Shweta didn't believe in The Law of Attraction. She was more of a realist and didn't quite believe that simply vibrations could manifest something she wanted in her life. Frankly, she thought that was 'lazy' philosophy, one that promised you good things even when the only work you put towards them was sitting in a room and visualizing. She was more of a believer of Murphy's law.
Everything that can go wrong will go wrong. There's no point in curling up into a ball and crying about it- you suck it up and move on.
She had been more and more aware of the need for friends in her own life. Friends who didn't share so much of a bond with Vaibhav. There was her best-friend Riddhi, who was practically his cousin. There were Sanskriti and Aditya; both of whom were good friends with Vaibhav. This is exactly why she found herself hanging around Bhavya more and more. When Shruti curled up in front of her laptop with her pending assignments, Shweta found herself actually relieved that she had to volunteer to keep herself busy.
There was still the matter of finding an internship. The travel blogger had written back with a polite declination while she still awaited a response from the professor at Delhi University. She hadn't gone back to her father's blog and perhaps that was the reason she felt like she didn't want to look for more internships. Who knew what uncomfortable surprises were in store for her?
So, she spent her time at the Sunshine Centre for the elderly. While most of her work involved booking visitations with doctors', nurses and physiotherapists, she could always count on Bhavya to pop in and remind her to take a break. Or he'd pop in and they'd argue about whether or not Shweta had misplaced his sharpeners after she'd used them.
She found herself heading for the yoga class after working at the center. Shweta and Shruti had shifted themselves into the evening session and had ooh-ed and aah-ed over the gorgeous paper lamps on the first evening session. They had become good friends with Ritika as well who had taken a liking to the sisters and had promised them a 'treat' the following Saturday.
"Busy-bee, aren't you?" Shweta hears the familiar voice and even before she twirls around in her chair, her face lights up with a smile.
"I was wondering if you'd forgotten me." She says and Bhavya raises an eyebrow. "No, chance. Not when you've managed to monopolize my studio, like this."
"I'm sorry," Shweta says, feeling a bit guilty about it. "I've spoken to Mrs. Matthew multiple times and she's promised to shift me. But so far, she hasn't done anything!"
"Number one rule of being a rebel. You don't ask Mrs. Matthew for permission." Bhavya says, a bit of scorn in his smile.
"Who said I'm a rebel?" Shweta asks, irked by his tone.
"Well, you never said you were not one." Bhavya smiles and then points to the canvas on the desk.
"Can I get that?" He asks.
"Sure," Shweta says, grabbing it and giving it to him.
"And by the way, you're free this afternoon." He says, and adds, "You're welcome."
"Did you do that?" Shweta asks, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
"Yeah, I talked to Mrs. Matthew and cleared up your schedule for the afternoon." He speaks.
"And why did you do that?" Shweta asks, and he winks at her and shakes his head slightly. A curl falls into his eye as he does so.
"I've got something to show you." He says.
"Really?" Shweta asks, surprised by the gesture.
"Really." He affirms with a little nod. "Get done with your lunch by one-thirty. I don't like to be kept waiting."
"Where do I find you?" Shweta asks and he gives her a lopsided smile, "I'll find you."
Shweta smiles at him and he turns his wheelchair around and it isn't until he is halfway down the passage that she calls his name. "Bhavya?"
"Yeah?" He asks, turning to look at her, canvas in hand.
"Aren't rebels not supposed to ask permission from Mrs. Matthew to clean up other people's schedules?" She doesn't try to conceal the giggle in her voice.
"When did I say I was a rebel?" He asks.
"Well, you never said you weren't one." Shweta finds herself repeating his words.
The rest of the morning goes by with no interruption except for Mrs. Matthew who came by to let her know that she had the afternoon off. She finishes the work she had been assigned for the morning pretty early- half an hour before when she took her lunch break. She looks at her phone, scrolling through Instagram when a message pops up on her screen. How's my girl doing? It reads and she smiles, her chest warming up instantly. I'm fine, how're you? She sends a message back.
His reply is instant. I'm fine. We've reached –
That's good to know 😊 Hope you're having fun.
I am. I'd have so much more fun if you were here :/
You didn't invite me ☹
I know.
Shweta pauses at his reply, the two little words making her feel as though he was only messaging her out of courtesy.
But then she sees him typing again, so she waits.
I miss you He writes.
I miss you too. Her reply is instant. They make polite conversation about his trip until Vaibhav writes that its' time for him to go for lunch. I love you; she almost writes but she doesn't. It had been over a month since Shweta had been back home and within that time, she could easily count the number of times she'd had any contact whatsoever with Vaibhav on her fingers. It had been six times of messaging and one phone call.
Four of those times, Shweta had been the one who reached out. Maybe it was petty to try and count love- but if you don't count how will you know if you're giving too much? If she wanted to stay sane, Shweta felt like she had to count. Give herself something she could control and with numbers, she could do that. So, like prisoners who draw tally marks on prison walls to stay sane, she did the same.
