The seatbelt which fastened Spriha to Auro’s life was so frayed from the stresses and strains between them, he feared she would eject out any second.

That evening at the restaurant, Spriha had confided to Auro, even when they broke up, he was always in her mind. Pulsating, throbbing. Kind of like a tumour. When Auro asked her, why she hadn’t excised him, she said, it was too late, Auro had already spread, inside her. Did she mean it, literally? Had Auro’s half-truth, metastasised, to a point, where it could no longer be surgically removed from Spriha’s life?

While Auro holds his tears hostage, why does Spriha extort those promises from him, before she logs out of his life, for the final time? Why does she pass the buck of that envelope to Auro? What’s in it for him? The answers lie across the country in Spriha’s hometown, Kolkata. . .

Ferreting down the Departure Hall the airline staffer announces the last and final call. Auro’s feet are cold and his palms sweaty. He has broken promises before. What frigging difference does it make if he breaks one more? Spriha is never going to know. She isn’t watching, anymore. Or is she?