Iti

Chapter 1

Right at the moment the pup tried to run to her, with her unsteady, chubby legs teetering—that somehow looked like a kabaddi player springing here and there with determined curiousity while raiding the opponents—Dhriti had mentally tagged the name, Kabaddi.

The quietness soaking around in Dhriti's one bedroom flat—precisely, her too-small-for-two-people, soap box like kitchen—was sprinkled upon by the slight rustle of a uncovering of a plastic cover.

Snagging out the green, limey detergent bar with a hand, she dropped the torn plastic wrapper as it dangled down to the mini dustbin at her feet. Momentarily, dropping the bar at the round, plastic dabba that had the weakened remains of the previously used soap bar, Dhriti fished for her four year old iPhone 5S from her half-trousers' pocket, plugged in her earphones.

With Mustafa mustafa bursting out in AR Rahman's peculiar voice—energising her even before she'd had her morning dram of chai—Dhriti's hands skillfully worked on rinsing and scrubbing the dirty vessels. After Mustafa, Muqabla, and Urvasi, when the sink was almost empty, her phone's default ringtone interrupted the music.

Dhriti washed her soapy hands and ran her wet hands over the soft clothing of her cotton shorts before drawing her mobile phone out.

Mother—her display read, as tension started to clutch around Dhriti's shoulder muscles. She looked away from the display, a little irritably—trying to slacken her nervous self. Gulping, she plucked the earphones and stuffed it in her pockets, before she swiped the call and put it in her ears.

"Hello." Mrs. Praneshwar's stoical voice put a lump in Dhriti's throat out of nowhere.

Couldn't it be a text message, mother?

Dhriti cringed at her thought. It was her own mother calling, yet she couldn't bring herself out to attend her phonecall.  

She swallowed an empty throat, willing the lump disappeared, whilst the next traitor—her bloody heart—picked up in its pace. "Yes, mother," she said, in a low, cracked voice.

"I have been knocking on your door for the past fifteen minutes," Mrs. Praneshwar said, still in a perfectly unaffected voice. "Could you let me in? There's something we need to talk about."

And then the call was cut.

Dhriti clutched her forehead with the cup of her palm, plodding out of the kitchen and shoving her phone in her trousers' pocket. She was used to her mother's curt tendencies, yet somehow, even today, it agitated her.

Kabaddi was already standing halfway to the door, her tiny head excitedly swinging between the door and Dhriti, approaching it. Before attending the door, she crouched down to pick Kabaddi up in her arms, cuddled her to her chest with a hand and gave her a peck on her teensy but soft forehead.

When Dhriti opened the door, Veda Praneshwar, dressed in a neat, wrinkle free, ivory khadi cotton saree, stood there impassively—as expected—holding a foldover, floral clutch purse in her hands, with her car's key slung in her index finger.  

Attentively, her eyes lunged down to the puppy that was struggling to get off her daughter's arms and sniff the new woman in front of her, and then slightly narrowed. "You got a puppy?"

Dhriti slogged a couple, courtesy steps back as in to let her mother in, tackling kabaddi with both of her hands and drawing her back to a comfortable position in her chest. "Two months back."

"The flat association—"

"They allowed it," Dhriti said, smacking in the middle. "Please have a seat, mother."