What Do You See When You Look in the Mirror?

by Nikita Singh

  Parul tried to reach out to Akki a few times. Akki always seemed to have something urgent or important going on. If, by some miracle, she did have an opening on her calendar, Dev always accompanied her.

  Their fallout wasn’t dramatic at all. On her birthday, Parul received a text message from Akki apologizing for not seeing her party invite on time and informing Parul that she was going to be out of town. Parul didn’t point out that her boyfriend, Dev, had already declined her invitation as soon as she had sent it out. Parul told Akki to reach out when she got back and had time. Akki promised that she would … and never did.

  To Parul, it felt like she had lost someone she loved, it hurt so much. Grief engulfed her. For years, Parul truly believed that Akki was too good for her. That Akki was the star, and Parul was her crutch. She had to let her go. And the fact that Akki removed Parul from her life so swiftly, without a second thought, after being closer than sisters for all of their lives, hurt like a dagger to her heart.

  It took Parul years to recover from that rejection. She hated Dev at first, but that didn’t last long. He was insignificant. He had only played a role in revealing what Akki must always have thought of Parul. She had always felt this way, Parul was sure.

  She watched Akki’s social media presence explode. In the years that followed the end of their podcast, Akki grew a fan base on Instagram, producing high-quality lifestyle content: from travel to food to fashion to beauty. Her content also reflected her intelligence. She wrote compelling captions about cyberbullying, body-shaming, mental health and everything else they used to talk about on their podcast – in fewer words, to a far larger audience.

  After a while, Parul muted Akki’s accounts, so to anyone who cared to check, it looked like she still followed her former business partner. This way, she could keep up pretences, but, by muting her, she no longer had to follow what Akki was doing anymore. That was the only way to move on with her life.

  Without the podcast, Parul mourned the lack of an outlet for her thoughts. It really affected her mental health. Desperate for stimulation, she joined a publishing house as an editor. She worked there for three years, and built a strong reputation in the industry for her keen editorial eye. Eventually, Parul left the company and started her own independent editorial company, which allowed her far more freedom to choose her clients and projects – authors she admired and really wanted to work with.

  Shortly after that, she met Mayank and started her family, leaving behind the pain from her past life and her abandonment issues. Secretly, she also began work on her dream project: writing a book.

  The news of Akki’s break-up with Dev reached her through the grapevine. Occasionally, Parul would see Akki’s photos, feel a pang of nostalgia, followed by a heaviness in her chest, prompting her to scroll away. It was only this morning, after the phone call, that she had searched Akki’s name on the internet, and read every piece of information that was available.

  One week ago, Akki had done an exclusive interview with a mainstream magazine, opening up about continuous physical, mental and sexual abuse at the hands of her ex-boyfriend. Dev had responded immediately with an attack on her, claiming that she had absolutely no proof of these false accusations. He claimed that she was doing this for clout. Dev had leaked phone conversations between him and their old podcast employees, in which the employees called Akki a ‘controlling bitch’. Finally, Dev had concluded that if Akki’s allegations were true, why didn’t Parul intervene? After all, wasn’t Parul the person who had known Akki the longest? He questioned why her own best friend, soul sister, didn’t even talk to her, if not for the reason that Akki was a manipulative, attention-seeking bitch.

  The internet turned on Akki in a second. Her haters camouflaging as her followers had a field day. Hashtags like #ibelievehim began trending on Twitter, with thousands of people showing their support for Dev. Disgusting drama channels on YouTube released a series of videos based on ‘information’ from anonymous ‘reliable sources’ close to the parties involved. The media and the public jumped on the opportunity to attack a beautiful, successful, self-sufficient woman, based on retaliation from her abuser and pure conjecture.

  ‘I can’t believe this …’ Parul whispered, shaking her head frantically from side to side. How did this happen? How did she not see this? She was right there; this had happened right under her nose.

  ‘I’m not a liar! It did happen! I wouldn’t make something like this up for—’

  ‘I know, I know, I know,’ Parul rushed to explain, talking over Akki. ‘I believe you. Of course, I believe you, Akki. I believe you.’

  Akki went quiet.

