‘You’re right,’ I say, not looking at her. ‘I don’t know your story.’

  She opens her eyes, a little too quickly, as if she were expecting the apology. She nods and then turns to me. ‘What’s your story?’

  ‘You know what you know,’ I say, shrugging, being evasive. ‘I don’t know what else to say.’

  ‘You keep checking your phone every now and then,’ she says, straightening up. ‘But Megha’s asleep? What are you waiting for?’

  Suddenly, it feels silly. But I think I owe it to her. As an apology. So I open my email and show it to her. There’s a new mail from my sister, Shilpi.

  You okay?

  ‘Who’s that?’ she asks me.

  ‘My sister,’ I begin, finally looking at Aditi. ‘She’s fifteen . . . she’s stuck. Between them and me. In the middle.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any middle in your story,’ she says. ‘They are wrong and you’re right.’

  I nod. ‘She gets how wrong my parents are, but she won’t leave them. She tells me that she has board exams this year, that she can’t afford the distraction, but she doesn’t say the real reason why she didn’t come with me. Or reasons, I should say.’

  ‘Reasons? Plural?’ she asks, leaning forward slightly.

  ‘She thinks we are too young. Twenty-three is no age to decide who you’re going to spend your life with,’ I say. ‘Of course she’s saying what my parents said to me. Who, by the way, got married at twenty-five.’

  I don’t know why I’m spilling out to her like this. If Megha were here, she would blame my momo-sutta friends. That’s what she calls them. All you do is eat momos and smoke with them. What value do they add? I tell Megha, nothing, they add happiness to my life. And she tells me, and when you’re sad? Nothing. We don’t go there. We roll up our sadness and instead go out and eat momos. I can’t tell Sumrit that I wished Shilpi was on my side. I can say that as an off-hand remark, but I can’t really get into a conversation. That would just be weird. Momos are easy.

  ‘I knew at twenty-one that Aman was the one,’ she says, breaking my train of thought. ‘But I get it. All my friends say the same thing. You’re too young, blah blah. Anyway, so your sister . . .’

  ‘She keeps saying Megha and I will break up. Or you know, we won’t be able to sustain ourselves,’ I say.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘That I would have no support from the house. It’s just been a year since I have been working . . . my salary’s fine, but I wasn’t saving a lot. But now the security deposit and broker’s fee has wiped out my savings entirely,’ I say and immediately regret it. Megha and I had decided we will skimp, and things will be fine. That I don’t need to worry about it. We have the numbers calculated. We will be fine. I steer the topic back to Aditi. ‘And second, she doesn’t want to abandon them. So she’s choosing to abandon me.’

  ‘That must be hard,’ Aditi says quietly.

  ‘I mean . . . a little? She used to follow me around. And she . . . for large parts of my life . . . she was . . . anyway . . . So it feels like a betrayal,’ I admit.

  ‘Has she met Megha?’ she asks me.

  I shake my head.

  ‘So she hasn’t seen how hot Megha is?’ she says.

  That makes me crack up a little, but the laughter dies in my throat, leaving a familiar ache. ‘She once told me, “I don’t know what you see in her.” Just parroting my parents.’

  ‘For the record, I see what you see in her,’ Aditi says, offering a small, genuine smile.

  I smile back. ‘I can’t blame her, you know. She’s in a difficult position. But she still emails me. Secretly. My parents wouldn’t check her email. So that’s that. Always sends the same thing—“You okay?”’

  Aditi lets out a breath. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, putting my phone away. ‘But my parents were quite manipulative . . . She’s fifteen. She can’t win against them. They threatened to kill themselves if I married Megha. I told them they wouldn’t. They’re just scared people, living scared lives, obsessed with what others think.’

  ‘You said that to them?’

  ‘My dad came at me, wanted to hit me, but stopped. I think he realized I wasn’t a kid any more. I was bigger than him. And I think they knew it too when they called her a . . . a two-paise slut.’

  The words still taste like acid.

  I continue, ‘Papa left the house. And Shilpi was with Maa all night. Consoling her. That’s when I knew she would not come with me.’

