Chapter 4: Kabir and the List

Kabir was a fellow patient.

After three years of therapy, my aphasia had improved a lot.

Only when I was low or nervous did I lose my voice.

The first two years after marrying Rohan, I was almost cured.

When I was happy and had free time, I joined a support group for patients.

My assigned partner was Kabir.

For two whole years, I thought he was a girl.

A pink bunny avatar, WhatsApp name “Angel.”

At first, “she” barely responded to me.

But people who share the same condition understand each other. Those troubled by aphasia for years usually have deep psychological scars. They might not be able to speak, but they need companionship.

I shared my daily life with “her” tirelessly. From text, to voice messages. From photos, to videos.

We shared so much, we became like old friends.

So much so that the first time I called and realised “she” was a man, I was so startled I nearly relapsed on the spot.

“So... sorry.”

I held the phone, “Sorry to... disturb your rest...”

My words tumbled out, halting and small, the way they always did when I was caught off guard. “No,” Kabir said, “It’s 9 p.m. here.”

He spoke so fluently. That was only my second call with him.

After discovering he was a man, I deliberately kept my distance. I avoided his messages for weeks, feeling embarrassed. That day was pure coincidence.

I hadn’t contacted him for almost a month.

By chance, when Rohan handed me the divorce agreement, he asked what I was doing. My mind went blank at the words “divorce agreement.”

I just replied: [Divorcing.]

The word sat there, naked and raw. After signing, I hid outside Rohan’s office, trembling all over.

[Kabir, I think... I’m about to have no home.]

No dad, no mom, no brother, no little dog. Even Rohan was gone. What should I do?

I didn’t expect him to suddenly reply:

[Then just marry me, can’t you?]

I almost dropped my phone. Was he serious? The banter inside grew louder and louder.

“Stop kidding, Priya without Rohan wouldn’t even be able to speak. How could she really get a divorce certificate?”

“Right, if she really went to get divorced, she’d probably cry down the Family Court.”

“Really?”

Rohan sneered. He tossed his lighter onto the coffee table. “Even if she cries like anything, she’ll still be my Rohan’s dog.”

“If I tell her to go east, she’ll crawl east, even if she has to.”

I stared blankly at the man who’d become a stranger, through the crack in the door. My chest ached, but Kabir’s words hovered in my mind—gentle, steady, patient.

[Okay.]

My thumb hovered over the send button. My mind flashed to my mother’s face, the echo of "Log kya kahenge?"—then I pressed send anyway, heart pounding.