7 March 2000
The stream of relatives is unending. People I don’t remember but who claim to have held me when I was little, women who say I vomited on them as a child, men who say I bullied them into giving me candies, are crawling like ants, turning our building into their nest. Their grieving process is already over. Sadder over Dada’s death are the Mittals who have taken in many of our relatives, and so are the Bhattacharyas whose house is littered with Gangulys, Dattas, Mitras and Ghoshes and neither of the families have let out a groan. The relatives, like relatives ought to behave, have taken to complaining about food and water and comfort. To see them laugh, smile, discuss politics and food and how polluted Delhi’s slowly becoming gets on my nerves and so I have taken to going on long walks.
On every walk, I bump into precisely what I run from. Someone who never mattered to me and vice versa; someone who sympathizes with the situation.
And today’s highlight was Brahmi. Like last time, as I ought to do, I walked away from her but she caught up with me.
‘You need to talk to me,’ she said, her eyes tearing up.
‘Oh, you’re crying? Great.’
‘You don’t get to make fun of my sadness. I knew your Dada too.’
‘Yes, for probably a few hours. A little less than me, don’t you think? My Dada burned to death, not yours, so I can do whatever the hell I want to do.’
‘I’m sorry. I . . . just wanted to see how you’re doing.’
I stopped, turned towards her, and in the rudest, coldest tone, I told her, ‘Fine. Here’s my answer. I’m good. I’m sad but it will get better. When and how I’m not sure yet but it will. I accept your condolences. Is that enough? Now you can go wherever you came from.’
I turned away from her and started walking away. She didn’t let up. She held my hand and stopped me. I wrested my hand free and shouted, ‘WE ARE NOT HOLDING HANDS ANY MORE.’
She staggered a few steps back, surprised at my outburst.
‘I want to be there for you.’
‘Well, you can’t! That ship has sailed!’
‘Raghu, don’t be like that. Talk to me.’
‘Now I should talk to you? Now! When my Dada is dead? Is that what it took to make you talk to me?’ I snapped.
‘Raghu, you have to understand.’
‘What the fuck do I understand? That you walked away the time I needed you the most? That all I wanted was for you to want to be with me? That you broke my heart into a million pieces? Where do I begin to start understanding you? Where?’
‘From where we were friends and we could tell each other things,’ she said.
‘Tell each other? It was only me doing the talking, not you!’ I said. ‘You have only lied to me.’
‘Raghu, you have to—’
‘WHAT! WHAT! Understand? No, I won’t understand! I won’t damn understand. Do you hear me? I won’t. No. And definitely not from you. You’re just a lying, deceitful girl! You know what? You know what?’
‘Don’t—’
‘You should be glad your parents are not around to see you!’ I shouted.
In that moment, I didn’t regret those words. The words broke her, which is exactly what they were intended to do. The tears started to pour. I watched her standing bolted to the ground, head hung low, staring at her feet, crying. I watched till I thought she should cry for her abandonment of me and then I went on my own way. In the temple, I prayed for forgiveness, not for the consequences of my action but for the action itself. I came back home, wanting to see her again, and every time I reminded myself of what she had done to me. I thought I was going absolutely crazy when in the night I saw her from my balcony, standing at a distance, eyes still teary. It had been at least three hours since our showdown. It didn’t move me. It made me angry. So I stood there, calmly, smoked a cigarette and watched her cry for an hour before I was called in. The next time I was out in the balcony, she was gone.
I was asked to take bedding for our lovely relatives to the Mittals. Richa and I were making their beds when she said, ‘Brahmi was there for three hours.’
‘That’s what you want to talk to me about? Not about how you’re in love with me?’
Richa laughed derisively and said, ‘I’m not but she is, even after what you said to her today.’
‘I just want to make this bed and be done with it,’ I said.
‘It was not her first time,’ she said.
Of all the times, this is when Richa decides she has a tongue, can form words, and give it velocity and meaning.
‘She has been coming here for two months, probably more. Every other day, she’s there.’
‘You’re crazier than I thought. That was months ago,’ I said. ‘We broke up.’
‘I know that and yet she was here all this time, even after the relationship ended. The next time you call me crazy, I will push a flowerpot on your head when you’re in your balcony,’ said Richa.
‘Why was she here? Are . . . Are you sure?’ I asked.
She didn’t choose to answer me and was called by her mother. I ran to my balcony. No, she wasn’t there.
Now that I’m writing this I think there are only two reasons why she would do what Richa tells me she does. Either she’s in love with me. Which begs the question, why would she let me lose her?
The second one is . . . if she has put a date on her death . . .
I need to see her.