  ‘We shouldn’t have to go through this,’ she whispers.

  I look at her. ‘I’m sorry. I just told you what I did because these little lies we tell to survive, these things that we hide—they blow up later.’

  ‘What kind of lies?’ she asks.

  ‘The easy ones at first,’ I say, the memories come flooding in. ‘“Yes, I’ll tell my parents, Megha.” “No, they’ll definitely agree, Megha.” “I’m sure they’ll come around, Megha.” Then they got bigger. “No, they don’t think you’re bad.” “I’m not having second thoughts.”’

  ‘I get it,’ she says, nodding slowly.

  ‘So now she and I have decided not to hide anything. We don’t have to be alone even in the only relationship we have left.’

  She leans back into the bench and sighs.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t want to dump all this on you.’

  ‘Thank you for doing that,’ she murmurs.

  I find myself going back to that same day. Shilpi in Maa’s room, and me, in mine, feeling utterly alone. That’s when I feel Aditi’s hand on mine.

  ‘You know it’s good to have someone in the same boat. Unfortunate, yes, but . . .’ she says, her voice trailing off. She’s quiet for a moment, then a small, mischievous glint appears in her eyes. ‘Good for us?’

  ‘For us?’

  ‘I mean, think about it,’ she says, her eyes suddenly bright. ‘We could be each other’s couple friends, no? We could meet every Saturday and bitch about our families? Won’t that be cool?’

  I know what she’s trying to do. Yank me out of my thoughts. That’s kind of her because it works.

  ‘I wouldn’t say cool. Therapeutic? Maybe,’ I concede.

  ‘Now all we want is for Megha and Aman to get along,’ she says. ‘Aman’s pretty likeable.’

  ‘Megha’s not likeable?’ I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Megha’s hot, no? Hot people can’t be trusted too much,’ she says, and then when she sees me frown, she adds, ‘I’m sure Megha is likeable too.’

  I smile.

  ‘I’m going to doze off for a bit,’ she says.

  She puts her head against her backpack and closes her eyes. I too lean my head back against the cold plastic bench and close my eyes. Eventually, sleep wins. For maybe ten minutes.

  And in those ten minutes, I dream.

  The sounds are muffled, distant. The sharp, clinical white of the airport walls seems to glow. In the dream, I’m standing at the arrivals gate. The doors open, and Megha walks out. She’s wearing the dress she wore on our first date, but her face is tired. She doesn’t look at me. She walks past, smiling at someone else, someone behind me. I turn to see who it is, but there’s no one. Just an empty corridor reflecting my own confused face. Then Aditi is beside me. She says nothing. Just holds out a boarding pass. The flimsy paper feels cold in my hand. It has my name on it, but no seat number. Just the word: Standby.

  I wake up with a jolt. Sweat on my forehead. For a second, the harsh airport lights feel like a continuation of the dream’s strange glow. My heart’s racing for no real reason.

  Dreams don’t mean anything. I’m not stupid.

  I look at Aditi. She’s smiling in her sleep. Clearly a different dream.

  Just then, her phone lights up. A message. I see her stir, glance at it blearily. She opens one eye, checks her phone, smiles and then goes back to sleep.

  It has to be Aman. Is he up? Is it time for the flight yet? I check my phone. No texts from Megha. Just the wallpaper of us at the temple, a relic from a different lifetime.

  Outside, the rain has finally stopped. I take a deep breath.

  Tomorrow’s going to be a long day. A happy day. A sad day.

  A day when the past will end.

  9

  Aditi

  The soft buzz of my phone pulls me from a dream I can’t remember. I open my eyes. The rain is back, but not like yesterday. This is steadier, calmer. A soft pattering blanketing everything outside the glass. It’s lovely. For a moment, I just listen.

  My phone buzzes again, this time with a soft chime.

  Aman.

  At the security now. Finally.

  Aman.

  Flight’s on. Weather’s clear here. I’m sleepy.

