‘Don’t start with your motivational bullshit again,’ I tell Tejal.

  ‘Don’t talk to my friend like that,’ Aditi says.

  ‘And bhai, she’s my girlfriend,’ says Sumrit. ‘Listen to what she’s saying.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tejal, but I’m not sure I want to do what you’re saying,’ I tell her. ‘Carrying it sounds exhausting. I would rather just give in to it.’

  ‘Bro, why are you scaring us?’ says Sumrit.

  ‘What do you want me to say?’ I ask. ‘That I’m fine? I’m not, bhai. And there’s no changing that. The words you say, she says, are kind, nice, but . . . I . . . I still feel the same things.’

  ‘C’mon,’ Tejal protests. ‘You guys are doing much better. You can’t deny it.’

  ‘I like how you force me to tell you that I’m doing better,’ I say. ‘. . . that you’re doing a good job. Fine, you are. And yes, I am better, she’s better. But I think this is it. This base level of sadness will always remain.’

  Tejal looks at Aditi for support but gets only silence. She’s staring at her drink.

  Then Aditi says it. ‘The money came. The compensation. For the crash. Aman’s.’

  Tejal’s head jerks towards her. There’s a smile that I don’t miss. It’s a lot of money: Rs 1.8 crore. Tax-free. The smile’s ugly, but I forgive her. It’s life-changing money. Just comes from death, that’s it.

  ‘I don’t know what to do with it,’ she says, her eyes becoming glassy.

  Tejal shrugs, tries to play it cool. I can tell she’s forcing it. ‘Why? It’s your money. You should keep it.’

  ‘It’s not mine. What’s mine is no longer here.’

  Sumrit throws me a look as if to say why is it even a question. It’s Aditi’s money and she should keep it. I gesture for him to shut up.

  Tejal’s face hardens. ‘Do you think his parents deserve it more than you do? They stopped being his family long before he—’

  Aditi finishes the sentence. ‘I’m not saying they deserve it. I’m not saying I’m giving it to them. All I’m saying is that it’s not mine.’

  ‘Sumrit, don’t,’ Tejal warns as he opens his mouth.

  He ignores her. ‘You can put it in an index fund,’ says Sumrit, trying to be helpful and practical. ‘The interest alone would be . . . but don’t donate it, NGOs are scams, bro.’

  ‘Look, Aditi,’ says Tejal, cutting Sumrit off with a glare. ‘The money’s for family. His family abandoned him and you were with him all through it. You dragged him out of a depression, you gave him love and the will to live. A life that got snatched away. This is the universe’s consolation. You don’t have to feel guilty about taking the money.’

  ‘And what do I do with it?’ She points at the beer bottle in her hands. ‘Use his death money to get drunk like this?’

  ‘Or what, you’ll donate it so you can feel noble about it?’ Tejal fires back at her, her voice sharp. ‘Is that it? You think suffering makes you a better person? Aman wouldn’t want you to be a martyr, Aditi. He would’ve wanted you to live.’

  ‘She’s right, bro,’ says Sumrit. ‘Both of them would want you two to be happy.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘I don’t know whether you have noticed it, but both of them want nothing now. They are dead.’ Then I turn to Aditi and say, ‘Technically, the reason you’re drinking is also him, so you can’t be guilty about it.’

  ‘And the airlines,’ Tejal adds.

  ‘No,’ Aditi says, shaking her head as if to clear it. ‘I can’t keep it.’

  And that’s the end of it.

  We don’t talk about the money any more.

  Time slips past as more drinks are poured, memes are shared, momos eaten. When we are all drunk enough and Tejal and Sumrit ascertain that we won’t throw ourselves off the balcony, we help each other up.

  ‘Feel better?’ Tejal asks as we walk back to the car.

  ‘You mean, are we still suicidal?’ Aditi asks.

  Tejal rolls her eyes. We walk back slowly. The air feels softer now. Soon, we are back at the apartment building. I don’t admit it, but it was good to have them here.

  ‘You don’t have to come up,’ Aditi tells Tejal.

  Aditi hugs Tejal. She doesn’t thank her, even though she wants to. She doesn’t want her to make a habit of rescuing us. She wants to wallow in peace. The lift reaches our floor. I don’t say it, but I know—we both feel it. That sinking feeling. Behind the door is our temple of grief. The lift door opens. Someone is standing there. White shirt tucked into his trousers. Leather shoes. A three-day stubble. Eyebrows furrowed.

