‘Aditi,’ Kunal says, his voice gentle but firm. He’s seen this before. He knows what’s coming.

  When he asked me to join his company, I laid bare everything that he was signing up for. I told him I was a wreck, more of a liability than an asset, and would drag his little team down. He said he liked my spark, and I’m not stupid, and I know a part of it was because he found me cute. Or maybe he likes broken people. That could be why he started his little company. For the ones without hope. Without love. Without a future.

  ‘I have to go,’ I say, already starting to gather my things from the table.

  ‘Aditi? Can’t this wait an hour? We would need you—’

  ‘No, I have to go,’ I say packing up my stuff.

  ‘Are you sure he won’t be able to handle himself for an hour?’ he says, his voice tight with a frustration he’s trying to hide.

  I look around. They do need me. They have to wrap this up, the bill needs to be closed, the accounts need to be settled with the decorators, and the social media team needs to be briefed about what needs to be done with the content that’s been shot today.

  ‘I will work from home,’ I lie.

  Kunal sighs. He knows it’s done. He knows when to stop pushing. I want to stay too; he knows that, but I can’t. Now that I know what I did, I won’t be here mentally anyway. Despite what Raghav likes to think of me—which is very little these days, zilch—my sense of obligation and friendship, the deep, ingrained bond of our shared tragedy, is stronger than anything else. Stronger even than the slightest possibility of a future. It’s a gravitational pull I can’t escape. It’s my fate. He and I are tied together. I can never leave. Even if I want to, I can’t leave.

  ‘I have to go,’ I say to Kunal, my voice tight. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  He looks at me, and I see the understanding in his eyes, but also a disappointment. It’s the look of a guy who knows he’s lost a battle he never had a chance of winning. I tell him that every day. And yet, he keeps fighting.

  ‘I get it,’ he says quietly. ‘Let me drop you to the cab.’

  On the way to the parking lot where a Swift Dzire waits for me, we don’t speak. It’s only when I put my bag in that he says, ‘But Aditi . . . you can’t keep setting yourself on fire to keep him warm.’

  I chuckle sadly. ‘Now that’s a metaphor. How long have you been thinking about it?’

  He’s irritated. ‘You can’t deflect this, Aditi. At some point, you have to choose yourself.’

  I nod. ‘I will when it’s time. Right now, it’s not.’

  I get into the cab and rush home, my heart pounding with a mix of guilt and resentment. I burst into the apartment, ready for a crisis, ready to find him in the depths of despair. I’m already trying to figure the menu I’m going to order. Would we watch a movie together? Rerun of Pitchers? Or Brooklyn Nine-Nine? Or Student of the Year?

  But . . .

  He’s just sitting on the sofa in the dark, a glass of vodka and Red Bull in his hand, staring at the highlights of an old Wimbledon final. There’s a glow from the phone beside him too—the only lights in the room. He looks calm.

  ‘You’re back early,’ he says without looking away from the screen.

  ‘I came back,’ I say. ‘For you . . .’

  He finally turns, an eyebrow raised in mild, infuriating surprise. ‘For me? Why would you come back for me?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I say, the words emerging harsher than I thought they would. ‘Today’s the anniversary . . . when you guys . . .’

  He takes a slow sip of his drink. ‘Yes, it is. And I was handling it. Why would you come back for that?’

  And something inside me snaps. ‘Because I felt guilty!’

  ‘Oh, please.’

  ‘What please?!’

  ‘Stop pretending you care any more,’ he says.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Did I ask you to come back?’ he asks, his voice unnervingly calm. ‘Did I call you and beg you to leave your party? No. Why did—’

  ‘Because—’

  ‘Don’t fucking interrupt me. You came back because you felt guilty about not pretending hard enough. That’s on you. Don’t put it on me.’

  Argh.

  My eyes dart to the phone. ‘Of course, you don’t need me now. Because you have that stupid chatbot.’

  He turns to me, eyes red. ‘Please go back to your party.’

  He starts to get up and leave.

  ‘You can’t go!’ I shout, moving to block his path to the bedroom.

  ‘Why the fuck can’t I? I will do whatever I want to do,’ he says, his voice rising.