  The words on the screen are simple, but they feel like a starting pistol. The final part of the journey is beginning. And suddenly, I wish it wasn’t. It’s like the world doesn’t want me to wake up too fast. Do I want to wake up? Why not keep dreaming of a world with no kinks? I never saw the point of those movies—the ones like The Matrix, where every human is plugged into some machine and they are kept drugged and in dreams, and then one stupid human wants to rage against the machines! Why? I crave an altered reality. Who cares if AI takes over? Honestly, I’m okay. Wouldn’t it be incredible for someone else to take my decisions, keep me in a neutered state of being? Happy, content, managed?

  I don’t want to live in this alternating state of euphoria and sadness.

  I don’t reply to Aman. Just hold the phone in my hand for a while and look at his DP.

  I’m about to reply to him, but my phone beeps again. A different notification sound. A direct message. It’s Tejal.

  Tejal: Your brother called. I told him we don’t talk.

  I stare at it for a while. I’m hoping she would write something more. My fingers hover. What can I write that will prompt her to call me? What can I write that she apologizes, but not too much because I don’t want to make it weird, and then everything goes back to normal? She’s online but she’s not writing anything.

  And then, another message.

  Tejal: You’re at the airport?

  Me: Yes.

  Tejal: Best of luck.

  And then, nothing. Every few seconds, I open up her chat to see if she’s online, but she isn’t. When Tejal and I stopped talking, Aman had seen me through that time and told me, ‘The only difference between your girlfriend and me is that you’re not attracted to her.’

  It was the truest thing about Tejal and me. I loved her like I hadn’t loved anyone.

  I give up and finally message Aman.

  Me: Can’t wait for you to be here.

  I press send, and the finality of it settles in my stomach. This is where it begins. Everything before now was just practice, a dress rehearsal. The life you live with your parents isn’t real, not completely. It’s a simulation where you get multiple lives to attempt the same thing. When you move away, that’s when the game truly begins. Aman’s moving to a hospital here, and it’s paying him well enough, but I can’t sit at home waiting for him.

  In the past three months, since college wound to a halt, I have shot my CV across to hundreds of companies and recruitment agencies and have only gotten disappointment. There’s a hiring freeze everywhere. Even the handful of people who had placement offers are sitting at home, their offers now rescinded.

  I look at Raghav again. My thoughts feel loud, and I wonder if I’ve woken him. He is still asleep on the other end of the bench, half-slumped against a hand rest, his mouth slightly open, his neck so craned that for a moment it feels like he’s dead. Still breathing slowly, eyelids twitching like he’s mid-dream. He looks deathly uncomfortable.

  The jacket he put on me—and that I returned to him sometime in the night—has slipped off his shoulder again. Such a chivalrous thing. But some things are sacred. Boyfriend jackets and hoodies. Liking food only your girlfriend cooks.

  I pull out a small pouch from my backpack. Toothbrushes. I took them all from the house. I had bought them three months ago—five toothbrushes in a money-saver pack. Like the pack knew I was going to need them.

  I pluck two out and nudge his shoe lightly with mine.

  He stirs, groans and then half-mumbles, ‘Five more minutes, Megha . . .’

  ‘Wrong girl,’ I say.

  His eyes flutter open. He looks at me. Then the toothbrush. Then me again. Then blinks his eyes open. Then he sits up, stretches and straightens. He takes the toothbrush from me. We walk to our respective washrooms without saying anything. I look like a drunk rat. I wash my face once, and twice, and thrice, and yet I look the same. You need your nine hours of sleep, my sister had commented once.

  By the time I leave, he’s already waiting outside, looking as though he has taken an entire bath. Back in the visitor’s area, the Chaayos has just opened. They serve us chai in paper cups. We sit down at our bench again.

  ‘They are taking off now,’ he says. ‘Megha just texted.’

  ‘They were taking off ten minutes ago too,’ I tell him. ‘That means she’s using the phone even after they’ve been asked to shut it down. Taking risks.’

  ‘Oh, c’mon.’

  ‘I’m joking, of course,’ I say. ‘I’m just nervous.’

  ‘So am I.’

  The rain is louder now. We both look outside. I hold the cup close to my lips but don’t sip. The board in front of us announces that the flight is expected in another forty-five minutes.

