PART 3 #10
Rabbani shrugs and the fiery rage in her expression dies away. Instead, a strange, distant look comes over her face as she studies the passports in her hands. She throws one at me before tearing another passport—Aanchal’s—in half and tossing it to the ground in front of me.
‘She’s not going anywhere,’ she says menacingly. ‘Go be a martyr! Go alone! I assure you no one is going to miss you here!’
13.
Aanchal Madan
‘We are token number 43,’ Daksh says and sits next to me on the cold benches at the passport office.
He’s wearing a grey T-shirt and black jeans, his go-to outfit.
His minimalism also comes from a place of vanity.
I think that’s how he likes to show off—looking handsome in even the most basic of clothes.
His arms bulge against the fabric seams. I wonder what it would be like if he just put his arm around me.
Would it feel infinitely better? It would.
I steal glimpses of him periodically, take in his cologne and wonder, when did I become so smitten?
Or had I always been? Every time our shoulders brush against each other, my head spins just a little bit.
We are carrying a letter from the commissioner of police, Delhi, Rajni Ahuja, a fan of Amruta, which will help us get the passport in three days. Following this, Abhishek Karan at VFS, Gaurav’s fan who now feels sorry for him, will help me with the Schengen visa stamping.
‘Rabbani’s too smart for this,’ I tell Daksh. What I don’t tell him is that I desperately want Rabbani to like me.
‘The tearing was symbolic, not literal,’ answers Daksh.
He gives his hand to me, palm up and I place my hand into his. Our fingers gently intertwine. Daksh’s hand is warm, his fingers gentle around my own.
When Daksh first told me about Rabbani tearing the passport, I had been worried about what he would do. Would he bow down to his sister’s wishes? Now, as he clasps my hand, I know he’s here to stay.
‘Should I not go?’
‘Because of a tantrum? I don’t negotiate with terrorists.’
‘Were we like this too when we were teenagers?’ I ask and then after a pause, I add, ‘We weren’t.’
‘You wanted to win the world, I think I was still closer to what Rabbani is.’
‘Daksh, you were never a teenager. You have always been a charming early-twenties guy. You’re that even now.’
‘By the way, it’s the youngest I have felt in the longest time.’
I look at him and my eyes rest on the creases of his forehead, the slight tiredness in his eyes, which I’m sure he will find in mine too. ‘We are getting old, Daksh.’
He shrugs. ‘There are no merits to being young . . . all the pressure to be cool and stuff . . . no thanks . . .’
‘We are next.’
We make our way to the government official’s desk and take our seats. I slide the documents across the desk to him. He starts to check if everything is in order.
‘I have a right to be selfish,’ he mumbles.
‘We all do,’ I tell him. ‘As someone who broke up with the nicest boy in the entire world to chase selfish pursuits, I know you’re right.’
‘She will get over it,’ says Daksh as much to himself as to me. ‘She just misses Amruta.’
‘I don’t think she will ever like me.’
‘She doesn’t know you yet. And you did mention a bunch of times that you hate kids. She remembers that.’
‘Does she not remember that I gave up my yogurt for her back in the Andamans?’
Daksh chuckles. It’s my favourite sound in the world. ‘I will remind her of that.’
The government employee taps the table and slips the receipt in front of us. It will take three business days.
‘Wait at the gate,’ he tells me. ‘I will get the car.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ I tell him. ‘I’m not leaving you for a single minute.’
‘Clingy.’
‘I identify as a leech now.’
‘I’m a willing host.’
‘We are so cringe,’ I say.
‘Cringe is the highest form of self-acceptance,’ he says and puts his arm around me.
We take the lift to the Basement 1 parking.
Today’s a weekday and the parking lot is deserted.
There aren’t many people in the world who are jobless and want to apply for passports in Tatkal during office hours.
Daksh’s car is parked in the far corner of the basement, which is dimly lit by grey, flickering tube lights.
Someone needs to study the direct correlation between dark space and new relationships and what it does to your heartbeat.
As we walk towards the car, Daksh’s hand slides around my waist. I’m glad he feels it too.
I feel every muscle in my body tense up as his hand rests against my hips.
His warmth soaks into my body. I want to be closer to him.
As our bodies brush against each other, a jolt of electricity runs through me.
It is almost painful how much my body wants his.
When he releases me to get into the car, I feel an anxiety I have never felt before.
He turns on the ignition. I turn it off.
When he looks at me, his eyes travel down my body and then back up to meet my gaze.