  ‘Aditi?’ he mumbles, his eyes ignoring me completely and fixing on her.

  I instinctively move to block him, placing myself between him and Aditi. He smells of alcohol too.

  ‘The money. It’s ours,’ grumbles Naman.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Of course,’ he snaps and tries to step around me. I shift my weight, holding my ground.

  ‘You weren’t even in his life! Chutiye!’ she whispers from behind me, her voice trembling but clear.

  That’s the trigger. Naman’s face darkens. ‘Gaali kisko de rahi hai, randi! He was my brother. You think we don’t have a right?’

  The words erupt from her. ‘No, you don’t.’

  He lunges. Not at me, but past me, shoving me hard to the side. He stumbles but catches himself, his hand reaching for Aditi’s arm. Before he can touch her, I recover my balance, grab his shirt collar and yank him back.

  ‘Get the fuck away from her,’ I hiss. ‘DID YOU NOT FUCKING HEAR? I told you to back off.’

  Naman gives me a strong shove, and my back hits the wall of the corridor. He’s stronger than he looks—fuelled by rage.

  ‘You think you can stop me?’ he spits, his face inches away from mine.

  ‘Try me,’ I grunt, pushing him back.

  We’re a tangle of limbs now, punching and kicking, a clumsy, pathetic struggle outside the apartment door.

  Naman laughs, a short, ugly sound. He shoves me again, and I slam him back against the opposite wall, holding him there by the collar. He slowly eases up but points a finger at Aditi.

  ‘You think a three-month joke marriage gives you the right to my family’s future? You were a phase he was too nice to end. A mistake. This isn’t over. We’ll make sure everyone remembers that.’

  He fixes his shirt, huffs and leaves. We keep standing there for a bit.

  I unlock the door. We step inside. My knuckles ache and I can feel my heart hammering against my ribs. The silence is different now. Not heavy with grief, but sharp, electric with rage.

  ‘You okay?’ I ask, turning to face her.

  I see the familiar hardness I had seen before. When she shut out her brother. She looks at me and says, ‘I’m going to encash that cheque.’

  I lock the door.

  18

  Aditi

  I walk out of my room to find Raghav already at his laptop, hunched over the dining table that has become his permanent office. There’s tea in a cup, covered. He has this look he gets when he’s working—as if what he’s doing is a waste of time. Which he often says his work is. Sometimes, he’s wearing a shirt over his shorts, in case there’s a Zoom call. It always cracks me up. He’s not grateful for his job—which pays him well, sometimes too well, what with out-of-turn bonuses and whatnot—but I am. It lets him stay at home.

  Sometimes I wonder where would I be in the world without him. We both tell each other that we brought bad luck for each other, but I believe it could have been even worse. What would have happened if I were alone on that airport that day? Where would I have turned? Where would I have gone? Back home? To my parents? To Bhaiya—where they would have mocked me for life? Even now, every few days, Bhaiya asks me to come back and tells me that they will forgive me. Forgive me? Ha! I know why they want me back. There must be questions swirling in the air. Where am I? Which city? Where am I working?

  I’m sipping tea when I see Raghav’s posture change. A subtle tightening in his shoulders. A frown. I have gotten accustomed and attuned to his facial expressions, as he to mine. We know when a depressive episode beckons. I watch him as he leans closer to the screen, and the muscles in his jaw clench. I can read his silences better than anyone’s words.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask, leaning against the dining table. ‘Some office bullshit?’

  ‘Have to go in,’ he says, his voice flat. He closes the laptop and leans back into his chair.

  ‘I mean, they pay you . . . so it’s kind of okay, no?’

  ‘I don’t want to,’ he admits. ‘And they fucking want me to come to office at least two days a week. What kind of bullshit is that?’

  I am about to tell him that it’s the employer’s right when I watch his eyes flicker towards the front door, and I know instantly what he’s thinking. The thought hangs in the air between us, heavy and ugly: Naman.

  I had been too drunk last night to register what happened but now that the fog of the hangover is receding, I remember it. My heart jumps a little. ‘You’re worried he’ll come back?’ I ask.

  He doesn’t answer, which confirms it. He’s worried about leaving me here alone.

  ‘I would have defended myself, you know,’ I say. ‘I’m stronger than I look.’

  ‘We are both weaker than we look,’ he says. And then, he scans me and smiles sarcastically. ‘Also, you? You’re so small.’

  My smile vanishes. ‘Right.’

