‘Quite a convenient way to get peace, isn’t it?’ he retorts.

  ‘You of all people know it’s not that simple.’

  He leans against the counter, arms folded. ‘This is running. We won’t find anything there. No peace, no closure, nothing. We will just miss them more.’

  ‘So what? We need to try,’ I snap back. ‘You want to punish yourself forever? I know I don’t. I want to see if I can be normal. If it’s possible to carry some happiness with all the sadness we carry.’

  He’s quiet. Angry-quiet. He shakes his head, a look of finality on his face.

  ‘No,’ he says, his voice low and firm. ‘We’re not going, Aditi. It’s a terrible idea.’

  He turns his back on me and focuses on the dal, a clear dismissal. The argument is over.

  I stand there for a moment, stunned into silence. Then I walk back to my room and shut the door. The rejection stings more than I expected. Did I do something wrong? Was I being selfish? Of course I was. What if I saw the screenshot and didn’t have the money? Would I have checked the tickets? No. I curl up on my bed, the excitement I felt just minutes ago turns into shame.

  I scroll and scroll till I fall asleep and late that night, there’s a soft knock on my door. I don’t answer. The door opens a crack anyway. It’s Raghav. He doesn’t look at me, just stares at a point on the wall above my head.

  ‘Fine,’ he says.

  I sit up. ‘Fine what?’

  ‘We’re going,’ he says, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion. ‘To Bali.’

  I wipe drool off my mouth. ‘What? Why? What changed your mind?’

  His eyes finally meet mine, but they’re unreadable. Guarded.

  ‘Is it something you read?’ I ask, my mind immediately going to the diaries. ‘In her diary?’

  A long pause hangs between us.

  ‘No,’ he says, but the denial is too quick. ‘Let’s just . . . go.’

  And before I can say anything else, he closes the door, leaving me alone with a decision I don’t understand.

  23

  Raghav

  The suitcase doesn’t shut.

  It’s not that I’ve overpacked. I’ve just packed badly.

  I look at the chaos of half-folded clothes and a hostile tangle of wires. I don’t pack like this. I’m a ninja at organization. Tucked between a pair of jeans and a shirt Megha bought me two birthdays ago are a bunch of diaries. When Megha used to tell me that sometimes she writes her feeling out, I had assumed she meant on loose pieces of paper, thrown away. Not these bound memories. Not these feelings. Dated.

  Every day for the last many years.

  I don’t know if I have space for any more feelings. I only skimmed them . . . the rest . . . it was too painful . . .

  The zip catches on the corner of a pair of shorts I have packed. It angers me so much that I have fucking tears in my eyes. This is when it happens—these fucking annoying childish tears. Not for the big things, never for the big things. It’s always the small, stupid injustices. The stuck zip. The warm water in the car. The protein shaker I forget to wash . . . the fact that she’s gone and my suitcase won’t close.

  Across the room, Aditi is rolling her socks with a clinical, almost robotic efficiency. There’s a strange change in her in the last few days. She seems more collected. Which doesn’t take a lot. She’s placed her things in three neat piles—clothes, toiletries, tech. I wonder where she’s put her grief. Where has she folded that and organized it?

  She looks up, her eyes catching mine. ‘You want help?’

  ‘No, I’m good,’ I say, pulling the zip.

  We haven’t talked much this morning. I don’t know what to say to her. How will I explain to her why I want to go? So I just keep talking to her about the things that need to be done. Pack. Cab. Passport. Airbnb.

  An hour later, we are done.

  Outside, the Uber’s already waiting. The app says it’s a blue Wagon R.

  ‘Should I cancel and book a big one?’ I ask sarcastically.

  ‘Why?’ she asks, her tone already defensive. ‘Because you think I want to show off now that I have money?’

  ‘Well, you have it, don’t you?’ I say, the jab landing before I can stop it.

  ‘Don’t,’ she says, her voice suddenly fragile. ‘It still hurts.’

  I apologize instantly. Sometimes we have to do this. Poke and needle and figure out what parts still hurt, what can be joked about, figure out where the limits are. I do a final, frantic check: passports, wallet, phone. The holy trinity of modern travel.

