We all laugh. After we hang up, a comfortable silence settles between us.

  Raghav looks at me, asks again(!) ‘So?’ he asks, repeating his earlier question. ‘Do you want to go out?’

  I find myself nodding. This is the first time he has ever asked me this question, and this is the first time I have said yes to it.

  An hour later, Raghav and I step out for a walk. The resort glows with a soft, expensive light, and so do the tourists, tanned and smiling. We find a scooter rental tucked behind a massage parlour offering deep tissue massages at throwaway prices.

  Raghav points to a dented red scooter. He starts to haggle half-heartedly, his heart is clearly not in it. ‘Twenty thousand rupiah?’ he offers, sounding more like he’s asking a question. I elbow him gently. He’s only doing this because I insisted on paying. Left to his own devices, he’d pay the first price they quoted and get ripped off, just like he usually does. After a bit of back-and-forth, I steer him through and we settle on a price. He hands me a helmet to try on and a sleek black one for himself.

  Just then, his phone rings again. He squints at the screen, an unknown number flashing.

  ‘Must be Tejal?’ I say.

  He answers it on speakerphone while fumbling with the chin strap. ‘Hello?’

  A man’s stern voice crackles through the tiny speaker. ‘So, you puncture my tires and then run off to God knows where?’

  Raghav’s whole body goes rigid. His face tightens. ‘Papa,’ he says, his voice dropping ten degrees. He tugs at the helmet strap, trying to unclip it. And then, in a low grumble he says, ‘Why did you call?’

  ‘Kahan hai tu?’

  ‘What do you want?’ Raghav repeats, his voice strained with impatience. He tries to take the helmet off now, but it’s jammed, sitting awkwardly on his head. With a growl of frustration, he tries to turn the phone off loudspeaker and jam it inside the helmet, but it’s too tight.

  ‘I call you and this is how you talk to me?’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to call me,’ Raghav grinds out, giving up on the phone and pulling uselessly at the helmet strap again.

  ‘You have gone somewhere,’ his father says, his tone accusatory. ‘Where?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter where—’

  His father’s angry voice cuts him off sharply. ‘This girl you’re with? Is she of that sort too?’

  I watch as Raghav’s eyebrows knit together, a nerve throbbing on his forehead. ‘What do you mean, “that sort”?’ he asks, his voice dangerously low. ‘Careful how you talk to me.’

  ‘Haan? Is that how you talk to your father?’

  Raghav lets out a bitter laugh. ‘I’m being kind,’ he spits, his voice dripping with contempt. ‘And the only reason I’m even talking to you is because you’re still the father of my sister. Otherwise, you two . . .’

  ‘You two?’ his father bellows. ‘Talking about your Maa like that? Is this how we brought you up?’

  ‘Brought me up?’ Raghav scoffs, abandoning the helmet to glare at the phone in his hand. ‘Thank god I’m not like you guys.’

  ‘What do you mean? All this just because of that chinki girl? Anyway, I have not called to talk to you about that. I want to—’

  ‘Shut up, Papa, just FUCKING SHUT UP,’ he says, voice trembling with rage. ‘Stop embarrassing yourself. Calling me like a fucking desperate father? Did I call you? No. Just go away.’

  ‘You’re swearing at me?’ his father shouts. ‘Listen, this is about—’

  ‘Saale,’ Raghav roars, the word ripping out of him, ‘if you were in front of me, I would have slapped you!’

  ‘I’m your father!’ his father says and speaks to someone near him. ‘You asked me to call him and you see how he’s talking—’

  ‘Maa chuda le, chutiye!’ he screams, all control gone. ‘I don’t care who the fuck you are! Why the fuck did you call me?’

  ‘Look at you! Look at what that girl has done to you!’

  A guttural roar of pure agony tears from Raghav’s throat. ‘SHE IS DEAD BECAUSE OF YOU! Just fuck off! Just fuck offf!’ he screams into the phone and then throws it with all his might.

  It shatters on the ground. He stumbles towards the pieces and stomps on them again and again. He paces the length of the narrow alley, once, twice, a caged animal.

  ‘FUCK!’ he screams.

