologne. ‘It’s easier just to ask me not to go.’
‘I’m not telling you that.’
‘Then what are you telling me?’
The words come swiftly. ‘Take me along.’
He scans my face to understand how serious I am with my request. ‘And you’re going to stop me from sleeping with someone else?’
‘I will stab anyone who as much as looks at you.’
‘Are we a little stupid, Aanchal?’
‘We are. We were briefly mature when we met in Phuket. But mostly, we are stupid.’
10.
Aanchal Madan
I feel like a teenager obsessively staring at her phone for countless hours, desperately waiting for a text or a call.
I even switched it off for a little while to stop checking it.
But I’m pulled right back in moments later, enslaved by the need to hear from him again.
I keep rewinding to our conversation and every time it sends tingles down my spine.
We haven’t met or talked since our conversation at Haldiram’s except for his message in which he had asked for a date suitable for the visa interview and attached the visa form and the list of things I would require.
Nothing about what’s there for us in the future, nothing about our conversation.
It’s as if I had imagined the entire thing.
Perhaps these forms were a test to see if I would really go along with him.
I haven’t sent the filled forms back and that may well be the reason why he hasn’t been texting me.
Sitting in Haldiram’s, we said those loaded words, but we knew if we stood by them, it would be like strapping our lives into a rickety, dangerous roller coaster.
It could easily unravel our lives in the most destructive of ways like it has done before.
This is simultaneously the easiest and the toughest decision to make.
As I take a deep breath and let myself drift off to sleep, my phone buzzes with a notification.
My heart stops for a moment before my hand darts towards the phone.
It’s Daksh.
Waiting in the lift lobby
My pulse quickens. I get out of bed, tiptoeing into the living room. Maa–Papa’s room is closed. I move quietly out of the room, thinking of possible excuses I could give them if they wake up and don’t find me in bed.
I walk past Gaurav’s room. He’s bent over a desk, a small lamp is on, and he’s writing a journal.
His face is one of peace and health. I stop and look at him, take it all in.
I still can’t believe he had been so stupid.
Gaurav looks up and I wave at him. He smiles as if he knows where I’m going and shakes his head. I want to slap him.
I see him in the lobby.
‘Are you here for the documents?’ I ask him.
Daksh turns towards me. His dark eyes are deep, his hair is unruly and messy, a two-day stubble growing on his gorgeous face. He is wearing a grey T-shirt that has seen better days and a pair of black track pants. He still manages to look hauntingly beautiful.
‘It’s going to be very cold up there,’ he tells me.
He’s holding out a windbreaker for me and I take it. My fingers brush against his; they are rough and hard like sandpaper. He is warm to the touch.
‘I see we are still playing on clichés,’ I point out.
‘The cliché where you look incredible even in your pyjamas?’ he responds.
I shake my head. ‘You know what I mean? The roof overlooking the city, the city lights, how vast is the universe, how little and insignificant we are. Two people looking within themselves while being on a rooftop. In how many movies have we seen this?’
‘We are both guilty of clichés,’ he counters.
‘That’s all we are.’
‘You’re being cynical and witty because it’s easier than feeling things and being vulnerable.’