Page 104 of 12 Years
‘This unhealthy attachment and … sex addiction with a much-older man.’
‘Sex addiction?’
‘Yes. The first step in treating any addiction is separating the addict from the drug.’
‘Who said this?’
‘Her therapist. He’s qualified. He knows what’s really going on, even if we confuse it with love.’
‘And who’s this therapist?’
‘Dr Mukesh Jain. He has decades of experience as a psychiatrist.’
‘Let me guess—Jain … He’s either a friend or relative of Payal’s father?’
‘Yes, Anand uncle has known him for years.’
‘And he’s also traditional,’ I said sarcastically.
‘You make it sound like it’s a bad thing, but yes, he’s a traditional Jain.’
‘So, he’s probably just doing what Anand Jain wants—brainwashing Payal into believing her love is a perversion and an addiction.’
‘It’s not brainwashing. It’s the truth.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘And how do you know that?’
‘I got married young, just like my parents wanted. To a boy from my community, close to my age. I’m very happy.’
‘Good for you. But Payal might want something different.’
‘She’s my best friend. We grew up together. We’re the same.’
‘No, you are not,’ I said, frustrated. ‘She works at Blackwater, cracking multi-million dollar deals on a daily basis. The high point of your day is posting about heart-shaped phulkas and dressing up for Karva Chauth.’
‘I see. So that’s what you think of me and my content.’ Akanksha stood up. ‘And here I was, coming to see you, like a fool.’
Okay, I had messed this one up. Big time. I stood too.
‘Akanksha, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Please, sit down.’
‘No, I have to go make dinner for my husband. My day’s “high point”, like you said …’
‘I didn’t mean it that way, Akanksha.’
Akanksha smirked and shook her head. ‘You should see a therapist too,’ she said and walked away. She’d barely taken a few steps when she turned around and came back.
‘What?’
‘By the way, that heart-shaped-phulkas post had more than five thousand likes, including one from a celebrity chef, and we even had a semi-genuine collab query from an atta brand,’ she said, before storming out of the café.
Mudit had called me for the ninth time. I finally took his call. ‘Hi Mudit,’ I said, my voice groggy. I lay on my sofa. The bright afternoon sun fell on my face, making me squint.
‘Oh God, bro. Why aren’t you picking your phone?’ Mudit said.
‘I dozed off,’ I said. I saw the bottle of rum, the cans of Coke and an empty glass on my coffee table. Okay, I’d passed out drunk. Like I had almost every other day for the past one month.
Who cares, let me make another drink.
