12.07 am

It's a little past midnight. I'm having my third cup of coffee waiting for Rohit to come home. I shouldn't be. Six months ago, when I told him I wanted a divorce, I also told him it didn't matter to me whether he lived or died. I didn't think my emotions spewed in a moment of heated argument would be put to test so soon.

Yes, I was the one who asked for the divorce. And like a good husband, he agreed to grant my wish. Did I expect him to fight me, to beg for another chance? I hear my alter-ego laugh. "Who're you fooling Sonakshi?" it asks. Unknown to me tears stream down my cheek. I try to will my mind to stop them but it seems I've lost my will.  "I just want him to love me, unconditionally," I whisper. In another part of my brain, faint words spoken by my mother chose to remind me of their existence. "Rohit loves you, Sona, loves you unconditionally. Just not the way you want him to."

Kahani Parvati Ki had ended a year ago. That's when trouble in paradise began. It's difficult to be a superstar. It's even more difficult to deal with the fallout. Stardom comes at a price, odd work hours, strict diets, limited exposure to the real world, and lots of self-indulgence. When all that is taken away, coping with life becomes challenging. 

The initial days of staying at home were blissful. A welcome break. Having shot non-stop 12 hours a day, for five years, I enjoyed going to bed and getting up when I pleased, eating what I wanted, wearing things that fancied me. The novelty, however, wore off within a month. I wanted to get back to work. 

Nobody said the world of television was fair. Parvati was iconic. And that same iconic Parvati was making it difficult for the public to accept me, Sonakshi, in a different role. They loved me as Parvati, they revered me as Parvati, but when I made my appearance on the small screen as Jahnvi, a woman cop who uses filthy language and takes on Mumbai's underworld, the TRP's tanked. TRP's determine the life of a television show. A couple of misses and very soon I was placed on the shelf. Producers assured me that it was simply a matter of two to three years. Public memory was short-lived. But my entry back into the Indian television industry was dependent on erasing the memory of Parvati from the viewer's minds. 

I look at my watch again. 12.15 am. It's not that I haven't tried sleeping. In the last two hours, I've tossed and turned on the uncomfortable fold-out couch, had a drink of water, a bite of the loaded french fries, and switched through six movies on Netflix, each of which I watched for precisely 15 minutes. I stare at the same page in a book for a good 10 minutes before I give up pretending to myself. I'm thinking about Rohit. No, I'm worried about him. How could I not? 

He is risking his life every day at work, attending to COVID-19 patients. I can't help but worry that somehow he's going to get affected too. I'm not a doctor and I don't know if I even begin to understand the repercussions of this new strain of the imported virus. In India, anything that is imported is believed to be of superior quality. If that same logic were to apply to this virus, I know it's going to be an uphill battle.

I walk up to the huge window that overlooks the apartment's living room and stare outside. The city that never slept is deserted, not a soul in sight. I sigh, hugging myself and rubbing my arms to rid myself of the eerie feeling this sight gives me. I close my eyes for a moment and then open them, turning quickly before I get drawn once again into the image of this once-bustling but now a ghostly city. 

I make my way into the kitchen, turning on the kettle and scooping some instant coffee into a mug. The mug makes me smile. A new beginning awaits you, it reads. I pour hot water into my mug and make my way back to the window. Bright yellow light from the opposite building commands my attention. The emergency ward of the Sukhmani Sippy Hospital, which I can see from our living room. I sense a shadow moving around that floor and choose to believe it's Rohit. I also know it's wishful thinking. 

I rub my hands some more on the hot coffee mug, desperately trying to induce some warmth into my soul. My hands have goosebumps. I want to cry but I can't seem to. I care for Rohit. I worry about him. If I believed in organized religion, I would be fervently praying. But I don't. I just believe in a power that guides us all. I don't want to give it a name. So I try to meditate, my attempt to connect with that power, to request that power to keep Rohit safe.

Fifteen minutes of meditation, a million thoughts course through my mind. Flashes of the moments Rohit and I have spent in this one-bedroom apartment, our haven away from the prying eyes of the world. Rohit bought this apartment seven years ago, so he could sleep somewhere close to the hospital that didn't smell of chlorine when he was on call.  

The couch was where we first made out. The two of us, behaving like teenagers. I still remember the dash to this apartment, the excitement, the kissing in the elevator, the fumbling with the key, the anxiety before the door opened, and then more fumbling. We both had sprinted across the road to avoid getting drenched in the rain and had failed miserably. We fumbled as we undressed each other, fumbled as we touched each other, and fumbled as Rohit allowed me to borrow one of his shirts till my clothes came out of the dryer.

