Perched on his old, green motorcycle, Anand felt one with the road, the air, the hills, the trees. He’d taken his boots off, and though it hurt when changing gears, when the breeze tickled his bare toes, it was the loveliest thing. The wind passed through his hair, feeling much lighter than a comb. Dressed in his brown cargo pants and favorite t-shirt – a white one with the symbol of peace – Anand swayed from left to right with the curves on the road, as someone in a bike racing championship.             

 To his left was a field of yellow Daffodils that danced, and seemed to be singing glories to the sun. On his right were hills, all in seemingly odd shapes. To him, if one looked like an elephant’s head, the other looked like a croc. The one next to it appeared like an old lady, on her death bed, but pregnant. He smiled at his own imagination. He had his bags about him – on the shoulders, tied at the back, in the front, on the sides. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he wanted to go somewhere. The journey, he told his parents over the phone two days before he packed his bags, might help him find a new “prologue” to his life. “I’ll return when I’m feeling alright.”

Suddenly, that day flashed before his eyes, the way it did almost everyday - the bathtub, the paper plane, Ninad’s face, and in that split second, he forgot that he was driving, or even that he was on the wrong side. He stared ahead blankly, oblivious to the approaching truck, and it took a sharp, eardrum-tearing honk from the driver to make Anand aware what he was doing. He dodged the truck and stopped by the side of the road. Other drivers swore at him and gave him dirty looks as they went by.  Anand decided to drive down the slope, towards the field. He killed the engine, and parked his bike, which stood unsteadily on the uneven ground.  He removed his helmet and sat next to the vehicle. He pressed the top of his head and brought his palms down to his eyes.

Rima is on the phone, planning her day’s shopping schedule, like everyday. She moves her hair over to one side and plays with her curls as she speaks. She laughs now and then, the way she does when she’s excited about something she’s about to do, like their honeymoon, the ski trip. Anand is getting ready for work. It’s a big day for him. He has a meeting with the people from DarkBeans, a company that was planning to launch its own chain of cafes throughout India. He’s to make a presentation. Anand, who had joined Pencil Advertising only two years back, had been picked as the senior copywriter to work on the account - over those who were much more experienced than him in working with big brands.

While taking a shower, he keeps repeating this to himself. “You can do it. You can do it.” He keeps his hair short, almost military style, and hence hardly spends anytime on it. But all that time is spent on his beard instead – no moustache, just a beard. He uses a tiny comb to smoothen it. Then he picks out a white shirt, a navy blue tie, a belt, and black trousers. He calls Rima to help him pick his shoes, but she’s still on the phone. So he chooses the black ones with a pointed toe. He runs the lint-remover over his black jacket. After he gets dressed, he goes to the other room to check on Ninad, his two-year old son. But he isn’t in his crib. He thinks the couple next door, the Kapoors, who’d no kids of their own, took him to their house to play, which they did now and then. He walks to the living room and stands behind Rima, patiently waiting for her to finish her conversation. She turns around, sticks out two fingers and mouths, “Two minutes,” to which he only nods.

When she’s finally through with the call, he says, “So the Kapoors took Ninad eh! It’s not even nine yet.”

“No, no. He’s in the other bathroom,” she says casually.

“What?” Anand runs toward the bathroom. The door’s open.

Ninad has sunk to the bottom of the tub – there are no bubbles. The paper plane that he made for him last evening is placed on the edge of the tub. Anand reaches in and pulls him through. Ninad’s face is blue. Anand rubs his chest vigorously, but there’s no sign of life.

“Ninad, Ninad,” he calls out. His sleeve, where Ninad’s head is, is soaked. “Call the ambulance, Rima, call the ambulance,” he screams, as he dashes out with Ninad in his arms.

“What happened?” Nina asks.

“Shut the fuck up, and call the ambulance, right now.”

Anand is walking up and down the King Edward Memorial hospital corridor, his hands running over each other.

“Anand, listen…” Before she talks further, Anand slaps her.

“You leave a two year old kid all by himself in the bathroom? To plan where you were going to shop today?” He’s loud. The people, who are passing by, stop and stare. 

Rima’s eyes well up as she speaks. “I was just about to check…”

“Rima, please get the fuck out of my face right now, before I do something serious.” He looks away and punches the wall. Then he checks if he cracked his wrist. She reaches out and touches his shoulder. He flings her hand away. “If something happens to Ninad, I’ll never forgive you.” She nods her head amenably. He sinks to the cold marble floor and after a violent fit of weeping, gets up and goes to the prayer room. Rima stands outside the ICU door, looking through the little opening. Countless tubes come out of Ninad’s tiny body. He’s breathing, but isn’t out of danger. She still thinks this isn’t happening, and she’s just hallucinating. The morning never came. She has just laid him in his crib, and has come back to bed. She’s still talking to Anand about his meeting the next day. She tells him about the new designer shoes she saw at a mall.  

She looks down the hall, Anand is back. He’s sitting at the end of the corridor - his face down, his shoulders down. He’s not seen Ninad even once after getting him admitted. He’s always been like that. When his father had had a heart attack, he couldn’t bear to watch him lying helplessly in his green gown, his mouth agape, his eyes rolled back. He couldn’t stomach the number of tubes that had punctured his skin.

After spending almost an entire day at the hospital, towards evening, a doctor, a short, dark man with the whitest teeth, seeing whom, Anand comes over, informs them that they’re going to shift Ninad to a private ward, which means that his breathing has returned to normal. Both Anand and Rima, silently follow the stretcher to a room. They stand on either side and hold Ninad’s little hands. Anand hopes that Ninad will wrap his pink fingers around his index finger, but his hand is limp. He leans over and kisses his moist forehead. Both Anand and Nina cry, for different reasons, yet the same.       

When Ninad comes to, Anand calls in a nurse, and takes Rima by her elbows outside the room.

“I want you to leave.” The calmness and finality in his voice unsettles Rima.

“What? What are you saying Anand?”

“I can’t have you around my son. I can’t have someone who can’t take care of her own child.”

“Anand, I’m his mother. I’m your wife,” she says pleadingly, her voice trembling. 

“Look, I don’t want to argue, just leave.”

“But…”

“I don’t want you anywhere near my child. Is that clear?”

“Our child, Anand.”

“My child.” He leaves her there and walks back to the room.

Rima leaps off the eight-floor hospital terrace. Her face, looking up, is streaked with red and black lines - red from the blood, black from the kohl, the hair on her skin still standing from the jump. 

He plucked a blade of grass from the ground. A year had gone by since that day. Ninad passed away later that night. “There were some complications,” the doctor said. “There was still some water in his lungs. We thought we’d drained it all.”           

Anand got back on his bike. He took off the stand and kicked the lever. The engine started with a tutututut sound, and smoke came out of the exhaust pipe. He was going nowhere, yet trying to get somewhere; looking for something, and not knowing what.