  ‘I don’t want to cry when I see him,’ I say softly.

  Raghav sips his chai. ‘Don’t. It’ll worry him. That’s your thing, right?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘But I’ve already used up my monthly cry quota.’

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘I don’t think it resets monthly. It rolls over like mobile data.’

  I laugh. A real one. Small, but unfiltered. It’s not even a good joke. When you start laughing for real at jokes like these, it’s a sign that you’re becoming friends. I fish through my bag again and pull out a small hairbrush.

  ‘Is my hair okay?’ he asks.

  ‘Megha will fall in love with you all over again.’

  ‘She better. I’m counting on it.’

  We fall silent.

  The rain thickens again, almost on cue. We both glance at the big clock. I’m sure the countdown to the old life and the new is ticking in his mind as it is in mine. He’s staring out the window. Outside, somewhere high above the rainclouds, the plane must have started its descent. We smell our chai and listen to the sound of rain.

  10

  Raghav

  The board says ‘On Time’.

  This, despite the earlier two flights to Delhi being late by fifteen minutes.

  We both lean forward, almost at the same time, to get a better look. The words are in the same dull yellow font they’ve been using for the last three hours. Aditi says, ‘Maybe they are on a better aircraft. Should be able to land.’

  ‘The rain’s getting worse though,’ I say.

  ‘Thank god for the toothbrush then. We might be spending another night here if they are diverting,’ she says.

  There’s a crick in my neck because of last night. I’m sure I won’t be able to survive another night on these ergonomically cruel chairs. ‘And I don’t think Urban Company will allow another delay.’

  ‘That’s what you’re worried about?’ she says with an impish smile.

  I watch the board. The plane has been ‘on time’ for nearly an hour now. They should be close.

  ‘They’ll probably be so tired,’ Aditi says.

  ‘I want to add here that I will be overseeing the packing while you guys will be in a hotel. Probably getting a spa or something.’

  She frowns. ‘Do I look like someone who gets a spa done?’

  ‘Is there a specific type?’

  ‘Like Megha. She looks like one. Model types,’ she says.

  I smile. ‘Okay, what do you think Megha does exactly?’

  ‘I don’t know. Flight attendant? Or HR? Influencer?’

  ‘She’s preparing for the NET,’ I answer. ‘Mathematics.’

  ‘Oh, nice!’ she remarks. ‘So both of you are, like, maths, analytics kind of people?’

  ‘I mean, she’s much better at it. She’s enrolling herself in a PhD as well.’

  She shrugs and a sadness comes over her. ‘Actually, I don’t know the type. I’m just an unemployed MBA graduate like thousands of others.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ I tell her. ‘You will find a job.’

  Though I know it’s not easy. The market’s shit and there are hardly any non-toxic, well-paying jobs for freshers from average colleges with no experience. Maybe she knows that I’m lying because she falls silent.

  I check the time. 6.54.

  The board still says ‘On Time’. How could it not have landed and still be one time? Fucking glitch.

  ETA: 6.57.

  Then 6.59.

  Then 7.01.

  Still ‘On Time’.

  Still no messages.

  We both look up again.

  Nothing has changed. But somehow, everything feels slower. As if the board itself is waiting for someone else to decide what to do. Aditi gets up and paces, then returns to her seat. The plane should have landed by now. I look outside and rain’s heavy so maybe . . .

  ‘Why hasn’t it changed to “Arrived” yet?’ she says, too casual for how her foot is bouncing. ‘Did it get diverted again?’

  ‘It might take time to update,’ I tell her. ‘Traffic or rain maybe slowed the taxiing.’

  She doesn’t reply. She’s now checking FlightRadar on her phone.

  Then she pauses.

  Her thumb hovers over the screen.

  ‘This is a mess,’ she says quietly, her eyes darting across her phone. ‘FlightRadar shows it descending, but someone on a forum is insisting their cousin on the flight just texted about a burst tire on the runway.’ She scrolls again, her frown deepening. ‘Wait, now someone else on X is saying there was a security alert and they’ve been diverted back to Jaipur. What is going on?’