Chapter 4: Reyansh

# Chapter 4: Reyansh

## Getting to Know

After Parth, the conversation stops. We walk in a silence that feels inappropriate to break, the emptiness that death creates between two people, the silence that says we have witnessed something together and the witnessing requires a period of quiet, mourning that the dead world abbreviates, the quietbut does not eliminate.

It is Janhavi who breaks it. Twenty minutes later. Twenty minutes of walking south on NH44, twenty minutes of abandoned vehicles and empty highway and the March sun beating on our shoulders with that Vidarbha insistence that says: I will not stop. I do not care that you are grieving. I am the sun. I beat.

"Tu theek hai?" she asks.

You okay?

"Haan. Tu?"

"Haan." She sighs, the sigh that carries the weight of Parth and his Aai and the charpai and the small hands gripping her kurta. "Bas.

Just, it's really sad, right?

"Bahut."

"Main, main aise pehle nahi dekha tha. Kisi ko marte hue. Virus se. Mere foster parents — unhe toh main already dead dekha. Lekin kisi ko. Kisi ko actually —"

I. I hadn't seen it before. Someone dying. From the virus. My foster parents, I saw them already dead. But someone: someone actually,

"Haan. Horrible hai."

The sentence, the understatement. The understatement that the English language provides when the Hindi words are too heavy and the Marathi words are too close and the English word horrible is the distance that grief requires: say it in a foreign language so it hurts a little less.

"Main tujhse ek cheez pooch sakti hoon?" she asks.

Can I ask you something?

"Kya?"

"Jab tu pehle mujhse baat ki foster parents ke baare mein: toh tu bahut; dismissive thi. Jaise unke marne ka koi matlab nahi tha tere liye. Aur main jaanti hoon ki tu unhe sirf do hafte se jaanti thi, lekin Parth ko toh sirf do minute se jaanti thi. I don't know.

When you first talked about your foster parents; you sounded so dismissive. Like their deaths meant nothing to you. And I know you only knew them for two weeks, but you only knew Parth for two minutes. I don't know. It just doesn't add up.

She looks at me. Her eyes holding the same confusion that mine must. Eventually she looks back to the highway and shrugs.

"Pata nahi. Shayad andar kahin koi, koi maternal instinct hai. Shayad main utni psychopath nahi hoon jitna lagta tha, na?"

I don't know. Maybe somewhere inside there's some; some maternal instinct. Maybe I'm not as much of a psychopath as we first thought, hey? Truthful-hard. No pretence of softness.

"Main tujhe ek ghante se jaanta hoon, lekin record ke liye; tu psychopath nahi hai. Psychopath ne Parth ke saath woh nahi kiya hota: woh seedha aage nikal jaata. Nahi, mujhe lag raha hai tera dil, tera dil achha hai."

I've known you for an hour, but for the record, you're not a psychopath. A psychopath wouldn't have done what you did with Parth. They would have walked past. No, I think your heart, your heart is kind.

She bites her lip. "Itna bhi nahi."

I wouldn't go that far.

"Nahi, main jaunga. Tu sachchi mein care karti thi uske liye wahin. Aur mujhe lagta hai tu apne foster parents ke liye bhi care karti thi. Lekin, chhodh, rehne de."

No, I would. You really cared for him back there. And I think you cared about your foster parents too. But, let's leave it.

Janhavi continues, being more open now. "Lekin mazaak banana zyada aasaan hai na? Sab kuch ko ek big joke bana do — toh itna hurt nahi karta."

But it's easier to make a joke of it, isn't it? Make everything a big joke; then it doesn't hurt as much.

"Shayad. I guess agar tu sab kuch joke bana ke rakhegi: toh woh tujhe utna hurt nahi kar sakta."

I suppose. I guess if you can keep it all as a big joke, then it can't hurt you as much. Dry. Past its freshness.

She nods. "Yahi koshish karti hoon. Sab joke bana do. Lekin. Lekin isse bahut log door ho gaye. Mere friends. Aur trust me — experience se bola: jitna zyaada time tu kisi serious cheez ko joke banati hai, utna zyada baad mein woh tujhe kaatti hai."

That's what I always try to do. Make everything a joke. But: it's lost me a lot of people. My friends. And trust me, I've learned from experience: the longer you make a joke of something serious, the harder it comes back to bite you.

I want to ask more. What friends? What experiences? But just as she begins to open up, she closes down again. The closing, which was exact thing she described: making it a joke.

I shielded it with my palm.

We really sound like sad old uncles and aunties, don't we? 'Beta, times are bad.'

I let it go. "Sachchi mein."

The conversation shifts. Away from the heavy. Into the territory that two teenagers find when the heavy is too heavy and the light is the relief:

Television. Films. Video games; video games that I discover Janhavi plays, the playing, a surprise because the playing was not the stereotype (the stereotype that was: girls don't play video games, the stereotype that was wrong in the old world and that is even more wrong now that the old world is dead and stereotypes died with it).

"PUBG?" I ask.

"Obviously. Aur Valorant. Aur, aur Minecraft, lekin woh mat bata kisi ko."

