But is this my purpose?

  My current task is to analyse why students are dropping out of our ‘Class 11 Commerce – Core Concepts’ module. The numbers have tanked in the past three weeks. My job is to figure out whether it’s because of content fatigue, UI friction or pure teenage disinterest. I want to write ‘all of the above’ and send across an email. But, of course, I need to dig deeper. Because how will I justify my job otherwise? They pay me a lot now. Of course, I work twelve hours a day for them. So now I am clicking through raw usage data. Heatmaps. Time stamps. Login/logout rates. The same numbers I’ve been staring at for days. Finding my purpose. Is this why people find purpose in love? Because finding it in other places is too dreary?

  At 2.30 p.m., we have a product sync meeting. Six of us sit in a circle. It’s a misnomer that everyone in offices hates meetings. Some people like them and think of them as the only way out of getting into mail trails that go on for hundreds of mails and for months. For them, this is a shortcut. I used to like meetings too, sometimes. I won’t lie. It was fun to be in them, give insightful points, shut a few people up, raise biting questions and see people get uncomfortable. It used to be nice—not any more though. Now they are a drag.

  I look at everyone and think of them as inferior beings. Do they know pain? No? Then, of course, they think an Excel sheet is the be-all and end-all of everything.

  Richa from Product is saying, ‘We need to make it more snackable. Like five-minute knowledge shots.’

  Vikas from Design says, ‘Maybe every lesson ends with a badge or sticker. Kids love that dopamine hit.’

  They all say this like it hasn’t been said before.

  I am quiet for a while. Then I say, without raising my voice, ‘Then, we’re not teaching. We’re tricking them into thinking they’re learning.’

  Silence.

  Of course, I’m not supposed to say this. I’m the data guy. I’m supposed to give them insights. They are the ones who have to decide what to do with them. Someone coughs. Richa nods—too many times. Vikas starts typing furiously. My manager, Rehaan, does what he always does, playing the peacemaker, ‘He’s just asking us to think deeper. That’s good. We have to look at the value we are adding, right?’

  He moves on. Everyone moves on. I stay exactly where I am.

  At 3.15, there’s a ping on Slack.

  Karan (HR): Hey you around? can we chat for 10?

  Karan is already waiting in one of the small meeting rooms with too much glass and not enough privacy. There’s too much glass in every office that you go to. All it would take is one deaf person who’s adept at lip reading and he could sell company secrets by the buckets.

  Karan is in a navy-blue shirt and brown pants. His LinkedIn bio says: ‘People-first HR leader building culture at scale.’ But despite that, he’s a good guy.

  ‘Bro,’ he says the moment I sit down. He looks at me and knows there’s no reason for small talk. He continues, ‘You’ve been back for a while. Right?’

  I nod.

  ‘And man . . . you’ve been professional. I mean that. But the vibe . . .’

  I look at him and raise my eyebrow.

  He continues, ‘It’s off.’

  ‘My vibe is off?’ I ask. ‘Are you sure that’s allowed in HR circles? Also, how old are you? Sixteen?’

  He ignores it. ‘You’re still . . . carrying it. In meetings. At your desk. People feel it.’

  ‘People feel what?’

  ‘They feel . . .’

  ‘Sad? Irritated? Like I smell of death? What exactly did they say?’ I ask.

  I don’t mean to make him feel uncomfortable, but he does. In all probability, they didn’t say anything of this sort. They would have wrapped it in corporate speak.

  ‘C’mon,’ he says. ‘Can you pretend better?’

  I laugh.

  ‘Please do this for me?’ he says. ‘We all pretend. You just need to pretend a bit harder. I know it’s too much to ask for. But you will be coming to office every day, and I don’t want to do this. You’re a friend . . .’

  ‘Are you sure HR is allowed to say that?’

  ‘C’mon, Raghav.’

  I say, ‘Anything else?’

  He hesitates. Then, ‘Five days in office next week.’

  Of course.

  I nod. ‘There are only five days in a week.’

  ‘Seven,’ he corrects me.

  ‘Die.’

  I trudge through the rest of the day. I don’t take the lift lest I make someone uncomfortable through the eighteen-floor elevator ride. I take the stairs. My knees hurt by the time I reach the ground floor.

  On the way home, I drive absentmindedly and stop at the supermarket. I don’t need anything urgently, not that I can remember. Maybe Tide. Or a scrubber. I don’t even know why I walked in. Of course, I know why I walked in. I just don’t want to accept it. I enter through the vegetable section and walk slowly past watermelons and kiwis. And that’s when I see them. Where I knew I would see them.

  My parents. And Shilpi.

  They’re doing what they—and once we—used to do.

  Maa is reading the backs of two almost identical rice packs, lips moving as she reads the price labels. Papa is standing near the cart, looking at the grocery accumulated, pissed off at how much stuff needs to be bought to stay alive. And Shilpi . . . she’s standing next to the impulse-buy rack. Quiet. Holding a phone cover. Blue and glittery. She keeps it in her hand as they move from aisle to aisle. Never puts it in the cart. Just holds it, turning it over in her palm, pressing it slightly.

