Periods, Pyaar And Patriarchy

Chapter Twenty-three

"I love the drawing," Shweta says, sincerely. Leaning her chin against his arm, tracing the curve of cheeks that Bhavya has drawn. Shweta can feel the devotion with which he has drawn this, the grace in the worship seeping from the paper onto her skin.

Bhavya doesn't say anything, staring hard at the paper, while he allows Shweta to lean against him. For a moment, there's a pause between them. And Shweta realizes, it's because he's likely swallowing the lump that has formed in his throat. And having cried her eyeballs out the past three days, albeit for different reasons, she feels a wave of sympathy rise in her for him.

"How is she doing these days?" Shweta asks, and Bhavya shakes his head a bit before he replies. "She's doing wonderfully. Just as she always is. I just video called her today morning."

Shweta feels a huge relief when she hears that. She didn't know what she had been expecting but it had likely been along the likes of we're not in contact or something.

"You know," Bhavya says, strong and hard. Shweta marvels at the control he has over his own voice; something she was never quite able to achieve. "She's incredible at everything she does. And while the condition comes with challenges, she's a toughie, this one. She's around four years younger than me. Growing up, we got along like a house on fire. We still do."

"I was the strong one. The protective kid on the block. I have beaten up more people in my childhood than I have spent time watching cartoons." He says. And Shweta laughs, reminded of the number of times her mother had been called to school because her daughter would not stop punching people.

"Yeah." Bhavya chuckles, "I was the eight-year-old equivalent of a crime lord's sidekick. I'd beat up people because they'd make fun of her. And it was like a short circuit fuse, I'd be livid."

"I'm glad she had you," Shweta says, looking up to smile at him. And she means it.

"But when the accident happened," Bhavya says, his eyes turning somber. "I felt like such a failure. And especially since it's taking me so much fucking time to recover."

"Bhavya- you possibly cannot blame yourself for something like this," Shweta says, lifting her chin and gazing at him.

"I know." He says, sheepishly. "I know that logically. Life happens, shit turns upside down. You deal with the cards you're given. But I just hated that she had to see me like that, you know. Sad, depressed; unable to move a fucking thing. And it wasn't like I was completely paralyzed; I was in a wheelchair. But a disability is a disability, right. And for the first time; I understood a fraction of what Bhavna's life might have been like. Though, mine is a motor disability, still. To be different from others. And that fucking cut; I couldn't understand how she'd done it. And I hated myself for not being able to be cheerful through it all. Mostly because when I was hurting, she was too." He says, and Shweta has threaded her arm through his, squeezing it.

"So, I shifted. I moved here. Partly because I didn't want my parents to have to take care of me. But mostly because I wanted a shift in my attitude and I didn't want my sister to see me like that. So, I've been here. Twenty-three, not a graduate; I'm a fuck-up aren't I?" Bhavya says, the last part with a forced smile.

"Oh please," Shweta says, fiercely. "You're anything but a fuck-up. And it's not too late to start college; it's never too late. It's only late when you decide it is."

"You sound like Ritika," Bhavya says with a laugh. "And I sound like I need a cigarette."

"You shouldn't be smoking. Or perhaps we both should be." Shweta says, "But you know, despite all of these things, you're doing such an incredible job, okay. You're painting studios all over the town, you make everyone's life happier and lighter at the Centre. You sure make mine much better. You're doing so much, and growth is a learning curve with ups and downs. You cannot be on a perpetual high, you know."