  He looks like he wants to punch a wall, to scream, to shatter something. And then suddenly, he slumps on the ground, all the fight gone, and just cries. Before I can centre myself to sit down with him, he gets up and wipes his tears as if nothing happened.

  ‘Raghav,’ I say.

  He turns to me. ‘This is what they do. this is family . . . this is the fucking thing that Karan Johar makes movies about. Let’s leave.’

  I nod. And then turn away from him and towards the scooter. ‘Yes, let’s go.’

  Without a word, he walks back to the scooter and gets on. I climb on behind him, my arms wrapping tightly around his waist. It’s not a gentle hold. He kicks the engine to life. We drive out of the alley and on to the road. He’s driving too fast, the wind whipping my hair. The world becomes a blur of lights and shadows. It feels like an escape. A desperate escape. Or maybe there’s no escape at all. Maybe we shouldn’t have come.

  25

  Raghav

  The scooter’s engine is a high-pitched cough. It’s the only time I have wished for an internal combustion engine to blow up. My hands are gripped tightly on the handlebars, as I push the small engine faster than it’s meant to go. I should slow down because this is stupid. And I’m trying my best to do it . . . but . . . Each gust of air slaps my face like my father’s voice—chinki—that word he threw out intentionally, meant to hurt me, to hurt her. Even after her death. It’s fucked up that for all the deeply flawed and unkind people we see in the world, there’s no barrier preventing them from becoming parents. Behind me, Aditi is a solid, grounding weight. Her arms are wrapped tight around my waist, her helmet pressed against my back. She isn’t screaming or telling me to slow down. Maybe she’s scared she will slip off. Little does she know, right now, she’s an anchor. The only thing keeping me from flying apart. The rage burns hot. But no fire burns forever. Eventually, it flickers and sputters, and I find myself tired. My arms ache. My head throbs. My eyes burn from the wind. The speed looks dumber. I ease up and drive to the side. I kill the engine. The silence is immense. Deafening, almost. We are out of the city, on a small hill of some sort. When I look into the distance, I see the crash of waves far below.

  Aditi gets off the scooter slowly, steadying herself. I should apologize to her, but I can’t muster the strength. She pulls off her helmet. She doesn’t look at me. Just walks to the low stone wall at the edge of the cliff and sits there. I stay by the bike, my legs trembling, my fingers paining from how tightly I’d gripped the throttle.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my voice unsteady, my body still vibrating with leftover anger. Shame prickles under my skin. For losing control. For dragging her into this. ‘I shouldn’t have driven this fast.’

  She doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t speak for a while. Then, she looks back at me, smiles and says, ‘Tejal was right about one thing. I have been suicidal since that day,’ she says sadly. ‘. . . but a part of me knew that I would never do it. Today, I was sure of it.’

  I breathe a little easy hearing her voice. ‘All the more reason I shouldn’t have driven this fast.’

  She shakes her head. ‘It’s not your fault, Raghav. I heard him . . . it reminded me of my family. Of how they were. Of how they are. I’m sorry you had to go through whatever you had to.’

  I walk up to her and sit next to her. ‘It never stopped,’ I say. ‘It was just fucking constant. The humiliation. The jibes. The shitty things they said. After they said they would never accept her. I kind of lied to them that I would think about it . . . I just thought they would come around . . .’

  ‘They never do, do they?’

  ‘They would send pictures of her in family WhatsApp groups,’ I tell her. ‘. . . make fun of her people. Racist slurs. Some uncles would say at least I had practice on her. Can you imagine it? Grown men!’

  My throat tightens. The memory rises like bile.

  She keeps her hand on me. ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘What can I do, right? Fucking family.’

  She shakes her head. ‘You know what my breaking point was?’

  I turn to look at her. Her eyes are glazed over.

  She continues, ‘When my Jiju slapped me. At their house too. Not even mine. And when I cried, he slapped me once more. In front of strangers, he slapped me. My parents, my brothers, my Bhaiya. Like I was nothing. Like he owned me. Like who the fuck was he? How could he slap me? But he could. That just broke me.’

  ‘Fuck him.’

  ‘My sister,’ she says, ‘she said later that I deserved it. For what I had done.’ She blinks away her tears. She continues, ‘They don’t know that I can obliterate their lives.’