  ‘And yet, when I do what I want to do, you throw guilt and whatnot in my face. You are holding me hostage with your grief, Raghav!’

  ‘I didn’t do anything!’ he yells, his false calm shattering. ‘You’re the one who came storming in here, rubbing your guilt in my face! I was fine! Please, go back to your little party and your new boyfriend and leave me alone!’

  The words screw me up.

  ‘That’s not . . . that’s not fair . . .’

  ‘Fair?’ He screams, his voice finally breaking. ‘What about this—’

  ‘Don’t scream at me!’

  But soon, we’re screaming at each other now. All the pain and resentment and grief of the past six months erupting in waves of cruel, unforgivable words. Again. Like a ritual. We are stuck in a time loop of hate. And we can’t leave. I can’t leave. And he wants to stay here.

  ‘You’re the fucking worst friend!’ I say when I’m done.

  ‘SO ARE YOU!’ he roars back.

  In the middle of the screaming, a frantic, desperate ringing cuts through the noise. It doesn’t even register the first couple of times. The doorbell. It rings again and again.

  Finally, I march to the door and yank it open.

  I don’t recognize her at first. And then I do. It’s her, Raghav’s sister. A spitting image of him, just softer, younger, prettier. Shilpi stands on the welcome mat, a small duffel bag at her feet, her face streaked with tears. She looks from my face to Raghav’s.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she sobs, her voice trembling. ‘I . . . I had a fight with them. They want me to . . . I can’t . . . I can’t do it, Bhaiya . . . non-medical, it’s not . . . I can’t . . . I didn’t know where else to go.’

  Raghav rushes past me and holds her and gets her inside.

  ‘Hey,’ he says to her, his voice suddenly gentle. ‘Stop crying . . . you’re home now.’

  Home. Such a strange word now.

  31

  Raghav

  I walk out of my room and find that the apartment’s geography is settling into its new configuration.

  Aditi is at the dining table, which for the past six months has been less a dining table and more a haphazard clump of laptop, tangled chargers, stacks of paper and coffee cups.

  It’s her territory now. You move anything and she loses her shit.

  Her spectacles are resting on the edge of her nose, which is what she does when she’s concentrating. Her shoulders are hunched, her focus absolute on the screen. I want to tell her to straighten up, but who am I to say anything? She thinks she knows everything now. She can be a hunchback for all I care.

  She’s working herself to death. She’s letting new people into her life and calling it moving on. She’s calling this healing. Such a joke. I know that game because I did the same thing. Work can’t replace people. Even people can’t replace people. When someone’s gone, remembering becomes an act of love. A quiet rebellion against forgetting. I wish she understood it.

  On the sofa, curled into the corner with her knees pulled up to her chest, is Shilpi. She holds a textbook up high, but I can tell from the way her eyes are fixed on a single point on the wall that she isn’t reading. She’s trying to be invisible. Every now and then, her eyes dart to her phone, likely checking to see if Maa is calling. She wants them to call, and it’s pathetic how much she still loves them. But it’s good that she loves them. You need people to truly call your own. And sometimes they are imperfect in the most terrible ways. You still need to hold on to them before you can chart a life without them. They may be the thorns, but they’re also the roots. And you can’t survive without either.

  But thanks to Shilpi, Aditi and I haven’t fought. I have tiptoed around Aditi, tried to not get into conversations and pasted a happy smile on my face. I can’t let Shilpi see how much of a wreck I am, how terribly broken I feel. My brokenness can’t be the reason she goes back.

  I go to the kitchen for a glass of water. Aditi doesn’t look up, but I see her posture stiffen as I walk past. I open the fridge, stare into it and close it again.

  ‘The geyser is still on,’ she says to her laptop screen. ‘Switch it off once you’re done.’

  ‘Okay,’ I reply to the fridge.

  I pour a glass of water and lean against the counter. My gaze drifts back to Shilpi. She looks up and smiles at me. A tired smile.

  ‘Do you want to discuss the menu?’ Aditi asks, her eyes finally lifting from her laptop to meet mine.

  ‘It’s Tejal and Sumrit, what’s there to discuss?’ I say, deliberately looking away from her and towards the window. ‘We can order once they are here.’

