Have Not

 It is the same story every morning, with a fresh realisation about a lack of some kind. Today it was not his mother saying that the rice is over so she will not be able to pack lunch, or his sister furtively asking if he could spare a few bucks, or even his father embarrassingly pointing at his empty shirt pocket indicating he was out of cigarettes. These demands he could indulge, they were placed with the right amount of platitude and guilt that would make him feel that without his generosity this household would simply fall apart. 

Today it was his brother. There was something really vile about a fifteen year old boy creating a scene. It could not be neglected due to his gruff and still forming voice that would alternatively be high pitched and heavy. It could not be ignored as a tantrum of a child either. His brother Munna was an otherwise quiet child. He remembered how they used to play catch with a tattered tennis ball in the lane in front of their house just a few years ago. But this was not child, this was a man, sitting on the plastic red stool that stood beside the door and putting on his shoe. He held up his left shoe and waved it towards their father

"Look at this, do you expect me to go out wearing this?"

The pasting of the shoe's body and the sole had come apart. A twenty buck job at the roadside cobbler should do the job, thought Bablu, still sprawled across his bed. He tried to draw the sheet over his head to block out the morning sun and Munna's voice. He agreed that the shoe was in bad shape, but there was no sense in shouting about it now. Bablu had returned late last night as he always does and he needed his sleep before the delivery rush of the lunch time starts. 

As he lay in the bed thinking if he could squeeze in a couple of more hours to get some overtime, he could hear voices being raised in the other part of the room, not that it was a large room that he could not hear them clear as crystal. Mother got up from the other end of the room which doubled up as the kitchen and entreated father and son to keep their voices low. 

"Munna, we will do something about this. Wear your father's sandal and go today."

Munna happily left his shoes, and took off wearing father's sandals. Father was just going to mumble something in between sipping his chai, when mother glowered, "it's not like you are going anywhere"

As Bablu sat up, he could see his father shrink away just like an insect cowers when someone prods at it with a twig. Still groggy, he squinted to see his mother again settling on the floor with her knife and vegetables. His father used to drive an auto, but his license had been suspended by the police, when he was caught drunk for the third time. Mother was not pleased with this. It is not like father used to be a really busy driver, he would hardly have a few rides in a day, but at least he was out of her sight. Now he used to sit in the corner and order unlimited cups of chai through the day. It is not like Bablu was mighty pleased with his father either. He knew the state of the house, he knew about the expenses, still he has to be unreasonable. When does this end?

Maybe he should get ready and start his deliveries since morning? Asif was telling him a lot of people order food for breakfast as well and that's a busy time. Bablu had been working as a food delivery boy for the past year and he had been doing pretty well. He was more than happy to fill in during the graveyard shift and that allowed him to make a few extra bucks. If he had not started in this line of work, he would never know about all these different kinds of food that people eat. Dosa, Falafel, Momo, Sushi - the list was endless. Since Bablu had a two wheeler that he could drive really fast even in peak traffic, he was a popular guy. His manager Swami said if he continued this way, he could go to the top, and he knew he would. He was not meant to spend his life in this one room with his parents and two siblings forever. 

His sister was already working in a hospital in the reception since the last two months. She had already left for work and would be back by evening. She was a diligent girl and he knew she would do well. Even Munna for all his whining was turning out to be a dependable chap. He was in college and would finish up in another year. the pressures were different for him and Bablu understood that. Kids that age can be cruel and walking into a place of study with a torn shoe might have been embarrassing for him. 

Mother gave him some breakfast that he thankfully polished off and got ready to go for work. 

"Are you leaving already?" she enquired. 

"Yes Ma, I think I will do some overtime today. I will get a pair of sandals for Munna on the way back."

She went to the other side of the room and picked up the shoes that Munna had mercilessly discarded. 

"These still have some life left, I will take this to the cobbler. Don't waste money."

Bablu smiled as he put on the uniform, his bright red t-shirt which his mother had cleaned and ironed for him. No matter how late he would come back at night, every morning he would find his clothes laundered to perfection. This is what he loved about this small rickety existence of his, it was small but never shabby. 

He hopped on his two-wheeler and sped away. The usual orders of breakfast time started trickling in. He picked deliveries and zoomed through traffic to reach his destinations. After the breakfast rush subsided a little, he drove to the regular tea stall where he and his buddies caught up through the day. Chandru was already there, in some deep discussion with two other fellows. Bablu collected his ten rupee paper cup filled with steaming hot sugary tea and joined them. 