  ‘Your Jiju’s affair?’ I ask.

  ‘I can send pictures in every group,’ she says. ‘But also my brother. I can kill him. He’s on Grindr,’ she says. ‘I have proof too.’ She snaps her fingers. ‘Five minutes and I can destroy them both.’

  ‘But then, we would be just like them,’ I tell her. ‘Not that I want to be nice. But I don’t want to encourage you because right now it’s extremely easy to fall into that trap.’

  Her lip curls slightly. She nods. I know she won’t do it. That time has happened.

  ‘So,’ I say finally, and I can’t help the laugh that escapes. ‘Our families are shit. And we are—’

  ‘Collateral damage.’

  That breaks the tension. I find myself smiling.

  ‘We need to remind ourselves it’s them,’ I say. ‘It’s about them. It’s about their control.’

  ‘That’s true. How could I not see that all they wanted was to own me?’ Aditi says. ‘My choices, my future, my happiness. The second I chose something for myself, I was not just disagreeing with them, I was stealing from them.’

  ‘The second we show them that their way of living isn’t the only way, that their rules aren’t laws, they can’t stand it.’

  ‘They should have a licensing system for being a parent,’ she says.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say. And then add, ‘What do you think should be on the list?’

  She thinks for a while and says, ‘Module One should be not viewing your child as a long-term investment, retirement plan or the source of all pride. Module Two, understanding that “because I said so” is not a valid argument after the age of four.’

  ‘Half the country would fail,’ I say.

  She raises an eyebrow. ‘Only half?’

  We fall quiet again. I glance at her. She’s still facing the ocean. Her arms are relaxed now. Her jaw unclenched.

  ‘We will get through this,’ I say.

  ‘What option do we have?’ she says.

  A long silence. Then finally, I say, ‘Come on. Let’s go back.’

  She nods. We put on our helmets. I start the scooter. She gets on behind me, her arms slipping around me again. Familiar. Anchor. The ride back is slow, steady, and silent. It doesn’t feel like I am escaping any more.

  26

  Aditi

  The first thing I register is the light. It’s too cheerful, spilling through a gap in the curtains. Where are the blackout curtains? I think, and then the night before rushes back in: the screaming match on speakerphone, the shattered phone, the frantic scooter ride. I turn my head slowly. Raghav is in the other bed. He’s fully clothed, on top of the covers, looking suspiciously peaceful.

  I sit up and look at the time. It’s 11 a.m. and yet I don’t feel rested.

  I drag myself to the washroom. The warm light is luxurious, the water pressure in the sink is wonderful, and the toothbrush is bamboo. You know how you’re paying for this, the voice in my head whispers. I shut it out and wash my face. Then, I take the big tray of fruits and chocolates the hotel staff had left and tiptoe to the side of the pool. For the next hour, I devour the chocolates one by one and scroll through the entirety of the internet, a mindless, aggressive swipe of my thumb. I don’t know when I fall asleep, but when I stir awake, Raghav is standing over me and the sun is setting.

  ‘We slept the whole day,’ he says.

  ‘You deserved sleep,’ I tell him. ‘You were snoring all throughout, by the way.’

  ‘I don’t snore,’ he says.

  ‘Please, I have a video,’ I lie.

  ‘I’m calling your bluff,’ he says. ‘Show me the video.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I say, scrambling to my feet.

  After a long beat, he says, ‘Let’s do something.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘Something? Like go out? Again?’

  He almost seems embarrassed by the idea, but he nods. ‘I saw some places online. Beach clubs. Or whatever. We can just sit here too.’

  And for the first time, I don’t think I’m okay with sitting here. Sitting locked up in your own room is one thing—it’s familiar territory—but staying here for the entirety of the night while sleep evades me? Nope.

  ‘I think we should go,’ I say.

  An hour later, we are both ready. I have on a white and red cotton dress and while I’m applying make-up, I can hear him on the phone again—his work phone, I guess. He’s sending voice notes to someone. It can’t be Sumrit; Tejal just called a little while ago and he was with her. Who is he talking to? And why is he smiling so much? Maybe I should ask. Or maybe I should just let him be. If he’s finding his way out of this labyrinth of sadness, he deserves all the happiness in the world. Today, he’s in a pale blue linen shirt. I want to compliment him but I don’t want to make it weird.