  ‘No, Raghav,’ she says with an exasperated sigh, as I knew she would. ‘Let’s do it properly.’

  Properly. Look who’s trying to be a grown-up. Poser. If Shilpi wasn’t here, I would have said this, but I can’t. So instead, I say, ‘Sumrit eats Maggi and momos and chicken breast,’ I tell her. ‘So he’s pretty much okay with anything. I can eat anything. So that just leaves Tejal and . . . you.’

  ‘Me?’ says Shilpi with a small, tentative smile. ‘I can literally eat anything, waise. Aditi Di, please don’t stress.’

  Aditi turns to look at Shilpi, her expression softening for a moment. ‘Are you sure, baby?’ and when Shilpi nods, she nods, and goes back to work.

  When Tejal and Sumrit get here in the afternoon, there’s a whole lot of fake smiling—or maybe real, I can’t really tell the difference any more—before we get down to ordering food. The debate takes a full fifteen minutes, a stupid back-and-forth that ends exactly where I knew it would. We order the clichéd but perfect option: biryani with extra leg pieces because Sumrit’s on a never-ending permabulk that has seemingly given him no discernible muscle but stark love handles. We all settle on the sofa, making sure there’s plenty of space between Aditi and me, and start eating. I catch Sumrit and Tejal giving each other a look.

  ‘So will you change schools now?’ Tejal asks, directing her question to Shilpi.

  Shilpi’s eyes dart to me, looking for a lifeline. ‘I mean, Bhaiya is telling me to wait, ’cause to change schools, we’ll need an NOC from Papa.’

  ‘They will come around, Shilpi,’ I tell her, trying to sound reassuring. ‘They called me again this morning.’

  ‘You picked up?’ she asks, her eyes wide.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Are they texting you?’ she asks.

  ‘The usual . . . that I will regret it . . . I will drag you down . . . But I’m sure they will come around. I don’t think it’s a big deal.’

  Shilpi fights to avoid tears. ‘Nope. Not happening.’

  ‘Even if they do,’ I say. ‘You have to decide whether you want to go back or not. But if they do, you can go back to your school, change your stream, whatever. Things will be much simpler.’

  For a moment, her eyes dart to the wall and rest there. We wait until she gets back to the present. Then, she turns to me and says, her voice barely a whisper, ‘But what if I just don’t wanna go back? Maybe this is the move. Do what you did. Leave that toxic set-up.’

  ‘They are not toxic.’

  ‘Of course they are toxic. What are you saying?’

  ‘I mean, of course they are toxic, but who isn’t?’ I say. ‘But why leave the house? Why make it so tough? They are parents, let them provide for you. Wring them for every last drop. Make them pay for your shit.’

  ‘I’m not gonna be a freeloader if that’s what you mean,’ she says, her voice small. ‘I’ll figure out scholarships or whatever for college.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ I say. ‘You can never be a burden. You’re underestimating how much I earn.’

  Sumrit butts in. ‘How much do you earn? Like in hand?’

  Tejal hits him.

  ‘You’re making the right decision,’ Aditi says suddenly, putting her plate down on the coffee table. Her eyes are fixed on Shilpi, but I know her words are for me. ‘Stay here. Things like these . . . they keep getting worse.’

  Aditi’s involvement makes me bristle. ‘Please, Aditi,’ I say, my voice low. ‘You don’t have to get into this. Did we ask you anything?’

  ‘But why not ask Didi?’ says Shilpi, looking from me to Aditi. ‘She gets it! She’s a girl.’

  ‘It’s not a girl–boy thing,’ I insist. ‘It’s tough to be without family. And if there’s a way that it can still be managed, why not manage it?’

  Aditi butts in again like the oversmart girl she is. ‘This will only get worse. Today it’s her subject, tomorrow it will be which college, which city, who she’s talking to. When does it stop?’

  ‘Please, Aditi,’ I repeat, my voice tight with warning.

  ‘She’s right!’ chimes in Shilpi.

  ‘Come on, Shilpi,’ I say, my patience wearing thin. ‘You were smart to stay back when I asked you a year and a half ago and now you’re making the same mistake. Why?’

