Not a significant day. Not an anniversary of anything, not a birthday, not a day with weather worth remembering. A Wednesday in November, 4:17pm, and his phone lit up with her name and his hands went completely still on the keyboard.
He looked at it for two rings.
Picked up.
"Hi," she said.
Her voice was exactly the same. Four years and it was exactly the same. He hadn't prepared for that.
"Hi."
A pause. Not uncomfortable. She'd never done uncomfortable silences. That was still her.
"Kaise ho?"
"Theek hoon," he said. Automatic. The way you answer that question.
"Meri shaadi ho rahi hai," she said.
He heard it. Set it down somewhere inside. Kept going.
"Congratulations," he said.
The word came out clean. He was surprised.
"Pratap."
"Haan."
"Tum mujhe jaane do na."
She was marrying someone who had arrived properly. On time. In ways that counted.
That was his error. He had loved her the way weather loves a city, constant, ambient, just there, and had assumed she'd look up one day and notice.
She hadn't.
"Tum gayi hi kab thi," he said.
Not dramatically. The way you correct a small factual error.
"Pratap..."
"Kal hi toh baat hui thi. Yaad nahi?" He paused. "Main bol raha tha us dhabe ke baare mein. Jahan pehli baar gaye the. Tune kaha tha ki woh chai achhi nahi thi. Main tab se us dhabe pe nahi gaya."
Silence.
"Aur vo dress." Like he'd just remembered. "Teri woh favorite, blue wali. Kal dekhi thi ek shop mein. Le aaya hoon. Try karna jab aao."
"Pratap." Her voice shifted. Something firmer now. "Hamari baat nahi hui thi kal. Teen saal ho gaye hain. Teen saal se hamne baat nahi ki."
"Haan," he said.
"Toh tum samajh rahe ho na main kya keh rahi hoon."
"Toh kya." Still gentle. "Main roz socha karta tha kya khaogi. Kal dalgona banaya tha. Woh wali, jis din tune pehli baar pi thi aur boli thi ki bahut meethi hai. Thodi kam sugar daali is baar."
A beat.
"Kaisi thi?" he asked.
"Kya?"
"Dalgona. Theek thi?"
She didn't answer immediately. When she did the firmness was gone, something else in its place she hadn't planned on. "Main shaadi kar rahi hoon," she said. Almost a whisper. "Agle mahine."
"Haan. Pata hai."
"Toh..."
"Tum khush raho. Woh achha ho tumhare liye." A pause. "Yeh sab chahta hoon. Sach mein."
"Toh jaane do."
"Nahi."
A beat.
"Pratap..."
"Nahi." Same tone. No anger. Like someone asked to stop breathing who has said no for the same reason. "Main nahi jaane doonga."
"Kyun nahi." Not soft anymore. Real. "Kyun nahi, Pratap? Kya milega tumhe? Main ja rahi hoon. Shaadi ho rahi hai meri. Kisi aur se. Toh kyun..."
"Kyunki tum gayi hi nahi ho." Quietly. Completely quietly. "Kal dalgona rakha hai fridge mein. Jab aao try karna."
She stopped.
The line held them both for a moment.
"Tum paagal ho," she said. Not unkindly. Like she'd always known and was only now letting herself say it.
"Haan," he said. "Pata hai."
And then, after a moment, so quietly it was almost to himself:
"Kal aa jaana. Thanda ho jayega."
The call ended at 4:34pm.
He put the phone down. The screen went dark. Her name disappeared.
He went to the fridge.
Two glasses, covered with a plate. Thodi kam sugar. The way she'd wanted it that one time, four years ago. He'd filed it away like it was something he would need again.
He closed the fridge.
Made chai. Stood at the window. The city outside, autos, school vans, someone's pressure cooker, a dog with opinions about something. Normal. Indifferent.
The blue dress was in a bag by the door.
The dalgona was in the fridge.
The chai was cooling in his hand.
He went back to his desk.
Opened the laptop.
Started working.