He was happy with the work he put in this morning, this was sure to earn him a few extra bucks today. While the others discussed about the latest movie or some such nonsense, Bablu was busy preparing for the rest of the day. There was new shop near the railway station, they have a very good collection of shoes. Last weekend when Munna and he had gone out, he recalled standing at the window and admiring one. While Bablu was an avid fan of shoes with laces, Munna loved those slip on kind of shoes. there was one particularly nice pari that appeared to be made of plastic, but Munna told him they are called Crocs and apparently they were all the rage these days. Bablu did not understand the appeal of these but if Munna liked them he would try and get them for him. 

He was brought back to his senses as his phone buzzed. Delivery order for a pizza. Two boxes and some garlic bread and Coke. Someone is having a party on a Wednesday afternoon. Good for him. He whizzed to the pizza shop and waited to collect the order. He quickly loaded it on his bike and informed his customer that he was on the way. As he was driving to the destination, he got a call from the customer. 

"Hello!"

"Hello madam" he said with the most polite tone he could conjure as he dodged being hit by an SUV. 

"Bhaiya, Pizza delivery?"

This is what got his goat, he knew that when a customer got his number, they got his name as well. Why can't they ever call him and say "hello, is this Bablu?"

When he shared this with Chandru sometime back, he almost doubled up laughing. 

"We are all the same to them, you, me and few days later even Munna - Pizza, Dosa or Momo - that's all that we are."

As he thought about this again and the pain and shame of his existence washed over him as clear and real as the ashen smoke emanating from the school bus in front of him, the madam on the other end asked him to leave the pizza at the door and not ring the bell. Sure thing, he was happy to comply. In a few minutes, he reached the gate. This was the large apartment complex at the end of the road. He comes here very often, sometimes with multiple orders. He wonders if these people ever cook at home, but does not waste too much time thinking about it as this makes him his money. The security guards know him too. He opens his helmet and smiles at Suren who is sitting under an umbrella trying to protect himself from the scorching sun and catching a nap. He flashes the code which will allow him entry, but Suren seems to be in a lazy mood today and simply nods his head to let him know he can pass. Bablu parks his bike and takes the lift to the sixth floor and gets the door immediately. 

It is a party indeed! He needs to wade through a sea of footwear to get to the door. He stops looking around, wondering where he should place the pizza box. There is a shoe box by the door and he finally places the boxes on top. The Coke bottle rolls over and falls on the floor. 

"Shit!"

He mutters inadvertently. He can see the fizz forming inside the bottle. He carefully picks it up and places it on the shoe box again. It was somewhere in this entire time that Bablu first sees it and then no matter what, he cannot unsee it. There it was right beside the shoebox, a shiny, blue pair of Crocs. They were so pristine it seemed like they had been never worn. In those flashy corridor lights they looked even more stunning than they looked in the window of the shop near the railway station. He was not aware how or when it happened, but he extended his arm to touch them. His fingers quivered as he first touched them. They might have looked like hard plastic, but they were actually quite soft to touch. Oh how wonderfully comfortable would they be to wear he wondered. He looked around, no one was there, it would not hurt to just see how it feels. He opened his dusty pair of shoes and tried them on. How ugly his earthy, bare feet looked in those shoes. He was suddenly overcome with a deep disgust for himself. He took them off as quickly as he had worn them. It was as if the entire gathering of footwear - the Crocs, the sneakers, the ten other pairs whose names he had never heard were all looking at him and laughing. He pressed the button to summon the elevator but kept looking at the spread of shoes. 

How casually they were strewn around, he wondered, would they even notice if one goes missing. Clearly Munna needed this more than anyone of those pasty faced Pizza eating little babies beyond this door. As if an invisible hand pulled him, the elevator came and the doors opened. It was vacant. He did not take it, he went back and picked the blue Crocs. He held it close to his chest as if caressing a child. He took the stairs, roughly shoving the pair inside his jacket. How happy would Munna be to see this tonight! Hell with the rest of the day, he would go back home immediately. He wanted to see the look on Munna's face when he walks in and sees this shining near the door. After two flights of stairs, something happened and Bablu could not breathe anymore. What would he tell him when he asks me where I got it from? What would he tell mother? With father, she was just annoyed, to find out he stole would break her heart. He had made it to the ground floor and past the security fellow, but could not go further. He could not leave with this, but there was no excuse for him to go back either. Suddenly the import of the moment dawned upon him. He sat on his bike and went towards the exit gate. Suren was still dreaming under his umbrella. Bablu thrust the pair in his hands and left without a word.

