She Stole My Heart and My Favorite Toe

Darling, Darling

Riddhi meets Ridhi on a dating app. Ridhi’s name is actually Ridhima but no one calls her that. They laugh about how funny it would be if they were a couple. Hahahah, types Riddhi. Lmao ded, types Ridhi. Our friends would DIE, Riddhi says. 

For their first date Ridhi takes Riddhi to a park with her new dog. The dog is not like other dogs, it’s a cool dog. It’s also a dog’s dog; it gets along with the other dogs at the dog park. This dog runs gracefully, long-legged like a hound, with short ears. Riddhi feels all this reflects very well on Ridhi. The only thing is, Ridhi says thoughtfully, she hasn’t been able to decide upon a name yet. 

They go to a dog-friendly restaurant with elegant hardwood seating and thousand-rupee eggs in yoghurt on the menu. It’s Turkish, Ridhi says, you have to try it. She’s right, it’s sublime. S-U-B-L-I-M-E. Riddhi spells it out. Ridhi thinks uh-oh, I’m falling in love. Oh no, I’m falling in love again. These are not original thoughts, these are the stupid lyrics of a stupid song she doesn’t even like. Ridhi wishes with some irritation that the scrim of pop culture would not mediate her feelings before she is certain of what she feels. 

Riddhi says, what about Cat? Ridhi is in love, now she’s certain of it. 

Their friends do indeed think it is very funny. Here come the Ridhs, they say, when they arrive together. Neither enjoys being called Ridhs but they are both aware there is not a better bastardisation of their name. Rids is worse. Rudy sounds like they have internalised postcolonial racism. What’s in a name anyway. In bed they call out: Ridhi. Or is it Riddhi? It doesn’t matter. Riddhi is about to come. So is Ridhi. YES. 

They wear matching pajama sets, they wear matching housecoats. Their sex life is adventurous. They are exploring shibari. Ridhi ties Ridhi up. Then they are exploring knife play. Riddhi makes tiny cuts on Ridhi’s soft upper arm, and Ridhi’s eyes roll back in her head. Ridhi opens her mouth and Riddhi grabs her long, long curls and pushes her tongue into Ridhi’s warm, waiting mouth. 

They cannot tell who is who anymore. Is this Ridhi’s hand or Riddhi’s? Whose hand is wrapped around whose delicate throat? Who has made that ring of teeth on a shoulder blade? Riddhi and Ridhi are spent. After sex they spend some time slow-breathing in unison. Inhale, exhale, inhale . . . exhale, Ridhi says. Or was it Riddhi?

They have funny arguments about who is the better Riddhi. The real Ridhi. Riddhi argues it’s her because Ridhi is one letter short. Ridhi argues Ridhima is superior because in total it has one more letter. The second d is superfluous, she says. They fight. At first it is a joke, but then Ridhi slashes Riddhi’s left arm with the knife she was using to cut an apple. Ow, Riddhi says, and her face darkens. She says nothing, but at night Ridhi wakes up in terrible pain. Riddhi is drunk and has chopped off her little toe. 

They go to the hospital together, carrying the little toe in a Ziploc bag on ice and frozen bananas. Ridhi doesn’t cry, but she keeps mumbling something over and over. Riddhi bends closer to hear. That was my favourite downstairs finger, Ridhi is saying. They sit in the waiting room. My downstairs finger, Ridhi says. 

The toe is reattached. For the next month Ridhi is totally reliant on Riddhi. Riddhi helps her go to the toilet, she bathes her tenderly, she cooks all their meals. She even throws away all the whiskey in the house. From now on she will be a teetotaller, she says. She is toxic, she is sorry, she weeps. If Ridhi leaves her she no longer knows who she would be. Is that why you cut off my toe, Ridhi asks her. So I would be with you always? So I would depend on you? No, Riddhi says. I wish it was that, but I was motivated by childish revenge. When I was a child I used to tie up my younger brother and lock him on the balcony. I told him it was a game, but I was just jealous. It was that evil side of me. By the end of the month she is so remorseful, she insists they make it even. Ridhi must choose an appendage to cut off. 

It must be something inessential but inconvenient. The tip of her earlobe, Riddhi suggests. The pinnae. 

Ridhi is not keen on this plan. Blood makes her nauseous. Besides, she is tired of teetotaller Riddhi. Sober Riddhi is less daring, less bright, less funny, less horny. I don’t care about my stupid toe, she says. Can we please move on, she begs. But Riddhi won’t listen. When I look at you, all I see is a toe, she cries. Ridhi tries to wear sexy lingerie, rolls a giant doob for the both of them to reignite their sex life, but Riddhi is too regretful. She takes off Ridhi’s bra and then she just bursts into tears. Sitting in a thong that is surely cutting into her rectum, Ridhi thinks about what her life has come to. How ugly Riddhi looks crying. Her nose is red, and her cheeks and eyes are swollen. Ridhi thinks with some satisfaction, I am the superior Ridhi. 

Okay, Ridhi says, let us compromise. It has been two months since the toe incident. Ridhi can now walk around with a walking stick. She is a freelance content writer, working from home anyway; she gets ChatGPT to write articles on luxury watches for different magazines. They pay her exorbitantly. She is the number three luxury watch specialist in her field. She is the one who has been paying for their drinks, their flat, the dog food. Now Riddhi must walk the dog after she returns from school and before leaving (she is a primary-school teacher). Ridhi stretches out on the couch with her laptop and yells, Riddhi . . . Riddhi . . . Riddhi . . . Riddhi, until Riddhi responds. I need my water refilled. And Cat has peed right outside the litter box again.

What makes everything even more unfair is that Cat loves Ridhi more. He spends most of his time sleeping beside her on the sofa. Riddhi used to think being a primary school teacher made her a better person than Ridhi, but since the toe incident this has changed. The dynamics of their relationship are altered. No longer does Ridhi hold an unspoken resentment about how Riddhi clearly thinks but does not say her work is more important than Ridhi’s. Now she holds an unspoken resentment about how Riddhi has become less fun since she stopped drinking. Ridhi begins to microdose Riddhi with alcohol in her coffee. She insists on doing this one thing—making coffee for them both. At school Riddhi is softer, kinder. She laughs more easily, the kids love her. She gets promoted. 

After six months of this Riddhi develops liver problems, and the doctor does not believe her when she says she doesn’t drink. Her eyes have that telltale yellow, and her brain is soft as plasticine. She has become both stupider and nicer than she used to be. Doctors do not mind nice people, they are easier to dismiss. Ridhi holds Riddhi’s hand. Makes eye contact with the doctor, unspeakingly confirming yes, yes she is a drunk. What can I do, you love who you love. Riddhi’s remaining friends have an intervention for her. They are concerned that she always seems drunk. Riddhi is convinced that nobody understands her except Ridhi. She decides that Ridhi is right, she is clearly the superior Ridhi. She drops the second d from her name. She dresses exactly like Ridhi now. 

You can see them both on Sunday on either end of the couch. Two braids, a flowered kaftan and round black glasses. Between their feet sits Cat. He is the only non-Ridhi here.