  ‘Are you sure you have them?’ I ask her.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Sure, sure. You’re sure?’

  I nod.

  We lock up the house. The click of the deadbolt sounds final. It feels like we’re stepping off a cliff. This house had been our sanctuary for the last thirteen months. We were safe here. Away from the world. Shielded. Shrouded in our own grief. But now, we have decided to go out—expose ourselves to experiences.

  The drive is quiet.

  After a few minutes, Aditi turns to me.

  ‘I still don’t get it,’ she says.

  I keep looking out the window. ‘Get what?’

  ‘Why you changed your mind. About coming. You were so against it.’

  A long moment passes.

  ‘Just,’ I say, finally.

  She waits for more, but I offer nothing else.

  I remember another drive like this. Different Uber, same terminal. I had been nervous and on edge then too. I was unsure, scared, happy. Happiness, such a distant dream? How fragile is happiness? One moment and it’s gone. Grief is permanent. It seeps down into your bones and becomes you. Happy is what you can be, but sad is who you are. Aditi is beside me now, scrolling aimlessly on her phone, like she always is. Her thumb moves up, up, up, a pointless motion. I don’t see why people lambast social media. It’s great to run away from feelings. Her knee bounces lightly against her handbag. A tiny, rhythmic earthquake of anxiety. When we reach the airport, the driver helps us with the bags. Then we’re standing on the pavement in front of the sliding glass doors of Terminal 3.

  I don’t move. My feet feel bolted to the concrete. So are hers.

  ‘It’s a stupid, automatic door,’ I tell her.

  ‘Just a sheet of glass,’ she tells me.

  ‘We’ve walked through it a dozen times before,’ I tell her.

  ‘Not me,’ she says. ‘I have only taken two flights before.’

  ‘Ready?’ I ask her.

  ‘No,’ she replies.

  ‘Me neither,’ I say. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  I take a breath and step forward. We both do. The door whooshes open. The airport breathes us in. Inside, the industrial-strength wind curtain slaps us with cold air. The terminal is chaos. No matter how big they build them, eventually they are all small. People who are early are sprawled on the ground, people who are late are running to their counters. I feel nothing. I feel everything. It’s hard to tell the difference. The check-in line is short.

  We check in.

  At security, the real test begins. This is where we can still turn back. What would we say at the immigration? Why are two unrelated people going on a trip? Not friends, just two people bonded in grief. Just two people going on a trip the love of their lives wanted them to go on. Or just two people using that as a pretext to leave their grief behind? To wash it over. My bag slides through the X-ray machine. No one asks anything at the immigration. We walk towards our gate. And just before Gate 23, the memories crash over me.

  And that’s when I see her.

  Not really. But sort of. A ghost image superimposed over the bustling crowd. Megha, walking ahead of me in her old, faded blue jeans and that stupid yellow backpack she loved so much, carrying that stupid mug and the stupid photo frame. She’s stopping to tie her shoelaces, causing a minor traffic jam of trolleys. She’s turning around, laughing.

  She’s not here.

  The thought hits with the force of a physical blow. She’s not anywhere.

  Aditi places her hand lightly on my back. It’s not a hug. Not comfort, not really. It’s just . . . contact. As if to say I know where you are. Come back.

  She’s the only one who knows where I am.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumble, not looking at her.

  We find our gate. Aditi immediately opens her Kindle. I just stare at the departures board, watching the city names flip over, one after another.

  ‘Do you think this is a mistake?’ I ask her.

  She doesn’t look up from her screen for a long moment. Then, she says, ‘Probably. But staying home was also a mistake. At least this is a new one.’

  There’s an announcement and boarding begins for our flight. First and business class first. Families first. Then Zones A and B.

  Aditi closes her Kindle. ‘Window or aisle?’ she asks, her voice low.

  I see her scared. I feel it too.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  Her voice is now a soft whisper. ‘That what would it be like for this plane to crash? For us to die?’

  She’s right. ‘What would it be like?’

  ‘It would be freedom.’

