Crossing The i's And Dotting The t's

(XVIII) Everything I've Worked For

I returned home to my mother giddily smiling, ready to hear all about my farewell and the after party. I just told her about Karan's message.

"Aditya passed away."

It sounded so wrong, passed away. This phrase was used for already suffering patients who succumb to their disease. It was used for elderly people dying a natural death. Heck, it was even used for people dying in road accidents.

But it could not be used for suicide.

I knew that. God I knew that. But I couldn't bring myself to say he's...dead, or worse.

That he killed himself.

My mother wrapped me in a bear hug after hearing that, keeping quiet even though there were probably thousands of questions she wanted to ask.

Allowing her scent to fill my nostrils, I let go.

Completely.

{[]}

A day before new year's eve, we visited the Malhotra residence.

He used to live in a joint family. My father said that was kind of a given, only two to three families together could afford an independent bunglow in Noida.

Their house was so incredibly modern. As we were led to the drawing room, I took in the polished wooden furniture, a mix of chocolate brown and white. The eight seater red sofa set was placed around a glass centre table, the kind in which a huge slab of glass is supported by smooth wooden legs. Matching red satin curtains were pulled back, allowing the soft winter sun rays coming from the transparent glass sliding-door to hit the television. Huge, framed canvases hung on the off-white walls, the contents of which were strange to my eyes. They snapped to the oil-painting of a smiling Aditya, with a garland of orange and yellow marigolds around it. I quickly averted my eyes, not able to look at it for more than five seconds.

The only thing in that room which was not modern was the overwhelming smell of burning incense sticks. The heavy smell of sandalwood reminding me why I was here.

Squeezed between my parents with Aarna on my lap, I was too aware of the feminine sobs coming from the nearest bedroom, belonging to Adi's mother in all probability. She was the only member of her family who wasn't present in the drawing room, apart from her elder son, but he was never coming back.

A now-familiar wave of grief hit me at that thought.

Every seat in the spacious room was occupied by his family members and other relatives. Uncles were grim-faced and aunts were consoling an elderly-looking lady, his grandmother most likely, as silent tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks. Two stern-faced men were sitting quietly across from me. While the older one, who I assumed was Adi's grandfather, had tired eyes filled with anguish, his son next to him sported an impassive expression, and if my judgement was not faulty, it seemed as if his features indicated annoyance.

I turned my head to the right and was surprised to find Anshuman's gaze fixed at me. His fingers were covered with faded dark colours, possibly from his unsuccessful attempts to scrub it away. An image of a white formal shirt popped into my mind, always stained with a new colour.

"My little devil of a brother loves using me as his paint-mixing dish...what's it called again?"

I glanced at Aditya's oil painting again and then regarded Anshuman. He was still surveying me, his young face a clear landscape of his misery, and nodded sadly when he saw me watching him, after which he swiftly looked away.