Later, when they saw the CCTV footage, they saw this delivery guy walking to and from the corridor, trying out the shoe. The security in-charge told the madam of the sixth floor, you can complain with the company. 

In the other part of town, Bablu sighed and went to the shop near the railway station.

Have you read the newspaper?

 Have you read the newspaper off late?

What have we become?

Lesser than we used to be. 

Sitting in your larger, 

Air-conditioned living rooms, 

Having cereal, with milk from a carton,

And California almonds,

With frozen berries, of every kind; 

As you chomp down your breakfast,

‘Cause you need to catch the 10 AM meeting,

Have you read the newspaper?

The poor become poorer,

But that’s old news.

We are more severe on the weaker,

War looms large, knocks at our door,

So what? It’s not our children who are bullet ridden.

Somewhere a delivery boy kills someone

Over a parking spot, for he was getting late 

For a 30-minute or free delivery. 

Uneducated brutes, we smirk, as we sip our gourmet coffee.

Children are killed by mothers in hotel rooms

And packed in suitcases like dirty laundry

Young boys getting catfished by old men, 

Or vice versa,

Bullies everywhere.

We turn the page, big match tonight!

We turn the page, there’s some great offer on pizza, 

Delivered in 30 minutes, else free!

Festival

It was the ninth day of the festival,

A little too much sequin on people

And everyone seems to have taken a day off!

It was exceptionally hot,

The pitch on the roads were undone

Heaps of that horrid asphalt

Seems to have been scraped off

Like unwanted pizza toppings

And discarded on the sides

Electric wires streaming out

Like a fountain.

On such a sultry day,

We found our lost pooch,

Licking at the scabs on his haunches

Lest the flies fester again.

Not a spot of shade to bury his head in.

The fellow who sells coconut,

Tirelessly hacking

At those tender green fruits,

Was not here today.

The solitary shade from the flying plastic missing.

What is the mongrel to do,

But hide his muzzle

In the mound of garbage.

After all, the cleaner took the day off too. 

Summer

Summer reminds me of home

Of glorious Calcutta summers

of mangoes, of holidays

and sweaty afternoon siestas.

When Shakespeare was comparing 

someone to a summer's day, 

my teacher in school joked about him

not knowing the wrath of a Calcutta summer

Maybe not, more poor he for it.

Nothing goes past the summer,

She watches with her endearing grandmother smile,

as children graduate to new classes

make new friends, and foes. 

Mothers find a patch of shade

and sit and enjoy a cup of tea

while cutting thin slices of gooseberries 

to be neatly arranged out to dry in the sun.

The sun is a raging rebel

taming everyone with his iron will

but evening brings the kalboishakhi,

and no rebel stands a chance before a storm.

All rage washed down with

some cucumber water with mint

Couldn't be much more from the heart

A very very long time ago, when I was graduating school and Internet was in its infancy, results of our board examinations were published online. there were queues of students and their tense parents outside these little cyber cafes waiting to know their fate. For the uninitiated cyber cafes were establishments with a number of computers which had internet connection. The results would be announced at midnight or some such ungodly hour and a little before that time, people would start milling in and around these cyber cafes, in expectation, hope and trepidation. None of these people knew what the future holds. Will the internet allow so many connections at a time? will the server crash? When i put in my roll number would I be able to view my results? These and many more questions hung around like little clouds in the air. You could cut the tension with a knife. As the heart rates went up, the conversations grew sparse. I also remember these ancient websites had a countdown which was invariably in a red font on grey background. First they would count down days, then hours, then when it was down to the seconds there was absolute silence. This is it, this is the moment. 

The wonder and excitement of that moment was so pure, one built up with such genuine anticipation and subsequent joy, that I was pretty sure that it was something I would never feel again. Everything is so easily accessible now. Everything is at our fingertips quite literally, hence there is no real sense of achievement when you finally get it. 

But I was wrong. Yesterday I felt that - that unadulterated sugar-rush inducing all-encompassing exhilaration. 

