Epilogue: Casual Acquaintances

The word "casual" means: relaxed and unconcerned. The word "acquaintance" means: a person one knows slightly. Together, the phrase means: people you know without knowing. People who exist at the periphery of your life — the barista who makes your coffee, the neighbour whose name you might not remember, the woman on the treadmill beside you who breathes too loudly and whose playlist you can hear through her earphones and who you will never, in a million years, think of as: someone who matters.

Except.

Except that the barista remembers your order and the remembering is: a form of love. Except that the neighbour waters your plants when you're away and the watering is: a form of love. Except that the woman on the treadmill tells you to show your photographs and the telling changes: your life.

I came to Mumbai with: nothing. A suitcase. A divorce. A flat whose mailbox didn't have my name. I came to Mumbai because Lucknow was: the place where I became invisible, and Mumbai was: the place where I might become visible again, or at least: the place where nobody knew I was invisible, which is: almost the same thing.

I joined a gym. Not because I wanted to be fit — because I wanted to be: somewhere. Somewhere that wasn't the apartment. Somewhere that had: people. Even if the people were: strangers. Even if the strangers were: casual acquaintances.

And then: the casual acquaintances became everything.

Vandana became the friend who hands you a chaniya choli and says "put it on." Jaya became the friend who writes your story and calls it: fiction. Sunaina became the teacher who says "the tears are the practice working" and who means it because: her tears taught her. Cheryl became the friend who toasts with Limca and counts down from thirty and who calls from Connecticut every week to ask about: vada pav.

Aditi became the young woman who said no and in saying no: taught an older woman that no is: a complete sentence. Jai became the photographer who hid masterpieces and who needed someone to say: not maybe. Yes. Nikhil became the man who stepped back with grace, the grace that makes friendship: possible when romance is: not.

Chetan became the man who pours chai into the sea every morning for a wife who died three years ago and who walks Marine Drive with a woman who arrived one year ago and who holds both: simultaneously, the way life holds grief and joy simultaneously, because that is: what life does.

Karan became — Karan was always. Karan was always my son. But Karan became: my friend. The friend who cooks paneer butter masala and calls on Sundays and who said "Ma, you taught me everything" and who meant it and who is: the proof that even in the years of theek hai, even in the years of invisible, even in the years of: nothing happening — something was: happening. A boy was learning from his mother. The mother who was invisible to everyone except: him.

And Harsh. Harsh became: a person. Not my husband — a person. A person who is in therapy and who sold the flat and who kept the pressure cooker and who said "Diwali mubarak, really" and who is learning, at fifty-four, that "I forgot how to love you" is not: an excuse but a diagnosis, and that the diagnosis requires: treatment, and the treatment is: the rest of his life.

I am fifty-one years old. I live in Bandra, Mumbai. I work at an advertising agency where I write words that make invisible women: visible. I have short hair and silver jhumkas and a red dress for awards ceremonies and a navy dress for dates and a chaniya choli for Garba and a swimsuit for midnight pools. I have a balcony that faces a sliver of sea and a Saraswati on my shelf and baby shoes on my wall and a Gold Abby that weighs more than you'd think.

I have a man who writes me into novels and a son who cooks me dinner and a friend in Connecticut who wears her dead husband's Hawaiian shirt and a yoga teacher who lost her husband to a truck and who found: the floor. I have a group chat called "Doosri Innings" and a juice bar that serves chai during monsoon and a trainer who plays qawwali at the end of the last class and a photographer whose mother's hands will hang in MoMA.

I have: a life. A life that began eighteen months ago in salwar kameez at a gym in Bandra where a woman named Vandana said "it will be fine" and where a woman named Preeti said "Zumba starts in five" and where the treadmill moved under my feet and the feet moved with it and the moving was: the beginning.

The beginning of: everything.

On my balcony. Morning. Chai. The chai that is: mine — cardamom crushed, ginger sliced, the recipe that I've been making for twenty-seven years and that Karan makes in Pune and that tastes the same in both cities because the recipe is: not geographic but genetic, the taste of: us.

The sea-sliver catches the first light. The light that is: different every morning. Today's light is: gold. The gold of Marine Drive at dawn. The gold of the Abby Awards trophy. The gold of a second chance that the world gives to women who decide to: take it.

I drink my chai. I look at the sea. I think about: the casual acquaintances who became everything. The strangers who became family. The gym that became home. The city that became mine.

Theek hai.

I'm: theek.

Actually, genuinely, for the first time in twenty-seven years: theek.

And the theek is: kadak.

Pehli se zyada.