Dil Beparwah | ✔

thirty six

||CHAPTER 36||
《¤》

┊V A R U N┊

I might as well have yelled, "Honey, I'm home!"

Renuka peeked at me from the book she was checking out, inserting it back in the hardwood shelf. In my living room, she looked very much at ease for someone who was trespassing. "Did you grab any pretty souvenirs for me, darling?"

"Does a fancy multi-ply tissue count as a souvenir?" I reached inside my jeans pocket. "It's scented and has the DEEV insignia."

She observed the crumbled paper napkin for a second before narrowing her eyes at me. "Depends on whether you use it to wipe your sweat or my tears."

With a snort, I wheeled my mini-luggage and stood it by the sofa, which was bereft of the pile of dry clothes I usually dumped there. Cushions arranged prim and proper, I could even see the floor through the glass of the coffee table.

"I can't really tell if this is a welcome-home present or an eviction notice."

She didn't bat an eyelid. "A good will act rooting out of sympathy. Your bai is underpaid and your kitchen unhygienic. Seriously, what has become of you?"

Of course my head turned towards the kitchen that I'd left in a dreadful state. The sink reflected a scratchy yellow of the chimney light. My place? Un-fùçķìñg-recognizable.

The squeaky-clean dining table then caught my attention, faint smell of deep-fried snacks reaching my nostrils just in time. "Fefde!" I made my way over to the table, lifting one of the plates that covered the food. "Now I know you missed me."

An eye-roll, knew it without having to see it. "Faafde. Baa had left-overs."

"Sure," I scrunched on a piece. Lunch was a complimentary affair offered by DEEV, and that was hours ago.

Renuka waited patiently while I changed into a laundered set of clothes. October wind blew the curtains shading the balcony, setting off the wind chimes. She wrapped a kalamkari shawl around her shoulders, sifting through her phone when I returned. "Auntie called the other day."

To me too, and because she had an impeccable timing, I had to return it some other time. My mother tended to a one-track-mind. "So this is an intervention."

"Tujhe pata hai ki she is only worried about you."

"And that kitty circle." Maa's lifeline, a clique of senior ladies that met thrice a week to vent about their families over cups of chai and shots of brandy.

"Probably where she received a second hand invitation to Andaman's winter wedding."

I needed a smoke for this. My mother still harbored a hope that Latika and I could be fixed. That our separation was more friskier a decision than the hurry we had for getting married.

"Where the fùçķ is my ashtray?" On the top shelf of my cabinet, that's where it was peeking from.

"You should talk to her."

And because I didn't want to decipher whether the 'her' referenced my mother or my ex-wife, I let the matter slide. Both were terrible ideas.

"Tiwari ka kya hua? Now that settlement is off the table, court-kachehri ki tayyari hone wali hai?"

"Not right away. There has been a development in the case-"

"The daughter, Mahima..? Is she..?"

"No, no," she waved her hand dismissively, staring at the balcony. "She's fine. Foolish, but fine."

"Fir? What's the development?"