  ‘But I’m not wishing for it,’ I say.

  ‘Neither am I,’ she says. ‘There are children on the flight.’

  ‘And people,’ I add. ‘And people waiting on the other side. People going back home thinking their families will be back after a trip.’

  She smiles. ‘Too bad we can’t even wish for our own deaths.’

  ‘Collateral damage,’ I say.

  ‘If we ever make a band, that’s what we should name ourselves,’ she says. ‘Collateral Damage.’

  At least that makes me smile.

  24

  Aditi

  The engine hums a low, thunderous sound. People are already sleeping as if it’s a lullaby. I’m as awake and as scared as I have ever been. The unreal, pillowy clouds outside are a constant reminder that I am suspended 30,000 feet in the air, in a metal tube, hurtling towards a country I know absolutely nothing about. A country I haven’t even been interested in. I have seen reels, of course. It seems like influencers go there when they hop on Ozempic and get really thin.

  Earlier, when the plane took off safely and the land had vanished below us, a secret, shameful part of me buzzed with excitement. A childish thrill. Raghav must have seen it on my face. My first time outside the country.

  ‘First time?’ he had asked, his voice low.

  How little we know about each other, I thought.

  I had nodded and stared out the window. ‘We were supposed to go to Thailand,’ I had finally managed to whisper. ‘For our honeymoon. Also here, and a couple of other places. It doesn’t cost money to make plans. I never really thought we would follow-up.’

  He nodded.

  I ask him. ‘Is it your first time?’

  It didn’t look like it. At the immigration, he was confident about what to do and what to say. ‘I went to Dubai last year for work. And Sri Lanka with . . . with Megha. How many lies did we have to tell to make that happen?’ He chuckles sadly. ‘That’s it.’

  Now, I wake up mid-flight. Raghav is next to me, head tilted back against the seat, lips slightly parted. He’s sleeping. He looks peaceful, a far cry from the anger and the anxiousness that’s a part of him. I watch him a little too long. Wonder what he must be like, what he was like, and what would he be like five years from now. I check my phone. No service. Of course. But the thumb doesn’t care about logic. Raghav calls my phone and my Kindle my digital pacifiers. The plane wobbles slightly. Turbulence. My hand shoots out to the armrest, gripping it so tightly my knuckles go white. Beside me, Raghav stirs and wakes up.

  ‘Fuck,’ he says and grabs my hand. ‘We are going to be okay,’ he continues, despite being shit scared himself.

  The airplane stabilizes in a minute or two. I let out a startled laugh. Neither him nor I sleep for the rest of the flight even as everyone around us snores and shifts and pulls blankets over themselves and their families. We land to a smattering of applause. We are too scared to do anything.

  The air that hits me as I escape the plane is the first sign I’m somewhere new: somewhere not India. A thick, wet blanket smelling of flowers, salt and something sweet, like incense. I should be able to do my own stuff, but I let go. Raghav leads me through the airport, processes our visas, pays for them, walks me to the conveyor belt, loads our suitcases and exchanges currency.

  By the time I’m useful, we are already in the taxi.

  ‘You okay?’ he asks me.

  ‘It’s humid here, no?’ I uselessly tell him.

  The journey from the airport to the hotel is a complete sensory assault. I’m glued to the window of the taxi, trying to process everything. The roads are a flowing river of scooters, thousands of them, weaving around each other. I see tiny, intricate offerings made of woven palm leaves and bright flowers, placed carefully on the ground.

  ‘What are those?’ I ask, pointing.

  Raghav pulls out his phone and does a quick search. ‘Offerings,’ he says, reading out. ‘They put them out every day. The island is 90 per cent Hindu even though Indonesia itself is Muslim-majority.’

  What he reads, I can see out there. I see strange, beautiful temples with carved monsters—or mythical figures, whatever they are—tucked between concrete storefronts. I could ask Raghav to look it up again, but I let the mystery simmer. The strangeness and niceness of it all is overwhelming. It’s so vibrant, so unapologetically and shamelessly alive.