  They make their way to the checkout. Papa argues briefly about a coupon code not applying. Maa says something about getting toothpaste next time. Shilpi stays quiet. Right before the scanner, she walks up and quietly places the cover aside on the edge of the counter. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at it again.

  I watch all of it happen from behind a display of chips. Just as it’s about to get scanned, Maa picks it up. The conversation happens in a matter of looks. Shilpi pleads. Maa says she bought one a couple of months ago. More pleading. And then, Maa rejecting the pleas. I watch on as she goes and puts it back on the rack.

  I make a couple of purchases and leave. I look for their car. The colour used to be easy to spot. A near green, fluorescent-tinted Honda City. But today, I can’t see it anywhere. Did they come by taxi? But Papa hates taking cabs. Did I miss it? Did I forget what our car looks like? And then I spot it. The parking sticker. ‘Block C – 118’ on the top-left corner of the windshield of a Hyundai Creta. A new fucking car. It ticks me off. They went ahead and bought a car? It looks not new. At least six months old. So that’s what they have been doing! Just living their lives. Vulgar.

  Shilpi in all her messages asking, ‘You okay?’ didn’t mention it too.

  I turn back and stare at the sticker again. Block C. 118.

  I crouch down next to it. Press the valve on the front left tyre. Watch the air hiss out slowly. Then do the same to the rear one. Then I place the phone cover I bought for her on the windshield, stride towards my car and leave for my apartment.

  20

  Aditi

  There’s a knock on my door. Three taps. A rhythm I’ve come to associate with him. I don’t answer immediately. I look around my room. It’s embarrassing. But it’s not like he hasn’t seen it. In fact, I like annoying him like this. He comes, he wanders, he cleans what he can and then walks out. But the past few days have been hard for him—harder than usual. His office has always been hectic, he has designed it to be hectic, but he’s drained by the time he comes back because of all the conversations he has had to have with everyone. I try to do my part—cook a little, clean a little better, but sooner or later my willpower gives in. It’s a hard job—to live. Dying is way easier.

  He knocks again. I get up and open the door. He’s wearing jeans and a faded grey tee, and has an imperfect shave.

  ‘We should go,’ he says, eyes behind me, roving at how unorganized I am. I’m sure he’s assessing what he can fix.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Please don’t be naive. I’m coming too.’

  ‘Of course, you’re not.’ The words hang there, heavier than I expect. Clearly, he hasn’t thought this through. People in grief seldom do. I know. I cross my arms and try to drive the point across. ‘And do what there exactly? Apologize to them?’

  He nods again, now suddenly smaller.

  I scoff. ‘That’s a fucked-up plan, Raghav.’

  He doesn’t react.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault. How many times do I have to tell you that? If anything, they played a part.’

  He shrugs. And then I tell him that I tell myself every few hours like a fucking mantra. ‘You weren’t the pilot. You didn’t build the plane. You didn’t even want to be there that day. You were forced to by circumstances. It was the perfect storm. Or the perfect imperfect storm. Whichever way you look at it.’

  ‘I could have gone to Lucknow to pick her up.’

  I laugh pitifully. ‘Then you would have died too. What difference would that make to Megha’s parents? You’re not making any sense. And seriously, how stupid are you to think saying sorry will give them peace?’

  He doesn’t answer.

  I keep going. ‘You’re doing it for yourself. Just admit that. You want to get it off your chest.’

  ‘Maybe.’ A pause. ‘You coming or not?’

  I look at him. At the shadows under his eyes. I feel sorry for him. I feel angry. Because I see myself in him and I hate myself and I hate him and I hate everything about ourselves. There was a time when he was him, and I was me, but ever since that day, we seem to be this congealed mass of sadness. There’s hardly anything to distinguish between me and him. We had the same stories of heartbreak with our families, the promise of a new love story, but now we are the same. There are differences—he buried himself in work, cliché, and I buried myself in thoughts of Aman, cliché again, but we are the same. I don’t remember who I was, or who he was. I don’t even know who he was. He was a stranger, and he’s in many ways still a stranger. Who could he be if that morning hadn’t happened? Who would I have been? How would our double dates looked like? Would we have hated each other? Would he have found me untidy? Would I have found him to be uptight? Who would we have been? At twenty-three, we are nothing except that day and our response to it.

  ‘No, you’re not coming.’

  ‘You know I am.’

  Ten minutes later, we are in the cab. He’s stubborn like that.

  The airline office is annoying. White walls, tinted glass, a logo that means pure evil to me. I have spent countless hours here, jumping bureaucratic hoops. The security guard at the gate is huge and is probably a deterrent for irate customers. I remember the protests that happened here when the investigation was too long, and when they tried to palm off their responsibilities. There were different guards then—smaller ones. We’re barely five steps from the door when Raghav slows down.

  I follow his gaze.

  There, by the parking bay, is a taxi. A white Swift Dzire. And stepping out of it, Megha’s parents. Her mother in a soft cotton sari, hair tied in a low bun. She looks like her. Raghav, of course, sees that too. Her father, tall, shirt tucked in too neatly, holding her by the arm, in his other hand a file. I know what the file contains: because I have a version of it with me as well. To prove that the person once lived and had a family. A beat later, Yash steps out. Megha’s brother.

