Chaahat

PROLOGUE

May, 2014

The scorching heat of Delhi's May parched the throats of the daughter-father entourage. The rolled down windows of the black Maruti Omnivan, did next to nothing to lessen the heat, maybe let in more of the dry winds called loo.

The dry air had fogged their consciousness, and the flashing scenery outside could very well be a daytime rendition of Van Gogh's Starry Night. They zoomed past the humble, resourceful hubbubs of Paharganj, slowly transitioning into a greener, much quieter locale of the Greater Kailash, the horns and red lights fading away.

In the front, a forty something old man sat beside the driver giving instructions to a number fifty two something villa, his dourly handsome face standing in contrast to the humble beaded seat cover supporting a drenched back.

The father checked his daughter's reflection in the rear view mirror, watching as she swiped the sweat off her brow bones. She looked back and a knowing moment of acceptance passed between them. None of them spoke anything, knowing that their destination was near and complaining would only worsen the situation.

It wasn't Nivedita's will which brought her back to Delhi, but there wasn't much she could do to avert the situation. Her father's command was to be her will; as it usually was in most unimportant families.

When the van did stop, she opened the sliding doors to the dusty, old van and gently hopped down to gaze at the luggage for a while, contemplating on how to carry it so that none of it toppled over one another. Contrary to her expectations of the city, she heard the gentle buzz of cicadas and hoppers signalling a lazy afternoon.

She picked up a trolley and a duffel bag as she watched her father paying the driver, his eyes crinkled in the bright sun of noon.

One luggage in each firm hand, she turned towards home, a moderately sized villa among the once green trees. Their heads hung low, as if overcome by literal sadness due to their years of neglect. They looked like their spines had aged, just as the house had; its creaks and wood damaged barefaced.

The small green patch of land on each side of the entrance was covered in grass; years of growth ended in overgrowth preventing any other foliage to bud through. She found crimson remains of pots that were broken probably by dogs which had entered the property, or perhaps burglars? But what would one find in the abandoned villa of a pensioner's son?

After having done enough labour for two weeks, she finally stood in silence watching her father jingling the keys in his hands.

She smiled at the kathputli peacock attached to the key hole as a key chain, a Delhi haat treasure; something only her Ma would buy. Ma loved collecting small trinkets wherever she went. For her, souvenirs didn't have to be small, unusable mementos but little packets of immediate joy. And years later, these insignificant objects had become artefacts to the family of two.

The gutur goo of the pigeons combined with the chirping of the little sparrows almost sang a welcome song to the small family as the father opened the heavy doors causing years of dust accumulated to breathe new air.

The pungent smell of a locked up house, similar to that which meets the organs when an old book is flipped open to reminisce the feel of reread, old paragraphs, hit the family's lungs. One embraced it, lovingly. The other wanted to simply run a vacuum cleaner all over the place.

"Inform Ramnath uncle and his wife in number 22 that we have arrived, it would be helpful if they sent Hareesh over in an hour." Her father, Parashar Tiwari said.

The man had a story of his own. But to sum it up, he, like most fathers, had a diploma in hiding emotions and sacrificing his own needs for his close ones, the only one left being his daughter. Emotions that were much needed at times and those whose lack had hurt someone. But considering it collateral damage, he had let it slide for 'the better'.