“No, this is not her, and stop calling me, man. It’s been six months,” I shout in the guy’s ears. He clicks his tongue and is nonchalant about it. I just know he doesn't care what I say. All he wants is to talk to Sunita. How am I supposed to know who Sunita is and what business she has with him? I am tired of being mistaken for Sunita. I am not her. Even if I was her, I just know I could do better than this tongue-clicking guy.

“But Sunita ji gave me this number. I am Satish,” he says. Once again, how is this my problem? But I decide to calm down, which I often do when dealing with strangers who mistake me for a woman. “Listen pal, it’s like I said. This is not Sunita. Just confirm the number again and stop calling me. I haven't even had my coffee yet.” But, of course, he doesn’t care. He goes, “Do you know Sunita ji?” Seriously? “You know what pal? I do know her. Yes, I do. But she is real mad. She doesn't want to see you ever again,” I say, followed by a long silence. He takes a loud breath, and I stare at my office ceiling, wondering. I then turn towards my phone, hoping for that ‘leave granted’ text from my boss.

“But I didn’t do anything wrong. Why is she mad at me?” he says.

“Well, why don’t you ask her?” I say. He clicks his tongue again, maybe out of habit, and talks to me, “Is she mad because I told her cucumber should be called water cucumber, just like how we call melon a watermelon?” I open my mouth to speak, but he makes it interesting, “Or because I told her I don’t believe in astrology.”

“It has to be the second one, mate,” I tell him, and he exhales. “If you are this confused, just see her in person. Where did you even meet her?” Why am I interested?

“We work for Nobill Bank, and she was transferred to another branch. I don’t know which. While going away, she gave me her number…,” he says and hesitates to go further.“But how do you know her? Did she tell you that she is mad?”

“Mate, I was joking. Listen, whatever it is with you and her, fix it without getting me involved. Stop calling my cell and ask around the bank, for Pete’s sake,” I say and hang up. Poor Satish. Anyway, back to me. But wait, I still haven’t received the ‘leave granted’ text, so back to Nobill Bank lovebirds.

I couldn’t get this thing off my head, so I start dialling Nobill Banks around the valley. But of course, they wouldn’t let me have any information. I might as well have called the headquarters of the CIA in America; they would have denied as well. Anyway, I keep trying. I just want to know why Sunita doesn’t want to link up with Satish, who, I might add, has a soft voice. After weeks of finding nothing, I contact my friend at Terojob, and sure enough, I get hold of her. She works for Human Resources in one of the branches. So, she must be good with humans, right? right? Why do I kid myself?

I walk into the branch and ask for her. Sunita meets me at the front desk and I introduce myself and ask her for coffee. She hesitates, itches her coconut-flavoured hair but eventually agress. Score!

We sit down, and I get to business right away. “Why did you give Satish the wrong number?” Sunita can’t believe it. She must feel like being back to school all over again. A guy sends another guy to talk to a girl about the former guy. But she collects herself, “Because I don’t want to talk to him,” she says.

“But why?” I ask, trying not to make my intense vulnerability an issue. Sunita is used to this, I guess. By looking at her, I just know she is experienced in rejecting many Satishs. “Because I feel nothing about anything,” she says. What a nice way of expressing an interest in Nihilism.

Before I say something, she goes on, “My routine is dull. I had a tragic incident that deprived me of the privilege of feeling something. I chase fleeting connections. I crave momentary pleasures and regret later. I distract myself from the painful lessons life has given me. I procrastinate until anxiety takes over. I do not stay in one place for too long, fearing attachment. Hence, the transfer. So, yeah, due to all this, I gave him the wrong number.” She takes the Americano by her hands and slurps the hot stuff. I clear my throat, adjust my position on the seat and say, “It’s the tongue-clicking thing, isn’t it? That’s a huge turnoff.” She laughs. Of course, she does. She is a smart one.

“Your story, however charming, is not why I am here. I came here to ask you why did you give him my number?” Sunita is obviously taken aback. I wait for her to speak as I drink the Cappuccino that kicks in the right places. Instead, she takes her fingers to her hair and does the weird but charming hair-rolling thing. “Well, obviously, I didn’t know it was your number. I misplaced a few digits here and there while giving it to him. Maybe it was fate, you know? Weird things happen. I could have accidentally given him Rajesh Hamal’s number. Who knows?” She makes sense. “But why did you put all the effort to see me? Are you a friend of Satish’s?” she asks.

In the next few minutes, I tell the tale of my life. My routine has gripped my neck, and I breathe in bits and pieces. My mind takes advantage of my sensitivity and feeds the channel of anxious thoughts. I crave adventure but cannot escape my comfort zone. I need change but fear change. I love me, but I am tired of me.

Sunita looks at my hands. She then looks at my cup, where what remains of the kicking cappuccino is its imprint. When she finally meets my eyes, I tell her, “I will do anything to talk to a human. Heck, I will do anything to distract me from the impending doom that is my life.” She looks outside the window. Maybe in my rants, she heard a glimpse of her own voice. Maybe in all of our sufferings, we have a common ground.

“So, you are overly involving yourself with my matter because it distracts you from whatever you are going through?” she asks. I thought I made myself clear.

“But, anyways, tell me about this Satish,” I tell her. She thinks for a moment or two, “Maybe you’re right,” she says. “For how long will I hide within myself? Giving wrong numbers, leaving places, and having coffee with miserable strangers.”
“None taken,”

“Sorry. But I mean it. I keep telling myself I am fine, but maybe I am not really fine. Maybe I do need to give out the right number. Maybe I can keep my feet grounded where they belong. And maybe, finally, I can float where the tide takes me. I am tired of fighting the tide,” she says with a look in her eyes that tells me she is either motivated or wants me to pay for coffee. I was hoping we could share the bill. The prices for drinks in corporate buildings are as depressing as their employees.

Sunita finally decides, “I will try to be more honest and loving towards myself. And if I can do that, there is plenty of time to give out the right number. Right?” she asks me. “That’s brave,” I tell her. We walk out, and I already feel chipper. Maybe it was the rant or the cappuccino beginning to work its magic.

She thanks me as the dying sunlight lands on us. “And just so you know, you can build a routine that doesn’t grip your neck,” she says and smiles. “I’m just sayin’,” she adds, walking towards the building.

I walk back to the parking lot. Before climbing on the bike, I pause to look at the sky. A brain-rotted girl is taking a video of the sunset for her Snapchat buddies, which they will swipe after watching for 0.2 seconds.

Sitting on the bike, I realise Sunita’s words got to me. Maybe I am the force that grips my neck. Before I rev up the motorcycle, my phone vibrates. It better not be Pathao or Daraz notification.

It’s from work, and it says, ‘Leave Granted’.