2.30 am

My throat is feeling dry. I try to wet my lips but I feel the need for much more than that. Against my will, I get up for a glass of water. My eye is drawn to the bright blinking lights reading 2:30 coming from our nightstand. They do their bit, piercing the darkness of the room with their luminescence.  We're on the home stretch before sunrise. And Rohit is still not home. I haven't called him since our altercation at the hospital. And neither has he. 

I go to the kitchen to quench my thirst and then move to the couch. Sleep's vanished. My thoughts are running amok. Was I too harsh? Did I push him away even further? I don't know. I've never been so unsure of myself. I pick up the phone to call Rohit and then put it back down. I don't know if he wants to talk to me and I don't want to do something that will help me achieve the exact opposite of my goal. 

 I decide to watch a movie until I feel like sleeping again. I open the Youtube app on my phone and search for Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jaayenge. What I end up watching instead is a video titled Most Bollywood Ever - Diwale Dulhaniya Le Jaayenge Review. It's funny, the practical way in which these two blokes describe the absurdity that lines the scripts of Indian movies and television shows. Was it always like that? Was it just that none of us paid any attention to it? I can't be bothered. At 3 am, I hardly care about the psychological aspects of scriptwriting and film-making in India. I simply enjoy the parody and I laugh...laugh hard. I haven't laughed like this in ages. And that's how Rohit finds me when he opens the door ten minutes later.

"You're still up?"

His question is rhetorical, much like the stuff that's included in Bollywood scripts, but I still nod my head in affirmation.

"Will you have dinner?" My question is rhetorical too. Nobody eats dinner at 3 in the morning. I'm genuinely beginning to believe that the lockdown has affected a part of our brains where we are seeking answers to the obvious. Conversation, any conversation is welcome.

He shakes his head.

"I'll go and change." I burst out laughing, reminded of similar absurdities that the blokes in the video were describing. He stops to give me the quizzical look. "Everything okay?"

"Yes..," I say, trying hard to breathe while bringing my laughter under control. He lifts his eyebrows up questioning my response.

"Nothing." And then to change the topic I ask him, "How was your day?"

He turns grim. I walk up to him and hold his hand. "You want to talk?"

He shakes his head and makes his way to the bedroom.

*****

3.30 am

The lights are off. Rohit and I are sleeping on the same bed. He's turned the other way, pretending to sleep, but I know he's wide awake. We haven't resolved what happened at the hospital, but I sense now is not the time to broach that discussion.

I ask him again, "You want to talk?"

He stays quiet.

"You know you should talk. Mom always said sharing feelings might not always help find a solution, but it definitely helps get things out of your system."

"What do you want to know?"

"There's nothing I want to know Rohit, but I know something is upsetting you. And I want you to know that if you ever need someone to listen, I'm there. That's the least I can do."

He's quiet. He's unsure if he can trust me. I can sense his struggle. It upsets me. I've been trying so hard for the last three weeks to show him that I care, that I've changed and he's not letting go. I'm about to say something sarcastic when I hear my Mom's voice inside my head. You can't repair something in a day that you've broken over a year. I reign my temper in.

"Rohit?"

"Hmmm..??"

I pull his shoulder and turn him to face me. I cup his cheeks with my palm and ask again, "Tell me what happened."

He pulls me closer and hugs me. I can feel his breath on my shoulders. I can feel his body. It's tense. I run my hand up and down his back to try and soothe him.

"Whatever it is, it'll be fine." That's the best I can do considering I don't know what the problem is.

"No it won't," he whispers. I pull slightly away. I see tears glistening in his eyes, brightly shining in the moonlight filtering in through the window.

I wipe his tears and thread my fingers through his hair. I don't know how else I can help him when he refuses to tell me what's wrong. He pulls me closer and places his head on my shoulder. I hug him back and the two of us fall asleep.

*****

8.00 am

I'm the first one to get up. We've both overslept, which is rare. When I check the alarm, I realize that Rohit had accidentally switched the alarm on for 5 pm instead of 5 am. I check his call log. No missed calls from the hospital. Whatever is going on there is under control.

Rohit's hand is still draped across my body, restricting my movement. I gently pick it up and place it on the side before getting up and making my way into the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, as I am brewing our cups of coffee, I find Rohit by my side. He hugs me from behind and places his chin on my shoulder.

"Good morning," I greet him with a smile.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" I ask as I hand him his cup of coffee.

"Sorry for what happened at the hospital yesterday. I shouldn't have created a scene."

I look at how easily he apologizes for the things that he believes are wrong. Why was I never able to accept my mistakes so easily?

"Sonakshi, this industry is brutal," my first mentor who got me the smaller roles when I was starting out in the television industry told me. "There is no place for kindness and generosity."

When I asked for an explanation, he said: "If you're kind and generous as a struggling actor, you will stay a struggling actor, for the rest of your life. These are virtues possessed by those who are already famous. You can't share a meal if you're hungry for 10 days, can you?"

I listened as he told me the golden rules to survive this dog-eat-dog world. "Never get too friendly with anyone. Never share your secrets with anyone. And never accept your faults in front of anyone. It doesn't take much for people to turn in this industry, and it doesn't take much for people to use your vulnerabilities against you to achieve their goals. Remember, in the glamour world, there are no permanent friends and no permanent enemies."

But Rohit was not from the glamour world. And yet... I should stop doing this, stop criticizing myself for every single thing. I know I've made mistakes, but continuously criticizing myself for all that I did wrong in the past is not going to help me change the future.

We're sitting on the couch, side by side, sipping coffee. I hold Rohit's hand to show him I'm not angry.

"Why were you crying last night?" I ask. His tears bother me. Rohit rarely emotes. I'm expecting silence again, but he surprises me with an answer.

"I lost my second patient to COVID-19 yesterday." I know there's more. Rohit is a lot stronger than that. I wait for him to continue. One sip of coffee, and another sip later he says: "Ten-year-old girl who was brought in just last evening. She didn't have any preconditions. Was symptomatic for a week, but the parents put it down to a change of weather. She collapsed within four hours of being brought in." His voice was impassive. He'd processed the death in his head.

I squeeze his hand to let him know I understand. But I really don't. I don't know what it feels like when people believe you have the ability to fight death. And I don't know what it feels like when you lose that fight. I'll never know.

In Kahani Parvati Ki, I once shot a scene where Parvati's husband Kunal dies of a bullet shot and the doctors are unable to revive him. Parvati then walks into the Operation theatre. The bells toll, the wind blows, there are shots of the Goddess sitting in the temple, close-ups of the mangal sutra and the sindoor, an ultimatum to the Gods to save Kunal, and voila, he wakes up from the dead. Very dramatic. Also very unreal.

Rohit once told me that if a person is not revived within 4 minutes after his heart stops beating, he dies. Clearly, the scene we shot was medically impossible. And yet it was instrumental in catapulting the serial to its number 1 position on the charts. When popular media fills our minds with impossibilities, I'm not surprised that doctors have a tough time explaining their limitations to patients.

"Breakfast?" I ask, changing the topic. He looks at me gratefully. "I'm making Upma."

"Wonderful, I'll join you after a quick shower." His voice has lost its spunk. I know he's composed but I also know that what happened last night has affected him more than he's letting on. Up until yesterday, he was convinced that only people with weak immunity were succumbing to the disease. In the early hours of this day, he was proved wrong.