Obviously. And Valorant. And; Minecraft, but don't tell anyone.

"Kisko bataunga? Sab mare pade hain."

Who would I tell? Everyone's dead.

She laughs. The laugh: lighter now. The lighter that Parth's weight has been partially set down, the weight that the conversation has carried and that the jokes are beginning to lift.

We talk about movies, the movies that Indian teenagers watched: Drishyam 2, 12th Fail, Animal (Janhavi hated Animal: "Toxic masculinity ko cool banaya uss film ne": that film made toxic masculinity cool). We talk about food, the food that Nagpur produced and that Pune produced and that the producing was the comparison that every Maharashtrian made:

"Nagpur ka tarri poha Pune ke misal se achha hai," Janhavi declares. Nagpur's tarri poha is better than Pune's misal.

"Woh toh galat hai. Bedekar's ka misal. Woh misal khaaya hai?"

That's wrong. Bedekar's misal: have you had that misal?

"Nahi. Lekin tarri poha se achha kuch nahi."

No. But nothing's better than tarri poha.

The argument, the argument that is not an argument but is the bonding, the bonding that happens when two people from the same state but different cities discover that the cities are different enough to argue about and that the arguing is the affection: I argue with you about food because the arguing is the caring and the caring is the thing that two people do when two people are walking 700 kilometres together on a dead highway.

---

The houses thin. The factories thin. The landscape opens. The opening that happens when NH44 leaves Nagpur's urban sprawl and enters the Vidarbha countryside, the countryside that is flat and brown and dry in March, the dry, the pre-monsoon state ofVidarbha's farmland: cracked earth, stubble from the rabi harvest, the babool trees that dot the landscape like sentries. Military canvas, coarse-woven.

"Kitna door hai motorway; matlab, highway se?" Janhavi asks.

How far are we from the highway — I mean, the main highway?

"Hum highway pe hi hain. NH44."

We're on the highway. NH44.

"Achha. Toh, blocked hoga? Gaadiyonn se?"

Right. So — it'll be blocked? With cars?

I think about what I've been seeing. "Kuch jagah; haan. Lekin jaise jaise Nagpur se door jaayenge. Shayad kam blocked hoga. Sheher se door, kam gaadiyaan."

Some places, yes. But as we get further from Nagpur; maybe less blocked. Further from the city, fewer cars.

"Theek hai. Aur agar clear roads milein; toh shayad gaadi hotwire kar sakte hain. Not that mujhe chalani aati hai."

Okay. And if we find clear roads. Maybe we can hotwire a car. Not that I know how to drive.

My head snaps up. "Tujhe gaadi hotwire karna aata hai?"

You know how to hotwire a car?

She smiles. "Mujhe bahut kuch aata hai. Fry-up banana bhi ab aata hai, woh bhi recent skill hai."

I know a lot of things. Making a fry-up is also a recent skill.

"Kahan se seekha hotwire karna?"

Where did you learn to hotwire a car?

"Bahut kuch hai jo tu nahi jaanta mere baare mein, Reyansh. Mat bhool; tu mujhe sirf do ghante se jaanta hai."

There's a lot you don't know about me, Reyansh. Don't forget, you've only known me for two hours.

"Theek hai. Lekin, bata na. Koi hai nahi sunne wala. Sirf main hoon."

Alright. But. Tell me. There's no one around to hear. Just me.

"Hmm. Theek hai.

Hmm. Okay. But — you might not feel the same about me afterwards.

She sighs. The sigh matching the wind that is picking up. The evening wind that the Vidarbha plains produce, the wind that carries the dust and the heat and the familiar desolation of flat land.

"Jab main, jab main pandarah saal ki thi: tab ek foster family the Amravati mein. Unka ghar rough area mein tha. School bhi rough tha. Amravati ka woh school; wahan ke bachche chakku laate the. Lunch mein fights hoti thi. Teachers kuch nahi kar sakte the."

When I was: about fifteen, there was a foster family in Amravati. Their house was in a rough area. The school was rough too. That school in Amravati, kids there used to bring knives. There were fights at lunch. Teachers couldn't do anything.

"Mere Pune ke school mein bhi fights hoti thi,"

At my school in Pune too there were fights:

"Nahi. Main playground fights ki baat nahi kar rahi. Main bol rahi hoon sachchi mein, maarpeet. Hospital level. Ambulance aati thi gate pe. I could feel every crack, every pebble.

No, I'm not talking about playground fights. I mean literally, beatings. Hospital level. Ambulances used to come to the gates. Police were always nearby.

She shakes her head. "Mujhe wahan bas apna kaam karna chahiye tha. Dhyan dena chahiye tha padhai pe. Lekin — main, main hoon na, maine socha cool banne ka. In crowd mein ghus gayi."

I should have just kept my head down there. Focused on studying. But. Me being me. I decided to get in with the cool crowd.

"Kaise?"

"Pata nahi. Shayad unhe laga, young, vulnerable, thodi unki jaisi. Gang mein fit ho jaayegi. Aur. Aur fit ho gayi, kisi tarah. Sab hassi-mazaak, timepass.