So 28 February 2024, 10 AM CET is when the 2024 French Open premium tickets were to go on sale. We had planned this way ahead and we had thought we will be doing it together. But Joy had to go to Kolkata for his mother's surgery so we would be doing this from different cities. We were logged in from our different systems. I did not send Koko to school so that he can also sit with the iPad. We were counting down the hours, to minutes and then to those heart attack inducing last few seconds. With modern tech, the queues cannot be seen. But there was a cute tennis racquet holding icon who would go up and down an orange line indicating your position in the queue. 

As the seconds were over and the page said that you will be auto assigned a queue number, we waited to know what would be our allotted position. My nails are barely there anymore. No one cares about them. 

Finally the number appeared. We were frantically toggling between tabs, between systems, between individuals and between cities. Who would have the most probability to get it. On one of my log ins the number was 15,000 and something. The other one was 6000, I said. From the other end of the line you said you are at 40,000.  Sigh! this will be a long and torturous wait. 

But hold on you say, on one other system you are at one hundred and seventy. 170! Wow, that is luck. Someone said (someone being the hundreds of blogs which i had read to mug up all possible best practices for this venture) all you need is patience, luck and a steady internet. Alright, we have the most unpredictable element on our side. 

While my orange guys with their racquet were moving at a glacial pace, you were in within like 5 mins. We now had 45 mins to browse and select our seats. we got perfect seats, all together, straight viewing, the inclusive French food and wine sounds great - this is it! Buy it, Koko says. Buy it, I say. Let's do this, you say. This is all too good to be true. And you know what happens when things get that way right? They are!

Strangely, your credit card does not go through. No problem, try mine. It does not work. OMG, our time is running out, you try two other merchants, they fail. It's ok, we will figure something out. Yes, let's get money from fixed deposits to our main account and pay from there. That gets declined too, on both our cards. 

At this point in time I feel like i shall spontaneously combust - I have the damn money, I have the credit line, I am ready to pay - but it just does not work. What is this? The timer is running out. Wait, my orange guy at 6000 is almost in. we will still get some seats. But the issue with premium seats are that they are less in number - about 10-25 in each section and they get sold out within minutes. 

I call up my bank, they have an AI lady who thinks she is smart but she is stupid. She keeps repeating the same thing, so I have to get around her and get to an actual person. Gurpreet tries her best to solve my problem but she is none the wiser about why this got declined. In the mean time Joy and i are talking to each other on Facetime. Koko has given up, he gives me a hug and says - I know this was important for you, sorry. I have said my sorrys to myself already. Thinking in my head, this will be a good story to reminisce later. The time when we almost went to Roland Garros. 

You hang up, you're getting a call. You are talking to your friend Prapti who is also trying to get tickets. She says why don't you use my card, but those beautiful perfect seats are gone by now. You get a phone from your bank in the meantime - they declined the transaction because they thought it was a fraud. No, no, not a fraud - I am trying to buy stuff, I am trying to spend my money you tell them. 

But what's the point now, no tickets are left. We absent mindedly talk about how we were close, yet so far. I'm singing Nothing Else Matters in my head. Koko is reading Harry Potter. I don't know what is Joy's coping mechanism. Suddenly he says, wait, what if we are not sitting together. Two tickets just got free. At this point it just seems like empty rumination, so I go along. But Joy is not one to give up - so what if we are not sitting together - it's just three people in a row anyway. 

And he gets it, these are not absolutely in the front, but these are still premium tickets. OMG, are we really actually for real and in flesh and blood going to the clay courts or Philippe Chartrier? Yes yes and yes! 

Remember that absolute, pure, unadulterated all-sugar high? This is even better. IT's been 24 hours and I'm still processing it, this is to process it - to make it real. 

Chicken Sweet Corn Soup

 Kaveri was in her quarterly sales meeting when she got a call from her brother. The phone kept blinking on the table as she scrutinized the Excel her team had been working on. It was a long day and when she finally wrapped up, she checked her phone to see he had called two more times. Now, that was very much unlike Dadabhai, she thought to herself. 

She decided to call him back on the drive back home. Calling three times had to be something important, what could it be she wondered. If it was even a year ago she would have immediately assumed the worst about her mother's health. But she had already received the worst news last year around this time. Yes, it was September and she was again in the middle of something important. He called her a couple of times and something inside her just knew. Their father had passed away a couple of years back. Considering this she wondered what could be the reason. They hardly speak these days, except on mandatory days like birthdays and wedding anniversaries. There used to be a time when they were thick as thieves but those days are long gone. Even now, Kaveri speaks to Dadabhai's wife Neera much more than with him. 