  The word is ice. It’s not his fault. I’m small. He gets up and gets ready as I finish the cup of tea. When he leaves, I watch him pause at the door. Then, he points at the locks.

  ‘Please, don’t be overconfident,’ he says. ‘Lock the door.’

  ‘Because I’m small—’

  He has left by then.

  It’s not really his fault. I’m misdirecting it to him. Because that word, small, chhoti, they trigger a wave of memories. I feel hot across my face and it takes me back to all those times Bhaiya had slapped me. How my brother-in-law had. In the past year, I have had plenty of time to count those slaps and really ruminate and wallow in the humiliation they had dished out. I have wondered, though, would they have dared to hit me as much if I were as tall as Didi is, neck-to-neck with Bhaiya? Would pulling me by my hair have looked ungraceful enough for them to stop? I remember the times they pushed and pulled me like I was a fucking rag doll. How did I allow them to do that? Who allowed them to do that? Is that what family is? The ones who have the right to inflict violence on you?

  In Naman last night, I saw my brother. All these fucking men trying to bully me.

  I had told myself I wouldn’t leave the house. But I can’t stay at home. This is too clean. They need to hear everything that I have wanted to tell them. They need to know of all the anger I have for them, all the disgust. Why shouldn’t they? Won’t they live their entire lives thinking they were right? Worse, thinking that I deserved what I got because I went against them? No, this has to happen.

  An hour later, I’m on the metro, the screech of its jagged movement competing with the voices in my head. The train is packed with people living their ordinary lives. Have they gone through something like I have? I’m sure they have. But they go on. Unlike me. I feel ashamed. I don’t decide where I’m going, but my feet know. They carry me through the crush of bodies at Rajiv Chowk, on to the Yellow Line, and into the suffocating chaos of Old Delhi. My breath’s ragged. I know I should turn back. What’s left there? Nothing. And yet, I am there.

  In ten minutes, I’m in the lane again. Chawri Bazaar. And then I see it.

  Gupta & Sons, Est. 1988. Wedding Invitations & Fine Stationery.

  It’s smaller than I remembered.

  Right now, neither Papa nor Bhaiya are there, just Chhotu. I shouldn’t be here. But shouldn’t I? Screw them. I walk straight towards the shop. I walk past the stacked reams of paper outside, a scent of ink and glue filling my nostrils. Chhotu now turns and spots me as I sit on the small, worn wooden stool behind the counter.

  ‘Didi, aap?’

  ‘Go, get a chai,’ I order him.

  He looks at me, confused. It’s been a couple of years since he last saw me. Then, not wanting to say something he doesn’t intend to, he scoots off. I look around. Unlike Bhaiya, I haven’t spent a lot of time here. This was never mine. Not that I ever wanted it. But over the years, I have seen all the cards they have printed. Some really ornate ones too. My idea of love came from them: these declarations of love. But this was before I knew most of these marriages were happening not out of true love, but because the parents thought it was best for them. But by then, it was too late.

  I pick out the cards and start reading them. Like I used to.

  And then, a voice, crackling with static, erupts from a small speaker on the ceiling. From the CCTV.

  ‘What are you doing here, Aditi?’

  Bhaiya. I lean back on the stool and look up at the camera lens of the CCTV. I smile at it like a lunatic. I know he will lose it. There will be no niceties I’m sure. Once all the dignity of a relationship is gone—once you have been hit, pulled by your hair, locked into your room, your clothes that were deemed too provocative thrown away—there’s no need for courtesies. You can jump right into the evil that you are. But that’s what the most irritating part of this is. They don’t get it. They don’t know who they are.

  ‘Nikal yahan se, get lost!’ he says.

  ‘Why should I?’ I say, while flipping through some of the cards they have made. ‘Shouldn’t all of this be mine too? Though I will say it’s not something to be wanted.’

  His voice crackles over the speaker again: ‘Why are you here? Left the house, started sleeping with that man? And you’re still back? Did he drive you out of the house? Realize you’re nothing more than a randi?’

  ‘All those years I spent tying you a rakhi and this is the language you use? Despicable, Bhaiya.’

  ‘What . . .’

  I know this will hurt him. When we were younger, he used to rail against everyone who spoke fluently. And I used to echo the same feelings and say, ‘Look at these snooty South Delhi people, using language to prove they are better.’ But soon I realized it was never a noble argument. He was rejected one too many times by girls and this was his comeback—their snootiness, their hollow arrogance, their morally corrupt character.

