Chapter 2: Veer

# Chapter 2: Veer

## The First Night

I wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat. Panting.

Nahi. Nahi. Door raho mujhse! still screams through my mind. But as I look at the dim space, the dim space; master bedroom of the model flat inSai Srushti Phase 2, the bedroom that we had entered six hours ago and that we had claimed as ours by the act of lying on the mattress and closing our eyes. As I recognize the room, a little air returns to my lungs, and I am finally able to breathe.

It is another moment before I feel the hand in my hair.

Before I look to my left, and see Pallavi, staring back at me.

"Veer? Theek ho?" she asks, her concern clear in her wide eyes. Eyes that are red: the red of a woman who has been crying. I see that she is sitting upright, and that the camping light, the battery-powered camping light that we had taken from the D-Mart, the camping light being one of fourteen items that we had carried from D-Mart to the model flat in two trips, the fourteen items being: the camping light, four water bottles (Bisleri, 5-litre), baby formula (Similac, two tins), a steel pot, a packet of glucose biscuits (Parle-G, the Parle-G being India's default biscuit the way the Maruti Alto was India's default car), three candles, a matchbox, and a packet of chivda (the chivda being Pune's snack, the snack that every Pune household kept the way every Mumbai household kept chakli and every Delhi household kept namkeen): the camping light is still bright beside her.

Has she slept at all? Should I be asking her the same question?

"Haan," I manage. My throat is tight.

"Kya hua?" Her voice sounds hoarse. Broken.

"Sapna. Bura sapna."

A dream. A bad dream.

I drag myself upright. Shut my eyes. Take a deep breath. The deep breath achieving little because in the darkness behind my eyelids, the object of the nightmare still lingers. My parents' bodies. My mother on the bed in the Kothrud flat — the bed that she had shared with my father for twenty-six years, the bed — a Sleepwell mattress on a wooden cot, the cot, the Indian marriage bed, the bed that was purchased after the wedding and that lasted until death, the until-death, the warranty thatIndian furniture carried: not five years, not ten years, but until death. My mother on the bed, her face the yellowish grey. My father on the floor beside the bed, as if he had been trying to reach her when the virus took him. The two of them in the positions that death had placed them, the positions. Last thing my eyes had seen beforeI pulled the bedsheet over their faces and walked out of the flat and closed the door and locked it and placed the key under the doormat and walked away.

In the nightmare, they were not still. In the nightmare, they moved. They reached for me. They opened their mouths — the mouths that should not have opened because the dead did not open their mouths; and they said: "Tu hume chhod ke chala gaya." You left us.

The nightmare I had had before. Three times in seven days. And tonight, tonight they were joined by another.

Harsh.

I open my eyes. Look at Pallavi. Last night: last night we had what you could call a subdued evening. When she came back from the kitchen with Kiaan, an hour after taking him for a feed, we both chose to ignore the redness in each other's eyes.

We ate a little: Parle-G biscuits and chivda. The meal of the desperate, the meal that was not a meal but was calories, the calories, which was minimum that the body required to continue functioning and the functioning that was minimum that survival required. We watched Kiaan sleeping on the bed between us. I tried my phone. The phone's battery at 23%, the 23% being the remaining life of the device that connected me to nothing because the network was down and the internet was down and the nothing was the connection that the phone now provided: connection to nothing.

When we went to bed: together, in the double bed, as Pallavi had asked for, with Kiaan between us, we said little. Good night. Subah milte hain. And that was it.

I rolled over, and after a time, managed to sleep.

Pallavi, clearly, did not.

"Kis baare mein tha?" she asks. What was it about?

I shake my head. "Kuch nahi. Chhodh de."

She sighs. Looks away.

"Tu theek hai?" I ask. Are you okay?

"Haan. Kyun nahi houngi?"

"Woh, bas: jo hua, sab ke baad,"

She snaps her head back to me. "Lekin woh kuch nahi hai, Veer. Tere jaisa. Kuch nahi."

The words landing, the words: the mirror of my dismissal, the dismissal, thing we were both doing: dismissing the horror, dismissing the grief, dismissing the week that had destroyed everything and that we were pretending had not destroyed everything because the pretending was the survival strategy and the survival strategy was: don't feel it. If you feel it, it will consume you. And if it consumes you, you will stop moving. And if you stop moving, you will die.

"Kya bolun main?" I ask. What do you want me to say?

"Sachchi bol. Aaj subah: aaj subah humne tera best friend dhundha. Mara hua. Aur poore din, poore din hum aise ghoom rahe the jaise kuch hua hi nahi. Happy family khel rahe the. Lekin hum happy family nahi hain, na? Tere parents: tere parents mar gaye. Tera best friend mar gaya. Maine, maine do aadmiyon ko maar diya khurpi se. Aur humare paas ek bachcha hai. Ek bachcha jo hamara nahi hai."

