‘So, I’ll sleep at my place tonight,’ Kavya said. ‘And then, tomorrow, I will bring some of my things over. Until Aunty goes back to Delhi, I will sleep in your bed. It will be like a teenage sleepover,’ she said with a grin. I smiled, but I knew I wasn’t very convincing. My mom was unpacking her things in the spare bedroom, preparing for her stay. ‘You okay?’ Kavya asked me, concerned about my sudden slump in energy. I didn’t want to worry her or my mom, but I knew what was wrong. The clammy skin, the pounding head, the dry mouth. The shaking and agitation I felt. I needed a drink; no, wanted a drink. It had been days since I had last touched alcohol, and somehow, my body and mind had forgotten how to function without it.

‘Do you know what I need right now?’

‘What?’ She eyed me suspiciously.

‘Some of that junk you force-fed me to feel better about yourself,’ I said and grinned. She threw a cushion at me, which I dodged, giggling like a child.

‘I’ll go downstairs and get us some,’ she said, grabbing her purse. ‘Don’t be laying on the floor when I get back,’ she called as she walked out the door. I picked up my phone and, choosing my favourite photo of her and me together, I posted it to my account.

‘Wouldn’t be alive without this woman in my life.’

For the first time in a long time, what I had posted was the truth. No filters. No PR. Just the truth.

26. ASHRAY

26

ASHRAY

They told me that going through grief is a process. I always wondered who they were. Had they actually experienced grief, and the ‘process’?

For two days, I was stuck in a hospital bed, unable to move without paralysing chest pains. What was the point of living anyway, I thought, if everything I had worked for since high school was now laying in a morgue in the same building I was unable to leave? Maa’s doctor came in to check on me, trying to reassure me that nothing I could have done would have changed things, but I knew that my actions, me not taking her to the doctor when she’d had a cold, could have meant a different outcome. I stood up from my bed and walked to the window; I needed some sun on my skin.

‘Ashray.’ A man in a doctor’s lab coat walked into my hospital room. ‘Good to see you up.’ He wrote something on his chart. ‘How are you feeling today?’

‘Fine,’ I told him, not wanting to get into the details of the guilt building inside of me.

‘We’re going to discharge you today with some medication, but I suggest that you see our resident psychiatrist so that you can manage your panic attacks.’