  ‘I just can’t believe that I didn’t see this … It was right in front of me.’

  ‘I hid it pretty well. But I can’t take all the credit for that. Any time I let the mask slip, I would be punished later.’

  ‘What a psychopathic piece of shit!’ Parul spat. ‘He won’t get away with this, Akki. Trust me, we won’t let him get away with this.’

  ‘He’s already gotten away with it. No one believes me.’

  ‘They will believe you! These people have followed you for years. If we lead them to the truth, in the right direction, they will—’

  ‘No, no, no.’ Parul could picture Akki shaking her head in resignation. ‘So many of them have followed me for years just waiting for a chance to pounce. They’ve cancelled me. You don’t know how this world works. It’s been a long time since we used to do the podcast together … It’s not the same audience.’ Akki’s voice lowered and carried a sense of shame as she said, ‘My content isn’t the same. It’s all surface stuff. Fashion and beauty and travel and all that. My audience isn’t the deep, intellectual type, because my content isn’t like that anymore …’

  Despite herself, Parul felt a small surge of vindication hearing Akki admit that her content had deteriorated in quality since their podcast ended. Parul caught herself, and said feverishly, ‘So what! You don’t have to be a saint to be believed! You deserve to be believed simply because you’re telling the truth.’

  ‘I don’t think I can turn their opinion now. Those tapes from Ram and Komal were the last nail on the coffin.’

  ‘No, they weren’t! Ram and Komal wouldn’t do that on purpose. Have you reached out to them?’ Parul’s mind was racing. Ram and Komal had liked her more than Akki, because she was a kinder boss, but they didn’t hate Akki. They might’ve thought Akki was a bitch on some days, because, to be fair, she did behave like one sometimes. But Parul was still on good terms with both of them. Ram sometimes helped her with copy-editing. Parul hadn’t talked to Komal in a while, but knew how to reach her. She was sure she could get Ram and Komal to clear the air, by providing context to the leaked phone calls.

  ‘No … I have just been lying low,’ Akki said, sounding defeated.

  ‘I’ll call them. They probably didn’t even say those words with malice. I don’t doubt for a second that they’ll support us.’

  ‘Us?’ The hope in Akki’s voice shattered Parul’s heart to pieces.

  ‘Us,’ Parul said firmly, even as her voice broke. ‘We’re sisters. We can fight as much as we want, and not talk to each other for an hour or two … or ten years. But we would still be sisters. I would still be there for you. That would never change.’

  Akki wept. Parul joined her, but not for long. She had a plan to make, a rapist to take down. He had abused her sister for years and years, kept her locked, in fear, away from everyone she loved. He couldn’t get away with this. Not if Parul had anything to do with it. A plan formed in her head, thoughts scurrying together to build a concrete, sure-fire idea. Dev used to joke about how much of a rule-follower Parul was. A by-the-book, organized loser who could never just wing it and take a risk. Now, Parul planned to employ those same organizational skills and use them against him.

  Her body trembled, but she spoke with conviction. ‘We’ll reunite for a podcast. A new episode. We’ll have you, me, Ram and Komal on it, countering
every single thing that asshole has said about you, one by one. We’ll make an exhaustive list, and we’ll go over absolutely everything. Thorough and honest. We’ll also shoot a video of the podcast recording, and upload it to YouTube. No time limit. We’ll keep the mics and the cameras running for as long as it takes to get all the information out. We will prove him wrong. We also have hours and hours of footage of him on set, exhibiting his manipulative behaviour. I’ll watch every single minute till I find something we can use to show the world who he really is. They want an exposé? We’ll give them an exposé. And after all this is done, we’ll give a copy of the podcast to the police. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you then. But I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.’

  The Watering Can

  I am out of the danger zone now, but my heart continues to thump loudly in my ears. As soon as the Bhaiya from the shop handed me the ice-cream cone, I turned around and walked away as fast as I could. It usually takes me five minutes to walk home from that shop, but this time, I did it in two minutes, or probably even less than that. I can be really fast when I want to.