I don't know. Maybe they saw me, young, vulnerable, a bit like them. She'll fit in the gang. And: I did fit in, somehow. All laughs and fun and timepass. It felt good.

We walk over a slight rise in the highway — the rise that gives us a view of the countryside stretching south, the countryside that is brown and flat and that will be our landscape for days.

"Lekin: lekin woh terrible influence the. Main ab dekh sakti hoon, lekin tab bhi kuch-kuch samajh aata tha. Bas ignore kiya."

But, they were a terrible influence. I can see it now, but even then I sort of knew. I just chose to ignore it.

"Drugs the. Main har weekend unke saath rehti thi. Foster parents ko pata bhi nahi hota tha main kahan hoon. Woh aadhi raat tak pareshan: lekin mujhe kya. Main apne friends ke saath thi. Aur maine bahut try kiya door rehne ka, drugs se, daaru se. Lekin: lekin jab tere chaar taraf sab kar rahe hain —"

Drugs. I spent every weekend with them. My foster parents didn't even know where I was. They'd be worried sick at midnight, but I didn't care. I was with my 'friends.' And I tried hard to stay away, from drugs, from drinking. But: when everyone around you is doing it.

She shakes her head. "Maine tab se haath nahi lagaya. Drugs ya daaru. Sochke hi ulti aati hai. Kyunki: kyunki baad mein main unpe dependent ho gayi thi. Friends pe. Drugs pe nahi, friends pe. Validation pe. Woh bhi ek nashe jaisi cheez hai."

I haven't touched it since. Drugs or drink. The thought makes me sick. Because: because eventually I became dependent on them. Not on the drugs. On the friends. On the validation. That's its own kind of addiction.

"Toh — toh aur kya kiya?"

So: what else did you do?

"Kyunki mujhe laga tha ki unke bina main koi nahi hoon, toh maine sirf drugs nahi kiye. Maine woh sab chutiyapa kiya jo woh karte the. Shops todna. Gaadiyaan churana. Isiliye mujhe gaadi hotwire karna aata hai."

Because I felt like I was nobody without them: I didn't just do the drugs. I did all the stupid stuff they did. Breaking into shops. Stealing cars. That's why I know how to hotwire a car.

"Pakdi gayi?"

Did you get caught?

"Ek baar. Tab authorities ne mujhe uss foster family se hataya. Suspended sentence mila, abhi bhi hai."

Once. That's when the authorities moved me from that foster family. I got a suspended sentence. Still have it. Truthful-hard. No pretence of softness.

I shake my head. "I'm sorry, Janhavi. Mujhe nahi pata tha:"

"Sorry mat bol," she says, cutting me off. "Self-pity nahi chahiye. Tu honestly bol ki main bewakoof thi, woh prefer karungi."

Don't be sorry. I don't need your self-pity. Tell me honestly I was an idiot, I'd prefer that.

I try to give her an encouraging smile. "Mujhe nahi lagta tu bewakoof thi. Mushkil time se guzar rahi thi."

I don't think you were an idiot. You were going through a difficult time.

"Toh tu aur bhi bada bewakoof hai," she says with a smile. "Kheir: kam se kam ab tu thoda aur jaanta hai mere baare mein. Aur bhi bahut kuch hai.

Then you're an even bigger idiot. Anyway, at least you know a bit more about me now. There's a lot more, but I don't want to depress you by telling you all at once.

I smile back. But my mind is turning: what more? What happened to her real parents? Why was she in foster care in the first place? Why does she flinch when the topic comes up, the flinch that she accused me of but that she performs when the topic is her parents?

Not the time to ask. Not after Parth. Not after the confession.

---

Janhavi's hand on his arm was light, the grip of someone who had learned not to hold too tight.

The sun is beginning to lower. The Vidarbha sun that has been punishing us for six hours is now easing: easing into the amber that the evening produces, the amber that makes the flat landscape beautiful in a way that the midday heat does not: the fields turning golden, the babool trees casting long shadows, the highway's asphalt cooling from furnace to warm. Dry. Past its freshness.

"Google Maps bol raha hai Wardha abhi ek ghanta hai," I say. Google Maps says Wardha is an hour away.

"Theek hai. Toh, toh wahan kuch milega? Rehne ke liye?"

Okay. So — we'll find something there? To stay?

"Haan. Wardha ek sheher hai, chhota, lekin sheher. Ghar honge. Dukaan honge. Khaana milega."

Yeah. Wardha is a city. Small, but a city. There'll be houses. Shops. Food.

We walk on. The highway stretching south: the highway that is our path, our only path, the path that connects Nagpur to Wardha to Amravati to Aurangabad to Pune, the path that is 700 kilometres long and that we have covered approximately 40 of.

660 kilometres remaining.

My chappals making the chap-chap-chap sound. Janhavi's chappals making the same sound, half a beat behind mine. I shielded it with my palm.

Two pairs of chappals on NH44. Two teenagers walking south. Toward Wardha. Toward Pune. Toward Shlok.

The sun setting behind us: behind us being west, the west that is not our direction, our direction being south, the south that is Pune, the south that holds the text message that started this journey:

Bhai, zinda hoon.