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'Louder, Madhav. You’re speaking like a mouse,’ Riya shouted, in
contrast to my meek voice.
She was grouchy, perhaps because I had made six mistakes in my
last rehearsal. She stood before me and stomped her feet. She wore an
oversized purple T-shirt and Bermuda shorts. Purple suits her, I
thought; everything suits her.
‘You realize your speech is the day after tomorrow?’ she said.
‘You’re making me tense,’ I said.
‘Fine.’ She threw her hands up in frustration. ‘Tense is not good.
I’m calm. You’re calm,’ she said, trying to swing my mood.
'I'm screwing this up,’ I said. I sat down on her double-mattress
diwan.
I had come to her house on Sunday evening for a final rehearsal.
Gates was arriving on Tuesday. I had to leave for Dumraon tomorrow.
‘It’s looking staged. They will see that I’m no good at this,’ I said.
‘Relax, Madhav. I’m sorry I shouted.’
She sat next to me and held my hand. She coughed again.
It was my turn to shout. ‘Who is this stupid doctor who can’t treat
your cough?’
‘I don’t know. It’s an allergy. Something in the air. Can’t figure out
what’s making it flare up.’
‘What is the doctor in Delhi saying now?’
Riya had gone to Delhi last month, after her family asked her to
come meet her father one last time. He had passed away while she was
there. She had spent two weeks in Delhi, attending the funeral and
various last-rites ceremonies. During that trip, she had also met a
senior specialist for her cough.
‘Same. Find the allergen. You think I’m allergic to you?’ She
winked at me, indicating that she felt better. I smacked her with a red
cushion.
‘Everything okay at home, Riya?’