The lunch that's there at the center is freshly steamed rice, bhindi cooked in coconut oil, cauliflowers and potatoes, some raita, and moong dal. It's a healthy and fulfilling lunch and Shweta feels drowsy after it. There's a clique system in the cafeteria- nothing like the unforgiving American high school system- but if you observed hard enough, you'd find the little groups. There were a group of old Bengali ladies who sang Rabindra Sangeet at four every evening.
There was a separate group of divorcees and a large group of widows and widowers. Then there was the group of old ladies and gentlemen who had lived most of their life abroad. They ate their lunch at the far ends of the cafeteria, at the tables away from the crowd and near the windows. There were the conventional 'class-clowns' and bossy 'prefects. There were lawyers, housewives, artists- people from affluent families and modest ones. Some had children who couldn't be bothered with them, some of them had insisted on living there and some were unmarried.
Shweta often sat by herself, not wanting to disrupt their conversations and also because she didn't know what she could say to them. It would be wonderful if she could waltz-like Vidya Balan in 'Lage Raho Munna Bhai' with an infectious smile and charisma. But she was just Shweta- boisterous and loud at times- but smart enough to know where she wasn't quite needed. There weren't a lot of younger people- most of the differently-abled people were well-past their forties. She wondered how Bhavya had found his way there. Lunch today is just as quiet as it usually is and when she polishes off every last bit of boondi-raita off her plate, she heads to wash her hands.
"Found you!" She can hear a triumphant voice exclaim.
"Did you finish lunch?" She asks him.
"I did, though not as slowly as you!" Bhavya says, cheekily.
"I just sat for lunch exactly ten minutes ago!" Shweta exclaims.
"Tch. Too slow! Where will you go in life this way?" He asks her and once she finishes washing her hands and drying them, she punches him lightly on the shoulder.
"Yet again." He says, shaking his head. "You're even slow to punch!"
"I'm not slow, Oh my god!" She huffs.
"Oh, for god' sake! Move fast, won't you? We're going to get late." He says, turning in his wheelchair. It actually so swift that Shweta can barely keep up with him.
"Where are we going?" She asks, not liking the idea of a brisk walk after lunch very much.
"You don't shut up even for a while, do you?" He asks her.
"Well, I could say the same!" Shweta exclaims. Every instance that she'd even so much as talk normally to him, he'd have a rude rebuff ready.
"But, to answer your question, we've got a job to do," Bhavya says.
"What job is it?" Shweta asks, panicking. Bhavya wasn't exactly a very, very nice person. Well, neither was Shweta. But he seemed just like the type who would do something that could land them in trouble. When had she started being afraid of getting into trouble? At sixteen, she would've dived head-first into whatever Bhavya would ask her to. However, at twenty-one, the idea seemed somehow less appealing. It seemed like an attempt to make her life unnecessarily complicated when it didn't have to be.
The cafeteria leads to a very large corridor which has walls only on one side. The rest of it faces the backyard of the building, with little seedbeds for the residents to tend to in case they got bored. There were some freshly prepared seedbeds for roses, pansies were already flowering and some sunflowers were rising not yet having flowered. Bhavya was one of the ardent gardeners at the residency- his patch was a bed of tulips a little further off in the shade. It was surprising that these flowers managed to bloom so well together. But with such tending and love, who wouldn't?
The large corridor extends for the most part of the building but now instead of an empty wall, there are rooms on the other side. The floors are spick and span, smelling of phenol. The courtesy of a very dedicated helper Usha didi who bent over and scrubbed the floor clean every day. Most of the rooms have large, old-fashioned windows that have an arch instead of a flat top.
The curtains covering the windows are all white- some are netted, some have white embroidery done on them, some have lacework and some are plain. Most of the rooms belong to the elder residents- these are considered 'premium' rooms- they are larger, airier, and lighter. Two of the rooms are dedicated music rooms. Each of the rooms has an old-fashioned grand piano made of dark cedar. Both these pianos had been donated by an Irish musician who had spent his last days at Sunshine. There is a cello lying at the corner of one of the rooms and a few stray guitars in each.
There used to be tablas- but they have all become extremely worn out and old. There is supposed to be a harmonium there as well, but a senior resident has taken that and claimed it for himself. When the lilting tunes of harmonium float out of the upper windows at three in the afternoon, it is difficult to ask him to return it.
Bhavya leads her to one of the rooms. Shweta is quiet now and she is very, very curious. However, much to her surprise, she finds out that they are not alone. One of the Bengali ladies Shweta had seen at the cafeteria is seated there. Dressed in a crisp, light blue cotton sari and a white blouse, she's got a Rosary on her neck. Her thin, white hair is oiled and coiled into a little bun that rests on the nape of her neck. She has thin-rimmed glasses that are currently hanging by the thread around her neck. She looks at Shweta suspiciously.
"Who's this?" She asks, in an accented English that catches Shweta off-guard. "You know, Bhavya this wasn't a part of our deal."
A/n: 👀
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