He knows that I want him. His knowing makes me want him even more.
His eyes burn brighter with desire. I enjoy seeing how I can flip a switch in him.
‘Aanchal,’ he says, instinctively reaching out for my face and holding it.
He pulls me close, his arm wrapped around my shoulder, firm and warm.
With one fluid motion, he pulls the lever of his car seat.
The seat reclines. He cups my face and breathes hot air on to my skin.
His rough hands against my face feel reassuring, hot.
I let my lips linger on his. He drops his head into the soft space between my neck and shoulder.
He’s holding back. His chest heaves from the effort.
I smile to myself. I want him as much as he wants me, probably more, definitely more.
‘Someone might come,’ he whispers into my neck. He can barely contain himself from touching me. He’s panting now. Seeing what I can do to him makes me feel powerful.
‘Let them watch,’ I whisper back.
That’s the only encouragement he needs. He slips his hand inside my shirt. In one swift motion, he has taken off my stupid shirt. I move away from him. His eyes scan my body up and down and then up again, stopping to study my face. I like the hunger in his eyes, but I turn away from him.
‘Easy, Daksh,’ I say, not meaning it.
He catches it. ‘You want me to be easy?’
‘You’re right, I don’t.’
He pulls me into him.
‘I want you, now.’
‘That’s obvious.’
‘Your sex talk is horrible, Aanchal.’
He stares into my eyes as if he’ll melt me into nothingness if he looks away. My mind becomes blank as I feel his tongue on mine, and I barely notice when he unclasps my bra. His hands run up and down my back and then rest on the small of my back.
‘Why does this feel so nice?’ I murmur.
He jerks me away, looks at me with an impish smile and says, ‘It’s just sex for me, no feelings.’
‘Of course, it’s just sex,’ I say with a laugh.
‘It’s just that I only want it with you for the rest of my life,’ he says, bringing me close and kissing me on the forehead.
I frown. ‘Don’t turn me on and then do this mushy kissing on the forehead.’
‘Why?’ he says as he runs his fingers on my bare neck.
He traces them down to my breasts and circles my nipples.
‘Because . . . as I . . . said . . .’ My words get stuck in my throat as he pinches me. ‘. . . it’s just sex . . .’
‘. . . but it’s not, is it . . .’ he says as he brings me closer. ‘It’s life-defining, mind-altering, universe-crumbling sex.’
As he bites into my neck, I say, ‘You’re . . . you’re . . . ummm. . . overestimating yourself.’
He mumbles as he sucks on me, ‘I’m estimating you correctly.’
And then, he gives me one of those looks that send me into a tizzy and kisses me.
And I want him to kiss every single inch of me like this.
I take off his T-shirt and climb on to him.
I feel my breasts against his chest as he fumbles with my jeans and then I fumble with his.
My skin aches to be against him, I’m trembling with anticipation.
I want us to be slow, but my heart races and I want him inside me.
‘Easy, Aanchal,’ he says with a smirk.
‘We have never been easy,’ I tell him.
My wetness rubs against him and I guide him inside me.
My mouth falls open in a gasp.
‘Fuck,’ he mumbles.
As he pushes and grows inside me, my body comes alive.
It wants all of him. I bite his ear and his neck; he grips me hard and I wince.
He pushes deeper and harder into me, egged on by my slight humiliations of ‘Is that all you got?’, which are lies because my body seems to go into a trance.
Sweat rolls down his forehead, the car fogs up.
‘We need more space,’ he grumbles into my skin.
My eyes open and he’s looking at me with such desire that I would do anything for him, as I believe he would for me. I open the door of the car.
I step out, fully aware of my nakedness. He steps out, never leaving my gaze. We are outside the car, the two of us, fully ourselves, ready to give in to each other.
‘I love you,’ I tell him.
‘. . . I absolutely don’t,’ he says. ‘Love doesn’t cut what I feel for you.’
He turns me towards the car.
‘Spread your legs,’ he says.
I shiver and move to obey, but he grabs my wrists and pins them against the hood of the car.
‘Stay still.’
A chill runs down my spine as I feel him enter me from behind.
He thrusts himself into me as I murmur encouragement; he grinds into me, bringing back a string of memories, from the Andamans to the cold nights I have spent thinking of him.
Once again, he is too rough and too gentle at the same time, and everything melds into pleasure. We shudder against each other.
Instinct takes over, and in an instant, we realize where we are.