  ‘I meant, terrible. You don’t know what despicable means. Not trying to be elitist, Bhaiya, but you kind of went to the same school. Seems like you were just dumb.’

  ‘Oye sun—’

  I scream now. ‘Oye! Saale, tu sun!’

  ‘How are you talking to me like this?’ he screams. ‘I will fucking cut you!’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘You’re not going to do anything of that sort. You also know that. Because the list of things you do is long, Bhaiya. Eating non-veg. Those paid girls. I have proof of everything,’ I say.

  He laughs. ‘And yet you’re here. No matter where you go, behen, you will miss us. You will always be incomplete. Like a chor, you will keep looking at us.’

  ‘You think I’m here because I miss you?’ I smile, and though it’s wrapped up in hate and loathing, I do miss him. What do they say about Stockholm syndrome?

  ‘Why are you here for—’

  ‘I’m here—’

  He cuts me. ‘Did he have enough of paying for you? Had fun and left you?’

  I fumble for a bit, my rage taking over. ‘1.8, Bhaiya.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Aman’s compensation,’ I growl. My teeth grind together. ‘It’s 1.8 crore. Not everything is about money. But I do have it now.’

  There’s silence on the other side. I know it’s going to pinch. Money’s everything to him. The speaker crackles with his rage. ‘You think that money will buy you happiness?’

  It’s cute that he goes there. He knows that money can buy him happiness.

  ‘It’s better than sitting in this shop with all these dusty cards and haggling for five hundred rupees,’ I tell him. ‘While you spend the rest of your life as a shadow, a puppet waiting for Papa’s approval, I’ll be enjoying my money. Whose approval? Papa. Who himself is a bit of a failure, is he not? Think about it.’

  Now, I hear my father’s voice. ‘We should have killed you,’ he grumbles.

  ‘Haan Papa, that’s more your thing. The kind of person you are, female infanticide is right up your alley,’ I tell him. The words are painful to say, but it’s needed. It’s like cauterizing a wound. ‘Where was I, Papa? That you’re a loser too. Loser samajhte ho? Good for nothing.’

  ‘I can’t believe she’s our daughter,’ he says.

  ‘Neither can I, Papa,’ I say. ‘Neither can I. All Aman wanted was to love me. And you couldn’t allow that. Because why . . . you’re a proud fucking baniya . . .’ I let out a bitter laugh, and pure rage flows through me. ‘What’s there to be proud of . . . Some day . . . some day . . . I want you to look in the mirror, rub your hand on your bulging stomach, look at your daughter whom you got married to a cheating, abusive husband . . . and also . . . look at your wife whom you never loved, and ask yourself what’s there to be proud of? Nothing . . . You’re nothing, Papa . . . listening to me? Nothing . . . You deserve nothing. You don’t deserve life. Aman did. Aman would have been the thing you could have been proud of. But you told him Bhaiya would cut him to pieces?’ I let out a laugh. ‘Fucking losers both of you. A lineage of filth.’ I look straight into the camera’s unblinking eye, a conduit for all my rage. ‘You guys only deserve hate.’

  Then, I turn and spit on the family picture.

  And with that, I turn and walk out of the shop.

  The victory, if you can call it that, feels hollow. The caustic energy drains slowly away. I feel empty, my fingers tremble.

  And finally, I walk home.

  19

  Raghav

  When I get to the office, it’s already busier than usual. People have read the mail and they’re getting used to it. From where I sit, I can see the coffee machine has a line. People milling about, waiting for their turn. So much for productivity. The seniors can’t digest that work can be done in a torn Under Armour T-shirt, boxers, with laptops balanced on bellies. Or maybe people like coming to office. Not everyone’s house is a shrine. I open my laptop and the project file. A familiar thought creeps up. What’s the point of what I’m doing? How the fuck am I contributing to the world? Is anyone contributing to the world? But what’s the point of thinking in terms of contributions? Then only farmers and doctors and scientists will have value in the world. Maybe that’s how it should be. But what will I do if not this? We can’t sit around doing nothing. We need purpose in our lives. We need to invent it. That’s why I envy Aditi. Her grief was purely paralysing. Yeah, true, she did help everyone with the paperwork that came after the crash, but even that was grief manifesting itself. With every person who died, she could relive Aman’s death again. She’s the perfect widow. Sad, paralysed, eating around bread infested with fungus, wearing T-shirts with gaping holes in them, railing madly at her family. While I’m working on data sheets.