Be honest. This morning, this morning we found your best friend. Dead. And all day, all day we wandered around like nothing happened. Playing happy family. But we're not a happy family, are we? Your parents, your parents died. Your best friend died. I — I killed two men with a khurpi. And we have a baby. A baby who isn't ours.

She trails off as her tears return. A moment later, she is sobbing, the sobbing of a woman whose composure has been held for seven days with the force that holding required and that the holding could no longer sustain because holding was exhaustion and exhaustion was finite and the finite had been reached.

Kiaan stirs. He shakes his head from side to side and gives a small cry. But his eyes do not open.

I breathe out. Look at Pallavi. Guilt clutching my heart, grief creeping back.

"Sorry," I manage.

She shakes her head. "Teri galti nahi hai. Lekin baat karna padega. Ya main pagal ho jaungi."

It's not your fault. But we need to talk about it. Or I'll go insane.

I sigh. Knowing what talking will bring. I could say no. I could keep it locked inside, locked the way the model flat's door was locked, barrier between inside and outside: the locking, between the felt and the unfelt, between the grief and the functioning.

But no. Pallavi is right. We should talk. Or try to.

Otherwise it will eat us from within.

"Kya soch rahi hai?" she asks. What are you thinking?

"Soch raha hoon ki tu sahi keh rahi hai. Ki main chutiya hoon. Ki baat karni chahiye."

I'm thinking you're right. That I'm being stupid. That we should talk.

"Main hamesha sahi hoti hoon. Tujhe ab tak samajh aana chahiye tha."

I'm always right. You should know that by now.

"Haan haan. Lekin shuru kahan se karein?"

Sure. But where do we start?

"Apne sapne ke baare mein bata."

Tell me about your nightmare.

So I do. I tell her every detail — the bodies, the reaching hands, the mouths opening. The sentence that they speak: tu hume chhod ke chala gaya. You left us. I tell her that this is not the first time. I tell her that the nightmare comes every night, sometimes twice, sometimes three times. I tell her that in tonight's nightmare, Harsh was there too. Harsh with the yellowish-grey face, Harsh reaching for me from the bed in Flat 402, Harsh saying: "Tu aaya. Lekin bahut der se." You came. But too late.

"Theek hai," she says, rubbing my shoulder. "Theek hai."

"Lekin theek nahi hai," I say. "Main kuch kar sakta tha. Shayad nahi Harsh ke liye. Lekin Maa aur Papa ke liye—"

"Kya kar sakta tha?" she interrupts. "Main jaanti hoon ki tujhe grief hai. Feel kar. Zaroor feel kar. Lekin, lekin jo hua, teri galti nahi thi. Poori duniya mar gayi. Ek raat mein. Tu kya karta?

What could you have done? I know you're grieving. Feel it. Absolutely feel it. But. What happened was not your fault. The whole world died. In one night. What were you supposed to do? What was anyone supposed to do?

We say nothing for a moment. Just sit in the dark — the dark of the model flat's master bedroom, the dark, which was total because the electricity was out and the camping light was the only light and the camping light's battery was at 40% and the 40% was the remaining luminosity of our world.

"Tune poore hafte mein bahut zyaada saha hai," she continues. "Lekin kya sach mein laga tha ki hum bas yahan aa jayenge aur naya ghar basa lenge aur khush ho jayenge? Jaise kuch hua hi nahi?"

You've been through enough for a lifetime this past week. But did you really think we could just come here and set up a new home and be happy? Like none of it ever happened?

"Haan. Shayad. Mujhe laga, mujhe laga ki agar hum ek jagah ruk jayein, agar Kiaan ke liye ghar ban jaye — toh shayad. Shayad achha lagega."

Yes. Maybe. I thought, I thought if we stopped somewhere, if we made a home for Kiaan, then maybe; maybe it would feel better.

"Aur Harsh? Jab se uska ghar se nikle hain: jab se tu apni aankhein poch ke uthha: tab se tune uska naam nahi liya."

And Harsh? Since we left his house, since you wiped your eyes and got up, you haven't said his name. I shifted the weight. The cutting shifted too.

Harsh. The name that I had been avoiding. The name that was the entry point to the grief that I could not afford to enter because entering meant drowning and drowning meant not-moving and not-moving meant—

"Kya karun? Woh mar gaya. Hum itna door chale; aur woh mar gaya. Jaise baaki sab. Aur jaise baaki sab ke saath, humein jeena padega iske saath."

What do I do? He's dead. We walked all that way: and he's dead. Like everyone else. And like with everyone else, we just have to live with it.

"Sach mein?