  When I reach my house, I pull open the main gate – a heavy, black metal one that always gets stuck and you have to pull with all your strength to get it to open. Popo can’t open it. He’s only three years old, and very small and weak. I’m almost nine, a big brother and a strong boy. I’m the tallest in my class and the strongest, probably. I always win at arm wrestling.

  Not as strong as Iron Man yet, but I’m learning. Nishu Bhaiya takes me to watch all the Avengers movies, and I take notes in my mind every time. Superheroes are not that different from us. Think about Spider-Man; he’s just a school kid who gets bit by a spider and gets his superpowers. And Ant-Man is just a little tiny ant. I’m much bigger than him, so I’m already ahead.

  Grown-ups always lecture me that superheroes are not real, and they only exist in comic books and movies. Whenever they tell me that, I agree with them. You have to manage grown-ups, or else they’ll never shut up about things. Deep down, I know that superheroes are real. I will be one soon. I just need to grow up and get stronger.

  Also, I have to look out for my powers. Powers can come in all kinds of different ways, so I have to stay alert. Nishu Bhaiya says he wants to watch all the Avengers movies again. I will watch them with him and find out how every single superhero got their power, because no matter how hard I try, I can’t remember how Captain Marvel or Star Lord got their powers. So, this time, I will pay attention and write down as much as I can.

  In the stairwell, I rip open the ice-cream cone as I run up to the first floor. I take a bite from the top of the cone. It’s just pistachios, almonds and tiny pieces of all kinds of nuts that you have to get through to get to the good part: the ice cream. Bua says dry fruits are good for your brain. I have to eat seven almonds every morning that she soaks in water for me the night before. I don’t like it, but arguing with grown-ups gets me nowhere in this family, so I eat the seven almonds every morning and gulp down an entire glass of milk to get rid of the taste. I like milk.

  As I enter the house, I finish the dry-fruit parts on the top and finally lick the ice cream. It melts in my mouth and tastes like really cold milk. I close the door behind me and plop on my bed to finish my ice cream. I like the bottom part of the cone with the chocolate.

  Before I reach it, the doorbell rings. I am alert. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up from my Spidey sense. I am not out of the danger zone yet. The doorbell rings again. Nishu Bhaiya yells out ‘Coming!’ to whoever is on the other side of the door.

  Where should I hide my ice cream? The cone can’t stand up on its own. If I lay it down on the bed or the table, it will melt and spread everywhere. I can’t eat it that fast because it’s so cold it will make my head freeze. I find a pencil stand on the table and shove the cone upright into it. I run to the mirror and wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. Then, I run to the front door before Nishu Bhaiya gets there.

  ‘Don’t open it!’ I whisper loudly to Nishu Bhaiya, as he reaches for the door handle.

  ‘Who is it?’ Nishu Bhaiya is looking at me. I can’t see his eyes clearly, because they are under the shadow of his cap. How angry will he be? Should I tell him now? The doorbell rings again.

  The Bhaiya from the shop shouts from the other side. ‘Tutu, open the door. I know you’re in there. I can see your shadow under the door!’

  ‘Nishu Bhaiya, just give him fifty rupees. I’ll explain everything later,’ I plead desperately.

  ‘Fifty rupees? What for?’ Nishu Bhaiya looks confused.

  ‘I’ll tell you later!’ I grab his hand to stop him from opening the door.

  ‘Tutu, what did you do?’ Now he doesn’t look confused. He looks angry. He takes his hand back and opens the door.

  I hide behind Nishu Bhaiya. I think about running away to my room and locking the door, finishing my ice cream … but I can’t, because they’ll make me come out, and yell at me even louder and for longer.

  ‘Nishu ji, Tutu just bought ice cream from my shop with this,’ the Bhaiya from the shop says. He’s so loud that Baba and Aaji have heard him too. They are coming to the door to see what this is all about – Baba from his study and Aaji from the dining room. I want to turn into a teeny-tiny ant now. Sadly, I don’t have my powers yet; I checked this morning by trying to lift the bed.

  Nishu Bhaiya is looking at the note the Bhaiya from the shop is holding out. Game over.

