PART 4 #4
‘When I was little, my mother had cheated on my father. It came out of nowhere. She was a homemaker, conservative, very small circle, and yet she found a man—a neighbour—and she had a brief affair. My father, who worked in the municipality, couldn’t believe it.
I think even my mother couldn’t believe that it happened.
You know, there were tears and apologies and they somehow made it work.
But my father . . . there was sadness in him; it would radiate.
I could always feel it even behind the smiles and normality of our home.
He never said anything. But I sensed it.
I felt the same while listening to your podcast. There is a strange melancholy about you. ’
‘There’s no melancholy about me. You’re just seven years younger. A thirty-three-year-old is always tired. You will get there.’
‘Your eyes keep flitting. As if you’re waiting for someone.’
‘Just want to see if the waiter can repeat the drinks.’
‘You’re deflecting,’ she says with a knowing smile. ‘Whatever you’re looking for, it’s not me.’
‘I didn’t . . . are you offended?’
‘You might be old, but I’m wise.’
She adds, ‘This has more to do with you than me. I like these dates better. Where the confusion solves itself quickly.’
‘Do you want to dance?’ I ask her.
The alcohol in my system is muddling my brain and making me think I’m younger than I am.
‘Are you sure your bones won’t creak?’
‘We will find out,’ I answer.
I take her hand and we step on to the dance floor. Then, she begins to dance, her body is graceful and her eyes sparkle with joy. I watch her for a few moments, then I begin to move too.
Over the music, she tells me, ‘I hope you find who you’re looking for. If you can admit to yourself who you’re looking for.’
When the song ends, Heena and I step off the dance floor, both of us are out of breath and grinning.
‘That was fun,’ Heena says, her eyes alight with excitement.
I smile. ‘Yeah, it was,’ I say.
The two of us make our way to a quiet corner of the club and sit down. Wiping the sweat off her brow, she says, ‘Call whoever you’re waiting for. She will be lucky.’
‘No, she won’t.’
When I get back home and open the app, I see that Heena has unmatched me. Cruel, I think for a moment. And then I change my mind—it must be nice to just erase someone from your memory.
4.
Aanchal Madan
I have diagnosed myself with ‘extreme hotel-room loneliness’.
I landed in Delhi yesterday for seven straight days of talks at colleges in Delhi University about exam-related anxiety.
I had been excited about going back to my old college, SRCC, and meeting my old teachers there, having a cup of chai like I used to and indulging in industrial-grade nostalgia.
But the second I checked into the hotel, loneliness engulfed me and the room seemed to close in on me.
I called Rajat to check if he was free in the afternoon. But his son had swimming practice, then he was taking him to a friend’s place, and in the night, they were going to watch the new Paw Patrol movie.
‘These kids’ movies aren’t that bad,’ says Rajat. ‘Have a large tub of popcorn and it’s all good. You can come.’
‘I think I’m good,’ I say, even though the thought of staying alone in the hotel room is worse than watching an animated movie about life-saving pups.
‘Come home after the talk tomorrow,’ says Rajat. ‘But after seven. That’s when my kid goes to sleep. If he sees guests, he gets excited and doesn’t sleep, and it’s a whole thing.’
I stare at my phone for a little while.
And then, like a bad habit, I open a dating app.
I keep going back to them like an addict.
I find a perverse joy in knowing that there are other people my age who are in the same boat as me and that they like me, flatter me and ask me out on dates.
It’s been a long time since I have been on a date with people I have spoken to on the app, but I like the harmless flirtations.
As I swipe right through most of the men, I know I won’t go on a date with even the most seemingly flawless of men.
Going on a date means setting yourself up for disappointment.
I genuinely don’t believe any of these men can be more satisfying than a Netflix show with an 8.
3 rating. I check my thoughts. When did I become so pessimistic?
Is it my age? Or the thought that I only have limited time, so I should make the most of it?
Going on pointless dates isn’t making the most of it.
But how is watching three seasons of a show making the most of life?
I’m mindlessly scrolling when I see his face.
He’s smiling in the picture. It’s at a bar. There’s a beer bottle next to him. He’s looking straight into the camera. None of the candid, look right, look left stuff.
Daksh.
His bio isn’t really a bio. It’s a list of things he likes: books, movies, TV shows, celebrities.
My heart twists. My body floods with confusing emotions.