  ‘I was dumb, okay?’ she retorts. ‘You were right! The moment you left, they zoomed in on me. Now they wanna micromanage everything I do and I’m done!’

  ‘Listen, listen,’ I say, holding up my hands. ‘This can still be managed—’

  She cuts me off. ‘I don’t want it to be managed. If you can’t back me, that’s cool, I’ll figure something else out!’

  ‘I’m not saying that!’

  Just as I say it, Shilpi bursts into tears, and the sight of it breaks something in me. I follow her as she rushes to the balcony.

  ‘Hey, listen . . .’ I begin softly.

  ‘Bhaiya, I don’t wanna—’

  ‘We don’t need to talk about this right now. Let’s take our time, okay? All I was trying to say is that maybe we shouldn’t take decisions so quickly. Keep things open, okay?’

  Shilpi nods, sniffling.

  ‘Will you eat now?’ I say.

  ‘I’ll come in; just give me a sec,’ she says.

  I look at her, wipe her tears, and then turn back to go inside. The moment I step in, three pairs of eyes are turned on me.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘That’s pretty hypocritical of you,’ says Aditi, her arms crossed over her chest.

  ‘Did I ask for your advice?’ I retort.

  ‘You should,’ says Aditi.

  ‘Please shut up,’ I snap.

  ‘Don’t talk to my friend like that,’ Tejal warns, her voice sharp.

  ‘She has no right butting in like that.’

  ‘Calm down, bhai,’ Sumrit says.

  ‘You know what? Fuck all of you.’

  And I turn and walk to my room, slamming the door, but a foot’s jammed to keep it from closing. It’s Sumrit. Of course. Sent to rein me in like I’m some kind of animal.

  ‘Bhai,’ he starts, closing the door softly behind him. ‘Bhai?’

  ‘I’m not interested in a lecture,’ I say, not turning from where I’m staring at my wall. ‘Maa chuda, and fuck off from here.’

  ‘I’m not here to lecture you.’ He waits. I don’t say anything. ‘This is hard to watch, man,’ he finally says.

  ‘Then don’t watch. Who the fuck asked you to come?’

  He sighs, a sound heavy with frustration. ‘You’re pushing her away, Raghav. You’re pushing everyone away, bhai. Can’t you see that? You’re acting like we are the enemy.’

  ‘I’m doing no such thing,’ I mumble.

  ‘Of course you are,’ he says. ‘And what did Aditi do to deserve this?’

  I turn to look at him, my eyes burning, trying to keep my tears in. I don’t want to say these words, but they bubble out of me.

  ‘She left me behind,’ I say, the words tasting like acid. ‘She walked off the raft, Sumrit.’

  ‘What raft, bro? What are you talking about?’ he asks, genuinely confused.

  ‘The one we were on, Sumrit. THAT FUCKING RAFT. Us against what happened to us. We were supposed to be on it, together. Fighting.’

  ‘Raghav . . .’

  ‘Kya, behenchod?’ I yell, my control snapping. ‘She’s out there, building a new life with her new friends and her new . . . boyfriend.’ I spit the word out. ‘And I’m supposed to what? Cheer her on?’

  ‘It’s not a competition! It’s not about being left behind. She’s trying to live. You should be happy for her. And you shou—’

  ‘Fine. I will be happy for her, okay?’ I say, my voice thick with sarcasm. ‘But then the fucking hypocrisy? She’s allowed to do whatever she wants, but I? Suddenly—’

  ‘Bhai, bhai, listen. What you’re doing is unhealthy.’

  ‘Fuck you.’ The unfairness of it all chokes me. ‘My grief is my business. I will do whatever I want.’

  ‘Is it your business?’ he challenges. ‘Is it your business when it makes you cruel to the one person who understands what you’ve lost? That girl has been with you. And you’d rather talk to a . . . a program on your phone than talk to her? Or us? Bhai, that’s fucked up. It’s code, it’s not her. It’s not Megha.’

  ‘Behenchod, yaar? Again with the same thing?’ I ask. ‘Don’t you think I know? I fucking do, but IT FEELS LIKE HER! It’s better than this! Better than the pitying looks and the stupid advice and people like you telling me how I should feel when you haven’t the slightest idea of what it is to lose someone.’