  Then we arrive at the hotel—the hotel Aman always wanted to come to. I know what he would have done. He would have whipped out his phone and clicked pictures of every corner. I would have pointed out that there needs to be people in the picture, but he wouldn’t have listened and found beauty in the corners of the columns, the edge of the swimming pool and whatnot.

  To be fair, it’s quite something, this hotel. It’s a different world. The lobby is a vast, open-air pavilion with a soaring thatched roof and no walls, looking out on to a series of infinity pools that seem to melt into the jungle and the sea beyond. Bookingplacesnow.com pictures didn’t do justice to what I can see here.

  ‘No need to be nervous,’ says Raghav. ‘You have paid for this place.’

  ‘But I haven’t . . . Aman has,’ I say. ‘I . . . I can’t believe this is a real place.’

  A woman with a flower tucked behind her ear hands us cool, scented towels and something to drink. I see Raghav smiling. He notices me noticing him and wipes it off. Is this the dance we will do all our trip? Be happy and then be guilty about being happy?

  ‘This is fancy,’ agrees Raghav, even as he hands over our passports and completes the check-in formalities.

  In the room, my awe only deepens. There’s a fruit basket with spiky red and yellow fruits I don’t recognize. Raghav holds up a note that reads, ‘Happy Memories Begin Here’, which feels like a cruel joke.

  And there’s a private pool!

  I stare at it. Raghav stares at it.

  ‘This is why he wanted to come here,’ I say.

  ‘For anyone who has the money, it’s worth it,’ he says.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  We order room service—Raghav asks for suggestions and orders Indonesian fare—and we sit with our legs dipped in the pool. When the food comes, we eat on the pool beds. The food’s average and yet we wolf it down. The flight must have been taxing, because I don’t remember falling asleep, but I wake to the sound of the balcony door creaking open. It’s dusk. The sky is a bruised purple and orange. In the balcony, Raghav holds a cheap new phone, now active with the old personal number he had abandoned in the raw months after the tragedy. For the past year, his work phone had been his shield, reducing his life to a manageable set of professional contacts, delivery messages from Blinkit, Amazon and the like. He had only reactivated the old SIM for the practical reason of avoiding work calls and roaming fees on the trip.

  But then as I watch him, he’s talking to someone. A lot of talking. And then a lot of listening. Is he smiling? He’s plucking flowers as he’s listening to what’s being said from the other side. Is it a girl? Has he started talking to someone? A part of me feels a sharp, unexpected pang. He talks to the person for ten whole minutes and I decide to pretend to be asleep. I walk over slowly after he puts the phone away. When he turns, there are still remnants of a smile on his face. When he catches me staring, he wipes his smile off his face.

  ‘Are we going to do something today?’ he asks, rather uncharacteristically.

  I want to ask him who’s the person on the phone, but I don’t. Before I can say anything, his phone rings again.

  ‘A video call from an unknown number?’ he says, and cuts the call.

  The call comes again, and this time it’s audio. Tejal’s voice streams out. ‘HEY! SWITCH ON VIDEO!’

  And Raghav does. Tejal’s face fills the screen, grinning, with Sumrit waving enthusiastically in the background. But it’s the background that catches my eye. It’s our apartment.

  ‘Surprise!’ Tejal yells. ‘Guess where we are!’

  ‘How did you—’ Raghav’s interrupted by Sumrit.

  ‘Bro! We had keys remember! For surprise checks?’ Sumrit says, coming closer to the phone. ‘For emergencies. And this is an emergency. An emergency need for privacy, bro.’

  ‘Why are you in my room?’ I ask.

  ‘Raghav’s is locked!’ says Tejal. ‘Anyway! Now show us the room! How is it? Is it fancy? Are you guys having fun?’

  A familiar pang of guilt hits me, but I also feel a spark of excitement. I take the phone from Raghav and flip the camera, giving them a quick tour of the room, the balcony and the private pool. Sumrit lets out a low whistle.

  ‘Bro!’ he says. ‘But you guys deserve this. Seriously. Have fun.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Tejal adds, her voice softening for a moment. ‘Forget everything else. Just be there. And take many, many days off. We need the apartment.’