  ‘Tutu,’ Nishu Bhaiya says. He pulls me from behind him and makes me stand directly in front of the Bhaiya from the shop. I look down at my slippers. I notice how dirty my toenails are as Nishu Bhaiya asks, ‘First, you buy ice cream from a shop using fake Monopoly money; then, on top of that, you were trying to bribe Kabir with fifty rupees when you got caught?’

  ‘I thought it was real money. It looks so real,’ I mutter weakly in my defence. No one’s buying it. I don’t know how, but grown-ups somehow always know. Even though what I said is believable. The notes from my old games are fake-looking children’s notes. But this ₹10 note is from a new game, and looks just like the real one.

  ‘And you’re lying!’ Nishu Bhaiya thunders in a way that makes me stand up straighter. ‘That’s three things you’ve done wrong within five minutes!’

  Unable to speak, I stand frozen between Nishu Bhaiya and Kabir Bhaiya.

  ‘Koi baat nahi,’ Kabir Bhaiya says, after already having done all the damage. ‘He’s just a kid. Must’ve only been doing mazaak.’

  ‘Sorry, Bhaiya,’ I say to both Bhaiyas before anyone tells me to. That might give me some brownie points. Grown-ups love it when kids say sorry, and tend to get really angry when we don’t say it or say it only after being asked. I have learned from experience that it’s best to say sorry as soon as possible every time you get in trouble.

  Nishu Bhaiya gives him a real ten-rupee note from his pocket and Kabir Bhaiya leaves, but not before messing up my hair, calling me ‘Shaitan!’ and laughing like my pain was a joke.

  ‘Kya hua?’ Aaji asks Nishu Bhaiya.

  Once the door closes, I get a loud and long yelling. I feel bad for my mistake, but the note looked so real that I had to try. Bua always says it’s good to be curious. I did an experiment and it failed. It’s okay to fail, as long as you try. I keep my mouth shut the whole time Nishu Bhaiya yells at me. He calls what I did ‘true corrupt politician behaviour’ which I don’t understand, but don’t ask about, because it doesn’t sound good.

  The rest of the day, I do all kinds of things around the house without being asked. I have to be extra good so that everyone will forgive me and forget what I did. I fill up the watering can in the kitchen sink and carefully carry it, using both my hands, to water the plants in the balcony attached to Nishu Bhaiya’s room.

  ‘Tutu, don’t walk there!’ Aaji says all of a sudden, shocking me into spilling water all over the floor. ‘Lily Didi just did pochha there. Now you’ve left footprints all over the floor.’

&
nbsp; ‘And spilled water too!’ Lily Didi chimes in. People love to pile on when I’m already getting yelled at. Lily Didi comes every morning and evening to sweep and mop the floors in our house. Usually, she doesn’t speak much, but she’s chosen this moment to join the attack against me.

  ‘I’ll clean it!’ I offer.

  ‘Just go. I’ll mop it.’ Before I can say anything else, she’s already walking over to me with the mop in her hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, before making my way to the balcony. I start with watering the marigold plant. I’m making swirling movements so that all of the soil in the pot gets the exact same amount of water. Five swirls one way, and then five the other way. I stop before the water overflows and move on to the rose bush. When I get to the tulsi plant, Aaji speaks from behind me. My hands shake again, but I don’t spill any water this time. She walks without making any sound. I can never hear her coming. Ever since the lady who does Aaji’s massage started coming here, Aaji has stopped wearing her bangles and payal. She says they get in the way, and it’s a hassle to take them off and put them on again every day. I need to adjust to this change and keep an ear out for the sound of her slippers.

  ‘I just watered them this morning,’ she says.

  ‘But they needed more water. They were dying,’ I say.

  ‘If you give them too much water, the roots will rot. Tutu … I’m saying something. Stop watering them!’

  ‘Aaji, please. I know what I’m doing. I’m old enough,’ I say. I move on to a plant with just leaves and no flowers. I don’t know its name, but it could be a snake plant or a money plant. Or maybe a spider plant. I’ve heard those names from Bua.

  ‘Tutu, listen to your Aaji,’ Nishu Bhaiya jumps in. See? Everybody just wants to yell at me. I was born to get yelled at. Maybe that’s my superpower. A completely useless one. ‘Do you think you know more about plants or Aaji?’