Chapter 36: Sanjay

Sanjay comes back.

Not permanently — not yet — but he comes. On a Thursday in April, unannounced, which is: the most Sanjay thing possible, because Sanjay's relationship with announcements is: avoidant, and avoidance has been his primary communication strategy for sixteen months.

Vandana calls me at 6 AM. This is: unprecedented. Vandana doesn't call at 6 AM because Vandana doesn't exist at 6 AM — Vandana's body is present at 6 AM but Vandana's personality doesn't activate until: 7:30, after chai, after the specific ritual of morning self-assembly that Vandana performs and that involves: skincare (seven steps), music (Bollywood, always, the '90s decade, non-negotiable), and the gradual transition from unconscious human to: Vandana.

But at 6 AM: the phone rings. And Vandana's voice is: different. Not the public Vandana — the private Vandana. The Vandana who cried in the changing room. The Vandana who called Sanjay on speakerphone from my apartment. The Vandana who has been: waiting for sixteen months and who has just received: an arrival.

"He's here," she says.

"Who?"

"Sanjay. He's in my living room. He's sitting on my sofa. He has: a suitcase. One suitcase. He smells like airplane and he's drinking the chai I made and he's: here."

"What did he say?"

"He said: 'Main aa gaya.'" I've come.

Three words. The same three words that Sanjay failed to say for sixteen months — the three words that Vandana asked for on that speakerphone night, the three words that he couldn't give her because giving them required: deciding, and deciding required: courage, and courage was the thing that Dubai's distance allowed him to: avoid.

But now: "Main aa gaya." Present tense. I have come. Not "I'm thinking about coming" or "I might come" or the endless succession of "project deadlines" that were not deadlines but: deferrals. I have come. The sentence that arrives with a suitcase and a man on a sofa and the chai that Vandana made because Vandana makes chai when she doesn't know what else to do, which is: the Indian response to every crisis, every arrival, every departure, every moment that the body doesn't know how to: handle.

"What do I do?" Vandana asks.

"You drink chai with your husband."

"He's been gone for sixteen months."

"And now he's: here. On your sofa. Drinking your chai. That's: a start."

"A start isn't: enough."

"A start is: everything. We've talked about this. With Cheryl, with Jaya, with me. Every second chance starts with: showing up. He showed up."

"With one suitcase."

"How many suitcases does a man need to come home?"

Silence. The Vandana-silence — rare, brief, the silence of a woman who processes quickly because processing is: Vandana's superpower.

"I'm scared, Mar."

"I know."

"I'm scared because if he leaves again — if he comes back for a week and then goes back to Dubai — I won't survive it. I survived sixteen months because I didn't know if he was coming. But if he comes and goes — if he gives me: hope and then takes it — that's: worse than the not-knowing."

"Then tell him that. Tell him exactly what you just told me. The same way you told him on the phone: directly. Main pooch rahi hoon."

"Main pooch rahi hoon," she repeats. I'm asking.

"Poochho."

I don't hear from Vandana for three days.

Three days of silence from a woman who normally texts seventeen times before noon is: alarming. I text. I call. I leave a voice note that says "if you need me I'm here" and that I hope she hears as: support and not as: intrusion.

On the fourth day: a text. One word. An image.

The image is: two cups of chai. On a table. Side by side. The cups matching — the matching that married couples achieve when married couples share a kitchen, the matching that says: these cups belong together.

The word is: "Theek."

Not "theek hai" — not the fine that isn't fine. Just: "theek." Okay. The okay that means: we're talking. We're figuring it out. It's not resolved but it's: in progress. The in-progress that is: the most honest status of any relationship at any time.

Sanjay comes to Seaside Fitness the following week. Vandana brings him — not for a workout (Sanjay doesn't work out; Sanjay's physique is the result of: genetics and the Dubai heat, which produces sweat that counts as: exercise) but to meet: us.

He is: tall. Taller than I expected — Vandana is not tall, and I'd assumed Sanjay would be: proportional. He's not. He's six-one, with the particular build of a civil engineer (his profession — he builds things, which is: ironic, given that his marriage required: building and he chose instead to be: in Dubai).

"Namaste," he says. The namaste of a man who is: nervous. The nervous of a man who knows that his wife's friends know: everything. That they know about the sixteen months. The speakerphone. The "mujhe nahi pata." The crying in the changing room. The friends who held his wife while he was: four thousand kilometres away, building things that weren't: his marriage.

"Sit," Vandana says.

He sits. At the juice bar. The parliament. The place where judgement is: rendered.

"So," Jaya says. The "so" of a woman who is about to conduct an interrogation and who is: looking forward to it. "Sixteen months."

"Jaya —" Vandana starts.

"Let him speak. He's had sixteen months of silence. He can have: five minutes of speaking."

Sanjay speaks. He speaks with the careful precision of an engineer who is aware that every word is being: evaluated, measured, tested for: structural integrity.

"I was afraid," he says. "The project in Dubai was: real. The deadlines were: real. But the extensions — after the first six months, the extensions were: not about the project. They were about: me. Being afraid to come back. Because coming back meant: being here. Being present. And being present meant: facing the fact that I wasn't: enough. That the marriage wasn't: enough. That Vandana deserved: more than a man who builds bridges in other countries and can't build: a bridge to his own wife."

The table is: silent. The silence of people hearing a confession that is: uncomfortable but honest, and honest is: what this table demands.

"What changed?" I ask.

"She called. On the phone. She said: 'Main pooch rahi hoon. Tum wapas aa rahe ho ya nahi?' And the directness — the directness of that question — it was like: a structural load test. When you test a bridge, you put maximum weight on it. If it holds: it's: safe. If it breaks: it was never: safe. The question was the load test. And I: held."

"You held by saying 'mujhe nahi pata,'" Jaya notes. "That's not: holding."

"That was: the honest answer at the time. I didn't know. But the honesty — the saying 'I don't know' instead of 'the project deadline' — the honesty cracked something. The thing that had been: sealed. And through the crack: the truth came in. The truth that I was: hiding. In Dubai. Behind deadlines. Behind distance."

"And now?" Jaya presses.

"And now I'm: here. With one suitcase. The suitcase is: permanent. I resigned from the Dubai firm. I have a job interview next week at an infrastructure consultancy in Worli. I'm: staying."

Vandana's hand finds Sanjay's under the table. The finding that happens when a hand that's been: empty for sixteen months encounters the hand that should have been: there. The finding that I recognise because I found Chetan's hand on Marine Drive and the finding was: the same.

"Welcome to the gym," Vandana says. The public Vandana — the Vandana who is cheerful and teal and who treats welcomes as: ceremonies. But underneath the ceremony: the relief. The relief of a woman whose husband has come home with one suitcase and the word "permanent."

"Thank you," Sanjay says.

"Don't thank me yet," Vandana says. "You haven't tried Preeti ma'am's spinning class."