Adieu
It is 9.30am and Vasanth is sitting on my bed attentively. He has the notes app on his phone open and an anxious look on his face. "Sanju can we please get this done with?"
Vasanth is rarely impatient but he is under duress and would like to finish writing some hand written thank you cards and his last email to the company out of the way. It has been eight years and three months at this organisation that he somewhat deems home. It is longer than any romantic relationship he has been able to sustain (yet). The nerves hence deem empathy that I try to express, as I stand in front of the mirror wearing my eyeliner with concentration. The wings must be long enough to be just right. Not to fly away.
"What do you really feel, Vas? Write that down. We'll make edits and jazz it up with magic. Worry not," I say.
So Vasanth tries to summarise his journey that has made him travel to two cities far from his home, find him his beloved but also give him purpose. He begins at 'Adieu'.
***
I'm not best known for my memory but I remember the exact moment I saw Vasanth walk into our Madurai office for the first time.
I had sat at the newsroom all day, arriving at 10am to meet my boss. Back then, I didn’t know that reporters spent a chunk of their mornings reporting (or not) and came into the office only by 3.30-4pm. So I waited and waited, talked to my mother, sent pictures to my then boyfriend and cursed myself for the rare moment of not carrying a book.
At 3pm, my first colleague arrived. He called everyone 'gentleman' and asked me kind questions about what he needed to know answers to. He was a crime reporter. He also said, "Oh, 'Sanjana’. My daughter’s name is Sanjana too" and went on to reveal that he had two high school going children. Next, the court reporter arrived. He also had two kids and a sub-editor wife who worked in the cabin next door.
When Vasanth walked in at 4.30pm after everyone else (a tradition that continues till today) with his leather bag slung across his shoulder and a cool complacency in the air, I assumed that he too was married, had two kids and was looking to spend all his time in this city full of temples and tantrums.
Vasanth went on to defy every expectation I had of him. He was reeling from a big breakup and had to occasionally meet the potentials from matrimonial sites. No children. He was looking to move somewhere. Anywhere, I guess. He knew most things about me before I knew enough about him as he had both — seen me briefly at ACJ and registered my face (it’s a beautiful face, what can I say), and stalked me on Facebook. He was also, not cool. The leather bag was just an embellishment to his supposed aura.
Vasanth was tasked with taking me to the collectorate the following day. To date, he continues to mock me for being just a tad bit over enthusiastic about getting quotes from protesting villagers who sat on the street on my first day on the job. I sat down with them to get bytes. "Yaaru da indha aarva kolar" he thought to himself. He then bought me tea at Meenakshi Bhavan and slowly tried to warm up to the idea that he would spend many more years buying me tea and mocking my spikes of enthusiasm.
***
New year's are honestly terrible for young reporters. We are tasked with stepping out and writing about any possible hazardous incidents that may have taken place on December 31 so our private (pity) parties cannot begin till 11pm.
When 2017 was transitioning to 2018, Vasanth, Tilak and I had forged a friendship thick enough for coffee, common lunches, Arabian Nights rum and lots of mocking. We also began hanging out often and sometimes nearly all the time.
Tilak however, got the rare permission to leave to Mysore, his hometown, for new year’s. Vasanth and I had nobody but each other for company. So he came over, I got on a hundred calls with friends and he sat, switching the music.
When the calls stopped and the music turned mellow (we had approached the end of the night), I said to Vasanth declaratively, "Vasanth, you have to be my best friend now. No choice. You know too much about my life. I know little about yours but we will change that right away. Promise me. Best friends".
He looked at me funny, with a smile, and promised an idiot girl 11 years (okay Vasanth, 10 and a half) his junior, to be her best friend.
***
It was February 10, 2024. Vasanth was to quit in four days. By now, we had been married for three years, moved from Madurai to Chennai and survived two awful covid lockdowns. I had shifted some jobs but ended up right back at The Hindu.
He had ordered a bunch of items, mostly samosas and sandwiches, for his team. It was his farewell treat. He didn’t want me there. He seemed tense and annoyed that I had asked. So I left in a huff, upset at this man who had once promised to be my best friend six years ago. "Why does he not want me? Do I embarrass him?" I wondered.
I didn’t speak to him properly that day. He came back and apologised. "I’ve been swimming in my head, Sanju. I’m sorry. It’s not like I didn’t want you. I love you," he said.
***
Vasanth and I have gone through several iterations of our relationship at office. We have been friends, a messy situationship, girlfriend-boyfriend and married people. We have always sent each other articles we find interesting and exchanged "Do you know what happened?" gossip across the corridor. We've encountered rare career highs and several, several lulls.
In the year that I've been at the Chennai office, Vasanth has been shy about meeting me at work again. "But we sat next to each other for three years and even dated in secret," I tell him. He laughs and runs away when I threaten to come close for mock PDA.
He moves on to bigger things. He will be the boss of a bureau, a leader, in an office alien to me.
"I feel like a river is thrusting me forth. I don't know what I'm feeling. I'm making the right call, no?" he asks.
I try to assuage the doubts for him and me.
Today, Vasanth leaves this organisation with a beautiful email and several conversations that he will hold dear. Unfortunately, the only imagery I can think of is that of my winged eye liner - 'wings long enough to be just right. Not fly away' or some such nonsense.
Today, he bids adieu and leaves behind his best friend.
