Page 108 of 12 Years
‘Is she?’ I said, looking around my bed.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘My phone.’
‘See? Now you want your phone. Just to check that dumb Akanksha’s account and see if she’s posted Payal’s wedding pictures.’
‘I need my phone for other things too,’ I said.
Mudit took out my mobile phone from his pocket and handed it to me. ‘It’s out of charge,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a charger. But I swear, if you check Payal’s wedding photos, I’ll kill you myself.’ He handed me the charger and helped me plug in my phone.
‘When doIget unplugged?’ I said, tugging at the wires on my chest.
‘They’ll do some tests first. But, hopefully, by tomorrow.’
‘I can go home then?’
‘Yes. But not to Bandra. You’re going home to Chandigarh.’
‘What? Mudit, why?’
‘Stop it. Your parents are worried sick. They haven’t slept properly in a week. They won’t leave you alone in Mumbai, not when you’re in this state.’
‘I’ll be fine here in Mumbai. Please, I don’t need to go back to Chandigarh. I want my space.’
‘You don’t get to decide these things right now,’ Mudit said.
On the flight from Mumbai to Chandigarh, my parents and I hardly spoke. In our family, like most other Indian families, we dealt with conflict by pretending that nothing had happened. If no one brings it up, it doesn’t exist, right? So, the default mode is either silence or small talk. My parents chose small talk.
‘These Indigo cashew nuts are good,’ my mother said.
‘I miss Jet Airways though. Their imli candy was amazing,’ my father said.
Yes, their son had been found unconscious in his apartment, with his head split open, and had been in a near-comatose state for nearly a week. All this, after going through a horrible divorce less than a year ago. But none of that mattered.
‘Vistara has good food as well,’ I added. It’s funny how comfortably we can take on the dysfunctional patterns of our family.
My parents lived in a small independent house in one of Chandigarh’s better sectors. Built on two levels, the ground floor had a living room, a kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom. There were two more bedrooms upstairs—one of them was mine. This was the room where I’d spent my childhood, prepared for IIT and returned to during college vacations. One of my wedding functions had even been held here. In fact, Raashi’s parents lived just two kilometres away.
I remembered the first time my parents had gone to visit them about the prospective match, my mother had come back excited. She thought Raashi and I were a match made in heaven—just as Payal’s parents now thought that she and Parimal were perfect for each other. According to Indian parents, if the match is within the same community, then it’s a match made in heaven. Maybe God checks the community status before making such matches.
‘Beta, come down,’ my mother said, knocking on my door. ‘Lunch is ready.’
‘Coming, Mummy,’ I said. I got up and hurriedly followed my mother downstairs. I’d been itching to check Akanksha’sInstagram account when my mother knocked on my door. I knew there would be wedding pictures with disgustingly cheesy captions. I don’t know why, but I felt like I just had to see them. Thank God for the momentary escape that lunch provided.
My parents and I sat around the dining table—the one with a slightly creaky leg, present in every Indian middle-class household. My mother had made gobi aloo, rajma, raita and parathas. It was one of my favourite meals.
‘Thank you, Mummy, this is so good,’ I said.
‘I know you like rajma,’ my mother said. ‘Should I make matar paneer tonight? Or do you want paneer pakodas with tea?’
Punjabis talk about their next meal while eating the current one. In my family, food talk also serves to avoid real conversations.
‘Or we can go out,’ my father said. ‘Chawla’s Chicken, in Sector 17.’
‘Do you know what happened to me?’ I said. My parents looked startled at my sudden change of topic.
‘Yes, we do. You drank too much,’ my father said after a pause.
