Periods, Pyaar And Patriarchy

Chapter Eleven

The morning after the dinner was a Sunday. Seema was indulgent enough to allow them to skip yoga class- even though it was run seven days a week. "Fitness is a lifestyle, not a routine!" Ritika had cheerfully told them when Shruti had inquired about a 'cheat' day. However, six days of holding themselves in quivering planks and side-planks to build their core strength had been enough. Saturday's practice had been comparatively gentle with a focus on restorative postures and a bit of meditation and breathing exercises.

Stomach packed with carbohydrates from the previous night, they'd fallen into bed as soon as they'd reached home. Shweta's mood had greatly improved in the duration of the night. Shruti had shot her little looks of concern all throughout the night that Shweta pretended not to notice. But when Shruti's alarm rings at a damnable hour of eight on a Sunday, Shweta's sleep is broken.

"Why?" She croaks, her throat sore and stiff from lack of use.

"It's good for..." Shruti mumbles the rest of the sentence, falling asleep at the end of the sentence.

"Good for what?" Shweta groans, hiding her face with the pillow. The morning rays are pouring through the light curtains in the room.

"Good day biscuits," Shruti answers unhelpfully and Shweta sits up, irritated with her sister for a second. She has half a mind to wake her up as well and she asks loudly, "Good for good-day biscuits?"

But Shruti doesn't reply already dreaming halfway through slumberland.

Nothing else to do, Shweta grabs her phone and leans against the headboard. She'd taken to sleeping without a pillow and lately, her spinal pain had been improving. It had been very bothersome otherwise to wake up in a twenty-year-old's body feely like a ninety-year-old grandma. Shweta was certain both her grandmothers had spinal health better than hers.

And on the cell phone sits five missed calls from Vaibhav. Hurriedly, she switches on her mobile data, and just as she suspected, there sit around ten messages from him. But a quick scan of the messages, she realizes that he had been drunk. Drunk out of his mind apparently because the last message was nothing but a string of gibberish.

She wonders what he would've said had she been around to pick his call. It's eight in the morning, he's probably hungover with a hammering headache, but she doesn't care. She's tired of being afraid of waiting for him, of being afraid to reach out, afraid of strangling him- she's so fucking tired of walking on eggshells.

The phone rings for a long time. And just as its' time for the server to tell her that he's probably busy or unavailable, he picks up.

"Hello?" His voice sounded hoarser and rougher than hers after the night.

"Hi." She hates how breathy she sounds; how happy she is that he's picked it up. And she hates how she already knows that she's not going to have the conversation she intends to with him.

"How are you?" He says, his voice sounding muffled. And she can tell it's because he's hurriedly pulling a t-shirt over his head.

"I've been good. Busy." She says and he hums. "How have you been?"

"I've been" He pauses, searching for the right word, "I've been stellar."

"Damn! The trip going so well?" She asks.

"It was." He corrects her. "I've been here for almost a month now! I've already extended my stay by five days! And you haven't even noticed." He accuses her, but she can hear the smile in his voice.

"Oh, you're not the only one having fun!" She says, "I've been busy too."

"Ah, that's how it is." He says, "What have you been busy doing?"