PART 4
FOUR YEARS LATER
Daksh Dey
I can hear Baba in the kitchen, humming a tune as he arranges our dinner of Thai green curry into bowls.
His nonchalance is matched by Rabbani’s, who’s leaning into her chair, playing a game of Tetris as if it’s not a life-changing moment.
On the other hand, I, who had barely slept last night have palms that are slick with sweat.
The clock inches towards twelve. It seems like time’s a viscous quicksand and I’m drowning in it slowly and painfully.
It’s result day and only I seem to be shitting bricks.
‘You’re making me nervous, Dada,’ Rabbani says, without looking away from her phone. ‘It’s going to be chill, I’m telling you.’
‘I’m not even doing anything.’
She rolls her eyes. Kids roll their eyes so frequently these days that it looks like they have cataract.
Not that Rabbani’s a kid any more; she’s seventeen now.
It seems only yesterday that I had given my entrance examination, and today it’s her result day.
Soon she will be off to college. This sentence itself sits strangely in my mind.
What’s even worse is that all her college searches have been away from Delhi—Mumbai . . . Bangalore.
Rabbani announces in a dull drawl most teenagers affect these days, a mix of disinterest and rudeness, ‘I’ve chosen the subject of our next podcast: How Parents Are More Nervous about Their Child’s Marks in NEET exams.’
‘You’re my sister,’ I remind her.
‘Semantics.’
‘And child’s marks? You’re not a child any more,’ I remind her.
That she’s not a child breaks my heart.
‘And yet our listeners would say you’re exploiting me for views and likes and whatnot,’ she says with a laugh.
Our four-year-old podcast, Things I Would Say to My Younger Self, started off with a conversation between thirteen-year-old Rabbani and me.
The premise was simple, effective and scalable.
As a former teen, I would give her my hard-gotten, time-tested gyaan.
And Rabbani would mercilessly shoot it down and call me a dinosaur with archaic views.
Listeners found her smart and labelled me as grumpy but understanding.
They loved our banter. The podcast made me realize how old I was getting.
In your thirties, you can no longer be relevant, I know that now.
There are only two options: either to age gracefully, in which case the younger people don’t care, or try hard to be relevant, in which case you become a wannabe, a joke, someone trying too hard.
The thirties is the old-age home of coolness. It’s where you retire.
Within a year, Things I Would Say to My Younger Self outstripped my earlier podcast with Amruta, Kids Raising Kids, by a mile.
According to a Nielsen survey, we were in the top five most-listened-to podcasts in the country.
This is when the first of the hate started trickling in.
Some listeners pointed out that my conversations with Rabbani constituted child mistreatment, even abuse.
I was accused of violating her private life and exploiting her for views and for money.
Even when I argued that she genuinely enjoyed recording the podcast, they would not relent and declared that kids cannot possibly know what’s right for them at that age.
That kids Rabbani’s age only do things to please their parents or guardians.
Despite Rabbani’s strong protestations to keep going, I begrudgingly ended the show.
We fought every day for months.
‘We wouldn’t have teenage Olympians if parents didn’t push their kids to do stuff they’re kinda into but aren’t sure about!’ Rabbani had snapped.
‘They would argue that there’s no need for teenage Olympians,’ I had countered.
‘Dada, then everything is child abuse! Then, then, then sending kids to schools with those ancient education systems like CBSE when there are better education systems, like, IB and British Curriculum, that’s child abuse too!’
‘Earning money off you isn’t right,’ I told her flatly.
‘Just invest it in stocks or open an FD or whatever. And BTW, parents taking money from their grown-up kids is wrong too then! Because the only reason they have money is because their parents pushed them in to studying! Or should I say tortured them? Or should I say abused them!’
‘That’s really not something I can reply to a hate comment.’
But it’s logic like this that has brought in a lot of listeners to the podcast.
‘Doing a podcast isn’t an Olympic sport, or studying for an exam.’
‘Exactly! So, chill!’ she exclaimed.
‘You’ll regret it when you’re older, giving up your privacy.’
She threw up her hands and shook her head. ‘Dada, you’re literally raising me! You really think I won’t grow up to understand this stuff? C’mon!’
I kept stalling her. Eventually, she recorded a podcast anyway and put it out. Following that, I buckled, and we restarted the podcast.