As she pulled out of the parking, she called him. It was unreachable so she tried a couple of more times. They had not spoken in a long time and she just hoped everything was alright at home. The car swam along in the sea of traffic and she suddenly grew restless. She put through a call to Neera to check in on what was the matter. Even now, Neera had more information than Dadabhai. He was travelling for work and would be spending a day in her city. He was calling her to ask if it would be possible for her to meet. But right now he was on the flight so she could not reach him. She felt a little guilty for not receiving his call earlier, what was so important she wondered. 

The emotions moved quickly from guilt to anger. Can't he drop a text? Is it right to leave her in the lurch wondering what was wrong? Could he not have tried calling her one more time? Why is it always her responsibility to call and check on him? Did he check once with her on how she was doing after their mother passed away?

Instead of taking the right to go home, she continued straight heading to the airport. Bikash was not at home, he is also travelling this week. She would anyway have to go to an empty house, take out some leftovers from the fridge and microwave it. Instead she could go and meet Dadabhai at the airport and see if he would want to spend the night at her humble abode. Every time he travels he stays in some five-star accommodation that his office provides. Her small apartment would not be comfortable for him. He never asked to stay and she never offered. When did they become so formal with each other?

Today she was feeling a little different, she didn't know why. She remembered last September when both of them had rushed home after they received the news. Their childhood house suddenly seemed vacant. Now with their mother gone, they suddenly felt like the last anchor was lost. 

Dadabhai and Neera came in with their suitcases and their children. Neera quickly started putting the children away in a room and attending to the relatives. Kaveri was sitting by the living room window, she had not even bothered talking to the relatives, she hardly registered what they were saying. Bikash had been doing most of the talking till now. Dadabhai came and put a hand on her shoulder. 

"That's where we would burst crackers, remember?"

"Yes, every year"

"Then we would go out for Chinese"

"Oh yes, Ma loved Chinese"

"And you loved the Chicken Sweet Corn soup, but could never finish it."

They looked at each other and said "one by two"

The server at their local Chinese restaurant knew the children well. Whenever they went there he would come to the table and start reciting the order and always look at the kids and say "So Chicken Sweet Corn Soup, one by two, right?" with a wink. Then he would get two steaming bowls of soup. The vegetables and chicken swirling in a synchronized dance as the strings of eggy delight moved effortlessly in between them. The steam itself would fill their appetite. It was sickly sweet, just the way Kaveri liked it and Dadabhai would keep complaining the whole time, while adding all the available sauces into it, till it was a brown mushy liquid. 

They laughed a little and then hugged for one infinite moment, it was just a second. This was perhaps the last time they really spoke. She could not remember. 

Fifteen minutes till she reaches the airport, she quickly checked on Maps. While she was swelling with emotions right now, she also wondered if Dadabhai would be surprised, Annoyed or happy to see her there. The last time she had done something like this was when Dadabhai was returning after completing college. Gosh! that seemed like ages ago now. It was his cap phase, were he would wear extremely baggy jeans, oversized t-shirts and a cap. Her parents were accompanying her then. She had made a "Welcome Home" sign. He got out of the departure gates and flashed a boyish grin at them. He hugged her and told her he missed her. Why does it become so difficult to tell your closest people that we love them as we grow older?

She had reached the airport and was waiting at the gate. Looking around she saw so many faces of family and friends waiting for their loved ones - smiling, expectant faces. Some coming home, some just passing through - but for everyone - an island of home, right here between the comings and goings. The flight had landed as per the display but Dadabhai as usual was not answering calls. He must be hovering around the conveyor belt like a hawk, as if someone else would pick up his luggage. He is so much like their father, she smiled to herself. 

Suddenly, he saw him in the ocean of faces, he looked older than she remembered. When did his hair become so pronouncedly salt and pepper? The boyish grin was intact though. The moment he saw her at the gate, as if he was expecting her there all the time. 

"Why did you come all the way?" he said, busily handing her his bag. 

"I don't know about you, but I am famished"

"Let's grab a bite, Chinese?" he said, putting an arm around her shoulder. 

"Chinese, like old times?"

"Yes yes, one by two forever", he said. 