It’s been three, four years since I have seen his face.
I am happy that he’s lonely, alone, and it makes me sad that he’s so.
I swipe right because what else am I supposed to do?
It’s been four years since Gaurav died. Four years since I have blamed him for his death.
Three since I last saw him. But not a single day has passed that I haven’t thought of him.
A few seconds later, we are matched.
How sad is it? Two people in their mid-thirties, looking at their phones, swiping right among other people, on the only person they had vowed never to meet.
5.
Aanchal Madan
I take a deep breath and walk into the Indian-Chinese joint, Dragon Hut, which Daksh has picked for us to meet.
‘Just keep breathing,’ I give myself the same advice I give my clients.
The restaurant reeks of soya sauce and the smell of stale momos.
The place is still popular, I can see, because none of the tables are empty and there’s a buzz around.
As I scan the restaurant, I see a familiar face sitting at a table in a corner.
Daksh.
He’s looking down at the menu. But even from here, I can see the signs of time.
His hair is short-cropped and there are hints of grey in them that shine under the harsh, white tube lights.
He looks up and spots me. No smile, just a small wave, and his lips turn downwards.
It reminds me of how difficult it gets to smile once you’re older.
Kids, teenagers, smile and laugh easily.
We, the older ones, don’t. We have seen too much to become too happy in this moment.
There’s always grief peeking from the next corner.
I walk over to him, heart thumping, beads of sweat on my forehead.
‘You’re here,’ he says, dryly.
‘You seem surprised,’ I say, matching the coldness in his voice.
‘You have a way of disappointing me, Aanchal.’
‘And you have a way of ruining my life,’ I counter. ‘I think we are even in that sense. What are you doing here?’
‘I swipe right on everyone from the opposite sex. We have Chinese here, then we pick up a few bottles of beer and knock them back. Then I find a deserted back alley and I fuck them. That’s what I’m doing here, Aanchal.’
‘Looking to take me to a back alley and fuck me?’ I chuckle sadly. ‘You’re too sensitive to be an angry, vindictive fuckboy.’
‘I can be if I want to.’
‘You will never be anything more than an overly sentimental, understanding boy.’
‘You must make a terrible psychologist,’ he says, his voice pure acid. ‘For someone who claims to understand people, it’s pathetic that you have to date like this.’
‘And what does this say about you?’
‘That I’m horny, and I can do things like this.’
‘That’s misogyny, because you’re saying that I can’t do the same as you’re doing, Daksh.’
‘Good for you,’ he says.
Just then, the waiter hovers over us. He points towards the increasing line of waiting customers who are looking at our table.
‘American chop suey,’ he says. ‘And chicken corn soup.’
‘Make the soup into two,’ I add. ‘And one Hakka noodles and a chilli chicken dry.’
The waiter shuffles away, leaving us in a haze of anger and confused feelings. Looking at Daksh reminds me of those movies where an approaching tornado rips apart houses, flings cattle into the air and devastates entire ecosystems. That is what the thought of him does to my mind.
We sit in silence. The food comes to our table all at once. He floods his soup with extra soya sauce.
‘All those trips to Europe and you still like petrol with your food,’ I point at his now black soup.
‘Of all people, I didn’t expect you to be an elitist,’ he barbs. ‘We all turn into the people we hate.’
‘Then I should have turned into you, Daksh.’
He catches my gaze. His eyes first burn with anger and then change to shame, and then slowly to resentment.
‘I shouldn’t have said that.’
He exhales slowly. ‘No, you’re right to blame me.’
‘You were only a part of the problem,’ I concede. ‘But the easiest part of the problem for the blame.’
He nods as though he understands. Like he has done the same thing we have: blame him for Gaurav’s suicide.
‘I miss him every day,’ he says. ‘That . . . stupid . . .’
I believe him. It won’t be surprising if he misses him more than I do.
That’s a reason for a part of my anger with him.
He knew my brother more than I did. In the last few years of his life, Gaurav had a more meaningful relationship with him than I did.
I hate that he can say ‘I miss him’ with such a sense of nostalgia.
Like he can remember the good bits. For me, when I miss him, I still can’t shake his violent death from my eyes.
‘I’m sorry, again,’ he says.
‘And that makes it the ten thousandth time you have said that.’
My words come out as a reflex. I want to stop the words that form at the back of my throat.
‘I really am.’