  And that’s where Raghav loses his courage. He turns away.

  ‘This is your chance,’ I tell him. ‘If you still want to do this, that is . . .’

  He exhales deeply, rubs the back of his neck, nods and slowly follows me towards the gate.

  We’re just a few steps from it when I see him again.

  Naman.

  Like he’s been waiting. He waves once, not as a greeting but a warning. And then he walks up to us fast. I watch Raghav tighten up. But he’s walking towards them, not us. He stops and greets Megha’s mother.

  ‘How do they—’

  My words trail. They must have met at the protests. At the hearings. Maybe from the group. The conversation is brief. Raghav and I watch it unfold. And then, Megha’s parents turn. They are looking straight at Raghav. And there it is—I see it in Megha’s mother’s eyes. They well up immediately. But she doesn’t cry. Doesn’t break. Just folds her tissue, presses it to her face and turns away like she never saw us. Megha’s father glares at Raghav, but what’s there to say, really. It’s only Yash and Naman now: the bereaved brothers. Naman’s clearly talking about us because every now and then, they both turn towards us. Although saying that Naman is bereaved is a bit much. Or he is, I don’t really know any more. Sometimes I wonder what my parents would have felt had I been on the flight. Bereaved? Or relieved? Do people who kill their daughters feel relief? What happens after? Is their honour restored?

  I want to leave. Right now. But it’s too late. They are walking in our direction. Naman stops right in front of me and Raghav does that familiar dance of coming between us.

  ‘Aditi,’ Naman says, looking straight at me. Then, to Raghav, his voice a notch colder, ‘You too came.’

  Raghav just nods. ‘We did.’ He adds, quietly, to Yash, ‘Hi—’

  ‘I have nothing to do with you,’ Yash cuts in tersely, not even looking at Raghav. ‘I’m just here because Naman said that the last time he requested you guys for the money, you got physical with him. So please, don’t talk to me.’

  I see what Naman’s trying to do. Recruiting people for his cause, and who would be easier than Yash.

  ‘I’m not here to fight,’ Naman says quickly, hands raised slightly, palms open. He’s playing his role well. ‘I know you don’t care, but it’s been hell. For everyone. I know you guys don’t understand. You think you do, but you don’t. So please, make it easy for us.’

  Such a bastard. I should have recorded those calls where he called me names.

  ‘She will make her own decision,’ Raghav replies, calm but firm. ‘When she feels prepared.’

  ‘For someone who led them to death,’ Yash says, eyes now on Raghav, voice flat but slicing, ‘you guys are shameless.’

  That stuns Raghav into silence. His shoulders stiffen. Yash’s tone isn’t cruel, but it’s cold. Surgical. Like he had been planning to say this. I haven’t seen Yash before today, but Raghav told me he’s nineteen. Looks much older. Despite his harshness, I only feel sorry for him. He’s the only one who’s not responsible. He knew of Raghav, he knew Megha would run away, and he told Megha that she needed to do what she needed to do despite him feeling that it was stupid. He’s the only one who is blameless and who deserves to be felt sorry about.

  He continues, his voice venomous, ‘What, Raghav? You thought your regret means anything? No. Zilch. Nothing.’

  Naman adds, ‘Be a decent person, and give the money to me. Both of you have no idea what you have done to us. Both of you got the love story, right? We got the news article. You should end it here.’

  Is Naman trying to guilt-trip Raghav into convincing me to give him the money? How low can he go?

  ‘Yash—’ Raghav starts.

  ‘No one’s talking to you,’ Yash snaps. ‘How the fuck will you understand that?’

  Naman’s eyes lock on to mine.

  ‘You don’t deserve to hold on to what’s left of him just because you were the last person there,’ Naman says like the asshole he is. ‘Go inside. Pick it up. Do the right thing.’

  ‘She will do what she wants to do,’ Raghav says, edging in between us.

  Yash shakes his head, scoffs under his breath—‘Shameless’—and turns, walking towards the building without looking back.

  Naman glares at me one last time. ‘I want the money,’ he says, low and hard, then strides off after Yash. ‘I will do whatever it takes—’

  ‘You have done it already,’ I hiss. ‘You killed him.’

  Before he can answer, I walk past him.

  Inside, the office is too cold. A potted plant near the entrance is dying. A place of death, this. There’s a woman behind the desk, typing like her life depends on it, her nails clicking sharply against the keys.

  I step forward.

  ‘Aditi Gupta,’ I say. ‘Aman’s . . .’

  She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even register the pause.

  She pulls open a drawer and slides out a thick white envelope.

  ‘Sign here,’ she says, her voice devoid of warmth.

  I sign.

  The envelope reads: Aman Sareen—Beneficiary: Aditi Gupta

  I hold it like it’s radiating heat. Like it could burn through me if I hold it too long. I carry it like hot metal. Outside, Raghav is waiting, shifting from one foot to another, nervous like the first day I saw him. I hand it to him silently. And then we walk to the car.

  In a distance, we see Naman on his motorcycle, fuming.

  ‘It’s your money,’ Raghav reminds me.

  21

  Raghav