Maybe they don't need to say they love each other, maybe they say love each other like this. Suddenly, she was not tired anymore. The salt and pepper and backaches were forgotten, the outlines of the grown up people they had become were forgotten, they were just a brother and sister, talking and laughing about nothing and everything in a small booth at a restaurant having two steaming bowls of sickly sweet soup. 

Nowhere and Somewhere

 

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 - Nowhere and Somewhere

Arindam and Sharbari lived in a beautiful house. It was a quaint two-storey one. Her social media feed was filled with photographs of perfect table settings and garden seating. Whoever saw these, would always admire the picket fence, the lawn and the perfectly kept house. It was not easy, Ira would think, taking the compliments with a smile. Every morning when the husband would leave and she would have the rooms to herself she would proceed from one room to the other with the precision of a diligent maid. She would arm herself with her small box of supplies, brushes, brooms, gloves, soaps and sprays of every kind. She would be at it till every shiny surface would be spotless and every fabric would neat. She was never known to care much for house work, but she would absorb herself into this world to fill her empty hours.

No one who followed her flawless Instagram page could tell that though. Over there she was the cynosure of her generation, she had made it. She was young, beautiful, settled in a first world country, wife to successful man, what else could a woman want? Happiness was at her beck and call. She wore diamonds and gold. Her wardrobe was full of brands whose names half od her friends never knew or could pronounce. At her school reunion, they would talk about her in hushed tones.

“Remember Sharbari?”

“She is doing really well I ‘ve heard”

“Did you see her latest photos from Thanksgiving, she looks so happy”

If only they knew the difference of looking and being.

While she did preoccupy herself with photographing every shoe she bought or every coffee she drank, soon her interest waned and she wanted to occupy herself with something else, something more. So she would take up new projects.

At first she worked on a herb garden. There on her kitchen window she had carefully grown oregano and cilantro, right beside curry leaves. Now when she would make pasta, the basil would be within her reach. The herb garden bloomed, but her smile did not. She grew a vegetable patch. There were homegrown cabbages and tomatoes. There were an equal measure of photographs. Friends she had never spoken to would say “beautiful” and “wow” on each of her updates. Her family was happy that she was in such a good place.

Next fixated on decorating the walls of the house. She procured stencils and paint. She prepared pages and pages of design ideas. The walls on the kitchen would have cool greens and teal, with some affirmative messages written with her perfect calligraphy. But even as the project progressed, she did not feel very settled. So she moved to other parts of the house. There was a cozy nook in the study which had a reading chair. She intended to make a Warli design on that wall in yellow and maroon. For the small room beside the bedroom which had her small temple, she wanted to make a Tanjore painting for the empty wall. Arindam was happy that she was occupied with something. “Happy wife makes a happy life”, he would chuckle once at dinner to his friends as Ira went to the kitchen to fetch the dessert. In a bid to be at home, she was suddenly left nowhere.

As she slowly wore her mittens and opened the oven, a lesson from childhood came to her mind. She was sitting in the humid classroom and the fan was making an enormous creak every time it made a languid rotation. The geography teacher was talking about earthquakes. The tectonic plates are always moving. Ira was always fascinated by this concept that this land that we are walking on, which seems so solid and steady is in fact always in some sort of motion. So while these tectonic plates were moving, they sometimes just get stuck at the edges. Sometimes, they just don’t fit in like a piece from a jigsaw. But in fact, they rub against each other and cause friction. Over time this friction builds into something greater, and when this stress overcomes the friction there is an earthquake. So fascinating that sometimes, even one event is enough to set off a series of small apparently indistinguishable but significant events in motion to unsettle everything. Something akin to this was happening in her own life right now. The veil of love, or whatever cheap imitation of it covered her eyes, was long gone. Now every little thing irritated her. Every idiosyncrasy she earlier found cute, boiled her blood.

That was not the most unbearable part though. The moments when he would hold her close or when he would dismiss her in front of his friends as not understanding sports were the times she wanted to heave a sigh and with that blow away everything, including this life she had chosen for herself. So that day after his friends had gone and she was cleaning up everything, she decided that she needed to speak with Arindam. She called out from the kitchen while cleaning the oven, but did not hear a reply. After completing her chores, when she went up, he was blissfully snoring.

She went out to the backyard and sat down. Is this how you feel right before an earthquake hits you, she wondered? Everything seemed surprisingly calm. She looked at the millions of tiny stars which had illuminated the sky that night, it was beautiful. But it was also time for her to leave and see the sky from somewhere outside this prison.