Seriously? You're just going to sit there and act like you don't care about your dead best friend?

The question catching me off guard. The question sending a spike of anger. The anger: the anger of a man who has been accused of not caring about the person he cared about most and the accusation: true and the truth, which was thing that produced the anger because truth produced anger when truth was the thing you were hiding from.

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them: "Tu bada gyaan de rahi hai, lekin tera kya? Kal. Kal tune do aadmiyon ko maara. Khurpi se. Aur tune bhi toh ek shabd nahi bola uske baare mein."

You're giving me a lecture, but what about you? Yesterday, you killed two men. With a khurpi. And you haven't said a word about it either. I leaned harder. The roughness grounded me.

It is instantaneous. Her mouth drops open. Her chin quivers. Her eyes water.

And her defence is broken, just like that.

"Hum dono reality chupa rahe hain, Pallavi. Kyunki agar nahi chupayein. Toh kahan honge hum? Agar apni nayi zindagi ko waise dekhein jaisi woh sachchi mein hai; toh kya bachega?"

We're both burying reality, Pallavi. Because if we don't: where will we be? If we look at our new lives for what they really are: what's left?

"Mere paas koi choice nahi thi, Veer," she manages, her voice shaking. "Woh ya hum. Woh do the. Hum teen the. Kiaan tha humare saath. Agar maine nahi maara hota: agar maine nahi maara hota toh woh tujhe maar dete. Aur mujhe: aur mujhe:"

I had no choice, Veer. It was them or us. There were two of them. Three of us. Kiaan was with us. If I hadn't: if I hadn't killed them, they would have killed you.

"Tu khoonin nahi hai," I say. Grabbing her hand. "Woh khooni the. Jagdish aur Sachin. Woh, woh humein bandh kar ke rakhte. Humse sab chheen lete. Tu ne humein bachaya. Woh, woh self-defence tha."

You're not a murderer. They were the murderers. Jagdish and Sachin. They, they would have locked us up. Taken everything from us. You saved us. That was self-defence.

"Agar tu bole toh," she manages. "Lekin; lekin woh sapne mein aayenge. Hamesha aayenge. Tujhe tere Maa-Papa ke sapne aate hain. Mujhe, mujhe unke sapne aayenge."

If you say so. But: they'll come in dreams. They'll always come. You dream about your parents. I'll: I'll dream about them.

"Main bahut sorry hoon, Pallavi. Bahut sorry ki tujhe; ki tujhe woh karna pada."

I'm so sorry, Pallavi. So sorry that you had to, that you had to do that.

She breathes. "Ladna nahi chahti main, Veer. Hum ek team hain. Kal raat, kal raat maine tujhe kaha tha ki, ki mujhe teri parvaah hai. Aur sach mein hai. Boyfriend-girlfriend waali nahi; lekin — tu achha insaan hai. Aur Kiaan ke alawa tu hi hai mere paas."

I don't want to fight, Veer. We're a team. Last night, I told you that; that I care about you. And I do. Not like boyfriend-girlfriend. But — you're a good person. And apart from Kiaan, you're all I have.

I squeeze her hand. "Main bhi. Tum dono hi ho mere paas."

Me too. You two are all I have.

"Toh baat karte hain. Dheere dheere. Sab ke baare mein. Ek ek karke."

So let's talk. Slowly. About everything. One thing at a time.

"Haan."

She leans across, leans across carefully, Kiaan sleeping between us, and rests her head on my shoulder. Her cheek warm against me. I put my arm around her, the arm, the offer of comfort, the comfort that was not romantic and not familial but was the comfort of two people who had nobody else, the nobody-else being the new world's currency: you held on to whoever was left because whoever was left was all there was.

"Hum nikal jayenge, Veer," she says. We'll get through this.

And I close my eyes. And I think of her, and Kiaan, and how if it were not for them, I would be truly lost.

When I wake the next morning, my eyes are sore. The light from the model flat's bedroom window is bright, the March morning light, the light that was warm and gold and that had no business being warm and gold in a dead world but that was warm and gold anyway because the sun did not grieve. The sun was the sun. The sun rose. The sun set. The sun did not care that two million Punekars were dead. The sun continued.

A leaden weight sits above my heart. But it feels the smallest fraction lighter than yesterday. And as the morning light fills the bedroom, the bedroom with the grey curtains and the double bed and the baby between us — I feel that there might still be a reason to be.

Not optimistic. Not hopeful. Just, a reason to be. To get up. To drink water. To eat. To move. To survive another day in the model flat in Sai Srushti Phase 2 on Baner Road in Pune in Maharashtra in India in the world that had ended.

A sense of determination.

A feeling that life can still continue; not be good, not be happy, but continue, if we try.

Sadly, it is a feeling which does not last.