Nearly five days had passed since the video went viral. Well, almost went viral. I no longer wanted to kill Mukul. All that remained was a sharp, bitter aftertaste in my mouth.

Scenes of a rapidly changing city flashed past the windows of the metro.

I couldn’t see much, though. Only people, countless people, covered in grime, their clothes discolored. My confines of patience finally crumbled after I got off at Tollygunge station. I remembered I had to tell Barun what he needed to bring to the hospital. Dipping my hand absently into my bag, I realized my phone was missing. Two, three times I rummaged frantically. It was a huge bag, filled with important things—but also junk. For fuck’s sake! Why couldn’t I get rid of things! The entire goddamned world was in it. Except for my phone, which had vanished into thin air.

Now this fresh hell on top of everything. I was exhausted by the stress of the last few days. I wanted to cry—I was completely alone in a station full of people. I was so tired I didn’t feel like looking for my phone or filing a complaint. I walked out.

The last few days had been miserable—just the house and the hospital.

The call had come the previous night. Barun took it. It was my father’s neighbor and longtime friend Sanat-kaku. He was nervous because Baba had suddenly taken ill. From New Town to Naktala, the road seemed endless. Baba’s breathing troubles had become severe. After much running around, we admitted my father to a well-known super-specialty hospital near the Eastern Bypass. And finally, thanks to the frenzy, there was a rip in the silence between Barun and me. He hadn’t said a word about the video, he didn’t react at all, just retreated into silence. At home, there was no other sound besides entering and leaving and giving instructions to the maid.

One time in those last few days I shouted at the top of my voice, “Hypocrite, everyone’s a hypocrite!” And a thousand other things besides. I asked Barun many times what I had done wrong. I could say whatever came to mind—Barun’s broad-mindedness was the best thing about him.

So then?

When did he become just like everyone else?

***

No cracks in this wall of stone. I knew by now that Barun wouldn’t speak about it. This was how he would punish me. I sat on the balcony in the middle of the night—it was my favorite spot in our flat. The open sky in front of me. We lived in the last building in the apartment complex. Hence the vast expanse of nothingness—nothing but a structure resembling a dinosaur could be seen, and even that at a distance. It was unbelievable that I could take in a lungful of the open sky in a city like Calcutta. The balcony was my oasis after a hard day’s work. The wicker sofa, the flowerpots, the wind rushing in from the empty fields, Barun asleep in our bed. And a cigarette to smoke. This was my world. The incidents of the weekend rushed back into my head as I sat on the balcony. My mind was on rewind.

Siddhartha had gotten a brilliant break at The Times of India. Our entire group at Presidency University gathered to celebrate—we were thrilled to bits. There was weed, whiskey, vodka, wine, you name it—all of us had let go of our inhibitions. Mukul was busy taking videos on a fancy phone he got from Singapore. He came up to me and asked me to talk about the weed-smoking modern independent woman. I was ready to play ball, as usual—as my friends knew, all I needed was a little persuasion.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I began. “Weed is an escape for working women like us—it’s a taste of the sky. The responsibilities at home, managing a job . . . when all of this gets too much and you desperately need a breath of fresh air, weed can do it for you. It takes your mind to a different plane!”

After this, Mukul asked me about my in-laws. What would they say if they found out about it? I said, “You think my mother-in-law doesn’t know whom she’s agreed to add to the family? If she can accept an unholy woman like me, what harm can a little vodka and weed do?” I prattled on a bit more along these lines.

No, I didn’t regret what I said. But not even in my wildest dreams did I imagine that Mukul would upload the video to Facebook. It went viral in a day. Hundreds of comments were posted. Some posters expressed surprise, while others made their disgust known. Many agreed with me—there were plenty of feminist hot takes. Then the commentators started arguing with each other. Veiled insults, venomous comments, aggressive criticism—I saw every attitude during these few days. My heart was ravaged by anger, irritation, insult, and bitterness. And, drowning in the deluge, I realized Barun had not said a word. It was so unusual for him to be a mute spectator that I didn’t know how to deal with it.

Not just Barun: my mother-in-law was also very progressive and liberal normally. She was like a friend—she had always been supportive and never stood in the way of my personal freedom. I had also accepted her decision to be in a live-in relationship and never interfered in her life. In my opinion, we had a great camaraderie, which was precious to me, since my own mother was dead. But now her phone had been switched off for the last two days. I didn’t bother calling the landline. And Barun, who had stood solidly by me for the past seven years, who understood all my desires and lent me his shoulder whenever I needed it—whom even my friends were so fond of—had gone completely silent.

I struck up a friendship with the resident medical officer on the day I admitted my father to the hospital. The pulmonary specialist was available only three days a week. Then why call it a super-specialty hospital—especially in a city where perhaps everyone’s lungs were filled with toxins? The RMO was unmoved even as I ranted in this vein. His hands were tied, he said. Barun was quiet; I exhausted myself by saying the same things over and over again. At the same time, I silently thanked god without meaning to. At least this would prevent me from going to the office for a few days.

Not that anyone had said anything to me. Besides a few friends, everyone else had lambasted Mukul. But Sayani did speak to me privately. “Why did you do it? This was bound to happen.” Sayani was a colleague and a very close friend of mine. She was one of my very few well-wishers, but still, I had no answer for her.

“Trouble is brewing, Paro. As it is you don’t exactly have friends in the office. Only yesterday I saw Sampurna-di having a long talk with Abhirup-da. Rumor has it a meeting will be called.”

Didn’t I know it? The stifling feeling in the office. The whispers. The evasive looks. My workplace was close to my heart. It was one of the best-known advertising agencies in Calcutta.

I loved my job. I worked hard and my dedication never faltered. Sometimes I had disagreements with my colleagues or managers, but they were resolved quickly. Everyone knew I was outspoken, short-tempered, and rather brusque, but when it came to work, my heart was one hundred percent in it. But I felt no desire to go into the office today. Something mysterious was in the air—a small fire was lit after the video went viral on Facebook. I would have preferred it if someone had confronted me. But no, I was only engulfed in deep silence. Sampurna-di looked at me cryptically, pausing her excited conversation with Amruta and falling silent as I passed. Abhirup-da’s jaws were clamped tight, he wouldn’t look me in the eye . . .

I knew I had caused a scandal, but I was in no state to confront the fallout. No, I was not frightened—just bitter. I could not tolerate the hypocrisy of these so-called progressive people. This was not how I had grown up. I was headstrong, perhaps even obstinate. I saw the world in black and white. I was diligent about work. As far as I was concerned, I was an honest person. So what was I to do now?