Nobody's Child

Chapter One

Avniel. NOW. 2018

You're paying for this.

It's almost 1 a.m. when I see the message.

It makes no sense, and my brain is already dead after ten hours of staring at the computer screen.

I stretch my stiff limbs and yawn. It must have rained while I was shut inside the windowless office. The ground feels soft and wet. There's moisture in the air. Something is rotting nearby. I regret taking a deep breath. Must be domestic garbage or refuse from the nearby shops. Intermittent rain and heat has caused the rot, hence the putrid smell.

Bloody monsoons! The romance of rain is lost on me. Mumbai becomes an open gutter, an overflowing, rotting gutter, when it rains.

I walk around to relieve the stiffness; it hurts. My left knee and ankle beg to be massaged, reminding me that I haven't been exercising as per the doctor's suggestion. I walk around some more, extend my legs and flex them, and then rotate my ankles. I need to get mobility back in my joints. I also need to lose weight. My trousers have started to feel tight at the waist.

I crave for a smoke and some proper home-cooked food. Priya isn't much of a cook and I'm too busy. Meals are hastily ordered on Swiggy and delivered in disposable plastic containers. Editing thirty hours of recordings to make a spectacular thirty-minute reel for the BBC is all I have the bandwidth for. I can't and don't want to think about anything else.

I look at the other messages on my phone. Someone from college is planning someone's fortieth birthday and has created a WhatsApp group. I am in it. I have no recollection of the subject, the moron who formed the group with everyone he could remember, or those enthusiastically posting emojis, expressing their keenness to drink and dance.

Fucking shit! I detest being added to random WhatsApp groups. I remove myself. I don't have time for fortieth birthdays and I don't care for the idiots I went to college with two decades ago. No fond memories there. They never cared to keep in touch all these years because a failed reporter didn't quite make the cut. Suddenly, everyone wants to be my best friend. Everyone loves success. Sorry, suckers! Now you don't make the cut.

There are a few more messages I delete without opening. But I open the one from Papa. After five unseen messages, he has simply written one line.

How are you, beta? Miss you.

I have missed his pings in the last few days. He has stopped calling because I'm never able to answer. Now it's only images of sunrises, sunsets and puppies with profoundphilosophy scribbled over them thathe sends with unfailing regularity. My response is alwaysa thumbs up or smileemoji. The WhatsApp forwards from himand my corresponding thumbs-up emojis is how we assure each other of our well-being. In the last few days, editing has consumed every waking hour of my time. The absence of the blue ticks or a reply must have worried him. I type in a message hastily.

Sorry, Papa. Working very hard on the BBC documentary. Keeping very long hours. You okay, I hope? This is a huge deal for me. Working very hard to do it well.

I tell myself I will make the trip to see him but don't know when that will be.

I go back to thinking about the message Priya had sent earlier, at 9 p.m.

You're paying for this.

Why did she send me a picture of a wine bottle? Why am I paying for it?

It takes me a few more minutes to realize why. I curse loudly. The snoring security guard and his dog, also snoring, don't stir.

I forgot about the dinner date! Again!