Tilt

“He is busy, and I passed the message already,” Ravi mutters, slamming down the landline for the third time. His eyes flick toward me, full of that knowing look he’s perfected.

“Just checking your scans, bear with me five minutes,” I reassure the patient through the microphone, trying to hold my concentration. But Ravi nudges me aside with a firm hand.

“Go on,” he says, stepping in to take my place with a grin. “I’ll wrap this up for you.”

I offer him a grateful smile, stretch my neck, and let out a big sigh. It’s nearly 6:30 p.m., and only one patient remains before my shift ends. My mind drifts to the hospital canteen, where I know Julie is waiting. She works as an accountant in the same hospital. She is just a year older than me—tall, her skin radiantly dark, her presence commanding. We’ve been seeing each other for over a year now, and I look forward to these brief moments together, even if they’re rarely peaceful.

As I take the stairs up, I recall the first time I met Julie. When I arrived in Hyderabad city, clueless and slightly nervous, she took me under her wing, guiding me through busy streets and offering advice on everything from shortcuts to cooking. Lately, however, her care feels more intense, almost pressing. She’s introduced me to her family, her friends, and her whole world. They’re wonderful people, but I can sense the expectations looming. Her younger siblings are already married, and at twenty-six, she faces a lot of pressure from family to “settle down.”

“Hello, stranger,” she greets me with a forced smile, arms crossed tightly over her chest as I approach.

I can tell from her expression what’s coming. Bracing myself, I order two cups of tea and a plate of samosas. We settle into a quiet corner, away from the bustling crowd of visitors and staff. From here, I can see the television perched in the corner, playing some Hollywood movie on mute.

“I called your department four times today,” she says, counting on her fingers. Ravi said three. Perhaps the first call went unanswered, but I don’t say this. “It was a packed day. I didn’t even have time for lunch,” I reply, patting my stomach. It rumbles in agreement, and I can almost taste the chicken biryani I’ll have once I finish work.

Julie’s eyes narrow. “I’m not sleeping or eating well either, you know…”

“You’re overthinking,” I say lightly, glancing toward the counter. Where are those samosas?

“Do you really love me?” she asks, leaning forward.

I blink, startled by the sudden intensity in her voice. “Don’t be silly.” My gaze shifts to the TV as an escape. A scene plays of a plane colliding with one of the Twin Towers. Bad graphics from that movie, I think, squinting at the grainy footage.

“You’re not even looking me in the eye,” she accuses, her voice soft but piercing.

At that moment, our tea arrives. The assistant chef apologizes with a smile, promising that the samosas are on the way.

“I hope you’re making them fresh?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation toward something neutral.

The chef nods, leaving us alone once more. Julie’s waiting for an answer.

“I’ve told you this before, Julie,” I begin, taking a sip of tea. The warm notes of cardamom wash over me, helping me gather my thoughts. “I want to go to America. It’s been my goal for years. I need to do this for myself, even if just for a year.”

“Why can’t we marry first, before you leave?” she murmurs, twirling a strand of her hair.

“Ayyoo…” someone exclaims behind me, watching the TV. I glance back. The elderly lady looks horrified, eyes wide as she stares at the screen. Maybe she left her glasses at home. The footage of the plane striking the tower is playing over and over, and something uneasy stirs within me. But my focus snaps back to Julie as she taps her fingers on the table, drawing my attention.

“I’m not ready for that kind of commitment, not right now,” I tell her gently, sensing this conversation circling back to familiar territory.

She leans forward, voice low. “Are you seeing someone else?”

I choke on my tea, surprised by her question. “Are you crazy? My mind’s been on getting to America, and nothing else.”

Just then, the samosas arrive, piping hot and beautifully golden. I pick one up and break it open, releasing steam into the air. The whole scene is surreal—the repeating footage of chaos on the TV, Julie’s restless fingers on the table, the heat of the samosa warming my palm. The television keeps showing the plane hit the tower again and again. Strange, I think. Repetitive. The editor in the TV studio must have gone for a long loo break.

“Do you really think you’ll get your visa by December?” Julie asks, pulling me back to our conversation. “What if it doesn’t happen by then?”

“Give and take nine months,” I say, hoping the promise will soothe her.

She shakes her head, taking a big gulp of her warm tea. “I don’t think I can wait until July 2002.”

The words hang in the air between us, and I sense the finality in them. She’s looking at me expectantly, hoping I’ll say something to convince her, to make her stay. But I can’t make promises I’m not sure I can keep.

“Julie,” I say softly, “I never wanted to stop you from living your life, from making your own decisions.”

Her face hardens. She wanted me to fight for her, to make some declaration that would set her heart at ease. But we’d always agreed to stay together only as long as it felt right for both of us.

“I’m leaving,” she says at last, her voice barely above a whisper. She doesn’t move, though, just sits there, clutching her empty tea cup.

The silence is thick and heavy, stretching into uncomfortable seconds. I pick up another samosa and take a bite, the spicy warmth offering momentary comfort.

Eventually, she stands, gathering her bag. She glances at her watch, the gesture automatic, not really seeing the time.

“You mean…?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

She meets my eyes, her own shining with unshed tears. “Goodbye.”

Without another word, she turns and walks away, her figure disappearing down the dimly lit hall. I watch her go, the weight of it settling on my shoulders. Slowly, I finish the remaining samosas, each bite more bitter than the last. The TV screen flickers in the corner of my eye, showing the same chilling images on loop. This time, I realize, I’m blurred between real and fake.

A hollow sense of foreboding seeps in. The world outside our personal dramas has just shifted irrevocably, the gravity of it dawning even as my own life tilts off its axis.

*