  ‘You look nice,’ he says, and it doesn’t sound weird at all. It feels like the most natural thing in the world. Then he adds, ‘Compared to other days, I mean.’

  ‘Same to you,’ I tell him.

  On the way to the beach club that every Instagram reel promised would blow our minds, we stop at a coffee shop. We both order double espressos. Then we stop at a cake shop and have a sandwich and a croissant that we split. By the time we reach the club, it’s dark and the neon signs are flickering to life. The line outside is long. We get patted down for weapons or flasks. Inside, the place is teeming with beautiful, happy people. Everyone’s drunk and having fun while we are just staring at each other, looking super awkward.

  ‘I’m sure it’s fun when you’re drunk,’ Raghav says, looking at everyone around us. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to check the menu,’ I say, a stark reminder that I don’t really know what’s fun for him, what he looks like when he has fun.

  We find a table in a corner near the swinging doors of the washroom. Our waiter suggests a large pitcher of sangria, and Raghav insists on paying this time. Two glasses in, our hunger feels bottomless. We order a Margherita pizza, which is followed quickly by butter chicken and parathas. Even then, I feel like I could eat more.

  ‘Look at us,’ he says. ‘Uncle and aunty, stuffing parathas on a night out.’

  ‘Who said night out?’ I reply. ‘I might need a nap pretty soon if I don’t stop eating and go for a small walk right now.’

  ‘But we can’t get up right now,’ he says, pointing to the sangria pitcher that’s still half-full. ‘We need to finish this first.’

  Fifteen minutes later, the pitcher is empty, the fruit pieces lay at the bottom, and we are both suppressing burps.

  ‘Should we dance?’ I ask.

  The question is loaded. And yet the answer seems obvious to me. Of course, we should dance. We walk to the sandy dance floor. Another realization strikes me: I have been living with this guy for thirteen months and I don’t even know how he dances, if he dances at all. And he knows nothing about my dancing, which used to be top-notch. For a while, we don’t dance with each other, but near each other, maintaining a safe, awkward distance. We maintain a safe distance from dancing too, because we are just swaying.

  Then slowly, I watch him open up. He’s surprisingly good. Why did I assume he wouldn’t be? And when a trap version of an old Punjabi song plays, he really starts to dance. Spurred on by him, I join in. It’s now that the sangria starts to hit. We don’t stop for what feels like hours. What am I feeling then? I’m not feeling shitty, that’s what I’m feeling.

  He looks like he could go on, but I can’t. To tell him I need to sit, I grab his arm. The contact is brief, practical. Just muscle and bone and warmth. And yet, it feels like something. He smiles at me and follows me off the dance floor.

  We sit back down, breathless.

  ‘That was not . . . bad,’ I say.

  He doesn’t answer, but a small smile plays on his lips. As I look around at the laughing, dancing crowd, it hits me. They’re all living in a different movie. We’re just visiting the set. The feeling isn’t happiness. It’s just . . . witnessing it, borrowing a little from them. The feeling curdles a few seconds later, as it always does. The quiet voice returns: What are you doing here? You don’t deserve this.

  Raghav notices. ‘You okay?’

  I nod. ‘Just tired.’

  He sees through it. He always does. But he doesn’t press. ‘There’s a beach nearby. There might be fewer people.’

  And so, he leads me away from the thumping bass of the club. The transition is jarring. We walk out of the bubble of neon lights to the quiet, humid darkness of the night just a few hundred yards away. The music fades behind us. Soon it’s replaced by the shushing of the waves. The air changes. The wind brings with it the sharp scent of salt. We find a narrow path that winds down to the shore. We take off our shoes. We walk in silence for a long time, just the sound of the ocean and our own breathing. The moon hangs low and heavy in the sky. It’s beautiful in every clichéd way.

  ‘Is it awful if I say tonight wasn’t a complete disaster?’ I whisper.

  He locks his phone, the one he’s been texting on discreetly all night, and turns to me. ‘Better than I could have imagined.’