Just Another Sunday
I know it was my fault.
November tha, Pune ki hawa mein woh specific thand thi jo jacket justify nahi karti, but subah uthke naak puchwaati zaroor hai. Maine phir bhi ice cream khayi. Double scoop. Indu ne kaha tha mat khao, maine kaha chill kar yaar, pun intended, aur hum dono hanse the.
That was Saturday.
Sunday morning, I woke up with a blocked nose, a heavy head, and the particular grievance of a sick person on their only day off.
"Bhagwan," maine chhat ko kaha, awaaz already kharaab ho chuki thi, "ek hi Sunday milti hai. Usme bhi."
No answer from the ceiling. Indu laughed from the kitchen.
"I can hear you," she called. "And you ate the ice cream."
"You peer-pressured me."
"Into double scoop?"
"Emotional pressure was involved."
She came out with tomato soup, steam rising, handed it to me with a look that said this argument is already over, Jatin. I took a sip. It was good. I was not going to tell her that.
"Pi," she said, settling into the other corner of the sofa, knees to her chest, remote in hand. "And stop talking so the heat stays in."
The quiz show came on, the one we half-watch every Sunday, where the TV is on, and we're both somewhere else and occasionally a question drifts in, and we answer it and argue and move on. Today I had nowhere else to be. I was just lying there, breathing through my mouth like it was some kind of accomplishment.
Then the question came.
"Qutub Minar kahan sthit hai?"
"NCR," I said, hand emerging from the blanket.
"Delhi," Indu said.
"NCR mein Delhi aata hai."
"Delhi mein Qutub Minar aata hai. NCR mein Gurgaon aata hai, Noida aata hai, traffic aata hai."
"Technically"
"Jatin."
"Haan."
"Chup."
The answer came on screen. Delhi. She dropped the remote like she'd just won something, which technically she had, turned to face me, expression settled into that specific look people get when they're right and they want you to feel the full weight of it.
"Delhi mein Qutub Minar hai," she said, one word at a time. "Aur Pune mein", she looked at me, "ek kutta bimaar hai."
She laughed. Fully.
I set the soup aside, came out of the blanket, and bit her cheek.
"AAAEY." Hand flying to her face. "Pagal hai?"
"Ab tu bhi bimaar hogi," I said, retreating back into the blanket.
"Pehle kaata, ab khush ho raha hai?" She held her cheek. "Agar main bimaar ho gayi toh dono ka dhyan kaun rakhega? No one is here, Jatin. Ghar nahi, maa nahi, koi nahi. Bas hum dono aur yeh flat."
She had a point. We were both far from home, both corporate, both each other's emergency contacts and Sunday plans and backup for everything. I thought about this for a genuine second.
Then I said, "Teri body heat hai na. Aa, hum dono usse aag sek lete hain."
She stared at me.
One second.
Two.
"Saale," she said, "bimari mein bhi tharki ho jaata hai tu."
The popcorn bowl came directly at my head.
Popcorn went everywhere: the sofa, the blanket, and my hair. I was laughing. She was laughing too, that specific angry-laugh that only exists with certain people. The ones you're comfortable enough with that irritation converts automatically into something warmer.
"You spilt the popcorn," I said.
"Your head spilt the popcorn."
"My head didn't do anything, your hand did."
"My hand wouldn't have done anything if you weren't"
"Tharki, haan, we've established this."
I picked a kernel off the blanket and ate it. She watched.
"You're sick."
"Popcorn mein virus nahi hota."
"Abhi kutta tha, ab scientist ho gaya."
We laughed. The kind that doesn't announce itself. That just happens when somewhere feels safe.
Outside, Pune's November was doing its thing. The soup had gone cold. Another question came on TV, geography again, we both got it wrong, blamed each other, watched the right answer appear, and looked away like the question had been poorly worded.
It was Sunday. I was sick. Popcorn in my hair, cold soup on the table, nose still blocked.
Honestly? Just another Sunday.