I was quite amazed. Doesn't everybody in Mumbai use a clothesline to dry their clothes? Rohit chuckled but didn't reply. I was thirty-two then. I felt fifteen.

I make my way back to the fold-out couch, gently caressing the fabric. It used to be black. But after our marriage I had it upholstered in a teal and navy blue patterned fabric. The colors of his scrubs. My favorite version of Dr. Rohit Sippy.

Just then the door opens and a tired Rohit steps inside. "Hi," I say. Silence. He places his bag and the apartment keys on the accent cabinet and makes his way to the bedroom. I stare at him, unsure of whether he heard me or not. 

Since the decision to divorce, things have gotten really awkward between us. Rohit was always a man of few words. He never shared much. I was the extrovert, the impatient one, the force of nature. Would things have been different if I'd been a little less forceful? I shake my head to clear it of these what-if thoughts. The deed is done. It was only a matter of time before I became Ms. Sonakshi Rastogi, once again. Except. I don't let the thought take form in my head. Instead, I follow Rohit into the bedroom and ask him, "Coffee?" He shakes his head in the negative and makes his way to the bathroom. 

I pause and turn my head around to scan the room. Nothing much had changed here physically. Six months ago Rohit and I shared that room. That's where I told him I wanted a divorce. He'd smiled wistfully then as if he knew this was coming.

"We'll get in touch with the lawyers tomorrow to find out what'll be the quickest way," he'd stated. I hated him that day. I'd wanted him to fight with me, ask me what was happening, tell me we could work things out together, beg me to stay, but all he did was pick up his car keys and leave.

As soon as Rohit left, I did what I was best at - creating chaos. I picked up our framed wedding photo from the bedside table and threw it against the wall. The frame shattered, broken pieces of glass tearing through the picture of Rohit and me smiling on our wedding day. 

Did I mention I was impulsive?

I force my attention back on Rohit. I can hear the sound of running water in the bathroom. He must've had a really bad day at the hospital. Twenty-eight months of marriage. I've learnt to read his moods.

I go back to the living room, pick up my cup of now cold coffee and make my way to the kitchen. Dumping the contents in my mug, I make two cups of piping hot chocolate and wait for Rohit to come out of his shower.

My second favorite version of Rohit walks out, toweling his wet disheveled hair, wearing black track pants, and a promo T-shirt. I walk up to him and take the towel from his hand. He doesn't argue. I walk him to the couch and hand him his cup of hot chocolate. He sips and closes his eyes, while I stand on my knees on the couch and continue to towel his head till it's dry. It's the most intimate I've been with him in six months. It feels weird. Part of me wishes for more. But I silence that part of me.

He continues sipping his hot chocolate while I stand behind him on my knees observing the emotions flitting across his face.

"It was that bad, huh?" He turns, looks at me for a while, and then closes his eyes and tilts his head against the back of the couch. I make my way behind the couch and gently place my fingers on the back of his neck to release his stress.

"I lost four patients today," he confesses. I listen, slowly trying to take away the stress that has built up inside him for the last two weeks. "I might lose another six tomorrow. I don't know." He sounds helpless and I've never seen him like that.

"You won't," I assure him. And then, I quickly send another message to the universal energy to make my wish come true, for Rohit's sake. He relaxes. I feel him choosing to believe me because it will let him get through this night. He pulls my hand forward and gently places a soft kiss on my palm. "Thank you my Sonpari," he says using the endearment he'd stopped addressing me with six months ago. I love how it sounds when he says it.

"Go sleep," I tell him. It's late and he'll probably be up at 5 in the morning. That is if the hospital doesn't wake him up earlier. He gets up to go. "Will you come and lay next to me tonight?"

I nod my head.

"Thank you." He smiles, a forced smile considering sleep is fast taking over his body. By the time I put the cups in the sink, turn off the lights in the rest of the house and make my way to the bedroom, Rohit is fast asleep.

I gently get in beside him, trying not to wake him up. I support my head with my left hand while caressing his hair with my right. He has a slight frown on his face. I wonder why. Rohit never shares his emotions. I gently place a soft kiss on his forehead. I can never be upset with him for long. In the weeks since we initiated our divorce proceedings, I've come to realize one thing, I can never stop loving that man.