‘If I clear the exam today,’ says Rabbani, ‘you’re defo gonna make a Bumble profile, okay?’
‘Nothing’s more tragic than a thirty-five-year-old on Bumble.’
‘Then go for . I don’t care, Dada,’ she argues. ‘I’ll be gone, and you and Baba will just sit around, low-key missing me. It’s gonna be a whole sad vibe. Don’t want that for you.’
‘You’re overestimating how much I’ll miss you.’
‘You’ll be lost without me, Dada,’ says Rabbani, stating the obvious, because, well, it is obvious.
Sometimes, I close my eyes and wish that when I open them, she will be three years old again, totally dependent on me for everything. Looking at me like I’m the most amazing thing in the universe. Chiming, Dada is amazing, Dada is the best every few minutes.
‘Baba’s always so busy with his running and his consultancy gig. I don’t think he will miss you all that much, Rabbani,’ I remind her.
‘I legit don’t know how he makes money,’ says Rabbani with a shrug. ‘I still can’t believe he blew 1 lakh on a cycle. A cycle!?’
‘I’m guessing hawala?’
‘So we’ve been raised by a smuggler,’ she says with a nod.
‘Maybe.’
‘You need a new project, Dada. You’ve spent the last two years hiding behind my entrance exams and the podcast. What now?’
‘I’ll fly to Mumbai and record our episodes.’
‘And the rest of the week?’ she asks. She looks at me with a bright smile and continues. ‘You’ll go on dates, and fall in love again. That’s what you’ll do.’
I shake my head.
‘It’s been four years, Dada,’ reminds Rabbani. ‘Go out, have some, like, casual hook-ups and—’
‘Stop.’
‘Sorry,’ she says, sulking.
‘It’s twelve,’ I point out.
‘Shall I?’ she asks, sliding the keyboard towards herself.
I stop her and pull the keyboard back towards me. ‘People say I’m lucky.’
I enter her roll number. A sense of déjà vu hits me, along with all the pain from the past. The years gone by, the emotions wasted, a life not lived, of what could have been. Of Aanchal, and of us.
The page loads up.
Rabbani Dey
Roll No. 07042024
Rank 453.
I wait for happiness to kick in. Rabbani shrieks and calls out for Baba, who comes rushing in. We all hug each other, saying we knew this would happen and how happy we are. But all I can think of is how alone we will be.
Just then, Rabbani’s phone starts ringing.
I know it will ring now. News like this travels fast. She receives the call and shrieks ‘Thanks!’ I fight back tears; when I look at Baba, he’s even worse.
We will miss her when she’s gone, more than she would ever know.
It’s not until three hours later that she’s done, and we reheat the food to eat.
‘Dada? Can I borrow your phone?’ she asks, then takes it herself.
She taps and swipes.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Shh.’
A couple of minutes later, she hands me back my phone. ‘There you go. Bumble and BharatMatrimony profiles, done and done.’
2.
Aanchal Madan
Vanita, my very own Seema Aunty, is sitting at the table adjacent to me.
Her son is tinkering with a Lego set, small pieces of which keep falling over from all sides of the table.
Her son’s cute, and has picked up the Bangalore accent within six months of her moving here.
It sounds unwieldy on others, on him, it’s cute.
I try to not be distracted by the Lego and concentrate on Anshul Garg, my date.
Anshul Garg sits in front of me and nurses his glass of whisky.
He’s thirty-five, one year older than me, works at Oliver Consulting, travels a bit, earns twice as much as I do and lives alone in his own house in Gurgaon.
I know these details because it’s Vanita who has spoken to Anshul on my behalf on BharatMatrimony and set up this date.
I have delegated the search for a life partner for me to her and she has accepted the responsibility with a ferocity and dedication I hadn’t expected.
‘He’s perfect for you,’ Vanita had insisted when she briefed me about Anshul. ‘But at our age, there are very few guys who are legitimately marriageable and are unmarried. Most of them let go of the idea of marriage by this age, but Anshul hasn’t.’
Anshul’s desperation is almost as fervent as mine to find someone to marry and ‘settle down’.
It’s a strange phrase: settle down. Anshul seems pretty settled to me—savings done, car done, owning a house done.
But in our scheme of things, to settle means to stop wanting more things.
Like me, he too missed the bus. Getting married in your thirties is like solving a Rubik’s cube with your toes.