Ayesha
Wednesday dawned with a soft glow, the anticipation of Sahil's trip to Pune permeating the air. Sahil moved purposefully, selecting his attire—a crisp white shirt, charcoal grey trousers, and a navy blue blazer that added a touch of sophistication. He expertly knotted his tie and juggled confirming meeting details with Jane, his efficient PA.
Seated at the breakfast table, I observed Sahil. Limping slightly, he approached the table, his mobile deftly sandwiched between his shoulder and ear. As he settled into the chair across from me, he deftly extracted the freshly toasted bread. He spread butter with a knife, his hands moving with a practised routine but stressfully.
"I'll do it," I mouthed, delicately taking the bread and knife from his hands.
"Thanks," he silently conveyed, expressing gratitude with a warm smile.
A minute later, he concluded the call and stretched his neck, a visible sign of discomfort from holding it in a twisted position. Moments later, he ended the call, stretching his neck—an involuntary pain motion from its twisted position.
"Why not use the loudspeaker?" I inquired, proffering the toast.
He leaned down to take a bite rather than accepting it from my hand.
"I don't know, just a practice, I guess," he mused, his mouth still partially occupied by the toast. Another bite followed. "Whenisyourflight?"
I chuckled, "Finish eating first."
With a swallow, he gasped lightly, "When is your flight?"
"At 9.30. I will be leaving in 20 minutes; when are you leaving?"
"Now," Sahil proclaimed, stuffing the remaining toast into his mouth.
"Jane has already sent the car down; it is waiting for me."
"What, really?" I exclaimed, surprised.
"Yeah, I need to go. Jane will kill me," he said, rising.
In a move that added a happy beat to my heart, Sahil wielded a knife with finesse, scooping a lavish amount of butter. Skillfully applying it to freshly toasted bread, he presented it near my lips, a mischievous grin playing on his face.
And just like that, my heart melted.
Blushing happily, I took a bite.
"I still need to get used to this, you know?" I smiled radiantly at him, taking the toast from his hand. "Us having breakfast feels so long ago, yet like it was just yesterday."
"Take all the time you need," Sahil said, kissing my temple. "Who's in a hurry?"
*******
The aeroplane touched down on Delhi soil, and the mixture of nerves and excitement inside me felt like a turbulent storm. The cityscape outside the window was both familiar and inviting, its vastness reverberating the vastness of my mission - to weave back the unwoven threads of Sahil's life.
As I stepped into the bustling airport, my determination fought against the fluttering butterflies in my stomach. Sahil's parents, people I'd never met, were just miles away.
And then, the reality of my mission began to intensify.
Convincing Sahil's parents wasn't the daunting part—it was the unpredictable storm that brewed in Sahil's eyes every time the topic arose. The fear of triggering that distant and sad-blended emotion, an amalgamation of absolute longing and nameless moodiness, added an unexpected complexity to my mission.
I remembered moments when the mere subject of his parents would cast a shadow over Sahil's face. It was as if a curtain fell, shutting me out from a part of his world he wasn't ready to share. The longing in his eyes was absolutely visible; why couldn't he see it?
I reflected on the plan—it seemed like a straightforward path from the realm of thoughts.
Yet, as I stood in the bustling airport, the reality of action brought forth a barrage of doubts.
What if Sahil's parents couldn't see past the choices he made? The fear of judgment clawed at me. What if, in their eyes, I was nothing more than an intruder disrupting the fragile equilibrium of their lives?
The possibility that his parents might vehemently deny the idea of returning to Mumbai with me loomed large. The knot in my stomach tightened at the thought of facing their rejection.
And then, a more haunting thought emerged—what if, against all odds, I managed to persuade them to come to Mumbai, only to find that Sahil wasn't ready to revisit this chapter of his life? The prospect of being the architect of a reunion that he might not be prepared for sent a chill down my spine.
What if I became the catalyst for irreparable damage in my pursuit of reuniting a family? The fear that Sahil might never forgive me for the upheaval I was about to unleash clawed at my conscience.
I stopped dead in my tracks.
As the crowd around me continued its frenzied haze, my mind raced to find an explanation for the sudden halt. The footsteps and distant announcements seemed to fade as I grappled with the weight of the doubts that had momentarily paralysed me.
And then, in the quiet recesses of my mind, my heart found its voice.
I had seen the pain etched in Sahil's eyes whenever he spoke of his parents. It was a longing, an ache for a reunion that he carried with him like an unspoken burden. He wanted this, and he wanted it desperately. He needed this.
After all, he was their son, and they were his parents.
It was going to be okay, like always.
Or at least like most of the time.
*****
I was overjoyed because roughly three years ago, on the night before my graduation, I joined Sahil on a visit to a spooky, old house. It was the only way for me to find out where his parents lived. On our way to that eerie, abandoned place, which surprisingly held many a zillion memories close to my soul, Sahil had shared something personal. He had shown me his house. This knowledge guided me back to his parents' doorstep.
Given Sahil's reserved behaviour on the subject of his parents, he would have never told me where his parents lived and would have gotten incredibly suspicious had I asked him.
Life has this incredible way of completing circles, doesn't it?
The last time I was here, three years ago, I was insanely, wildly and deeply in love with Sahil, oblivious that he felt the same way. Little did I know that the very next day, he would propose to me to be his girlfriend in the same spot where we first met—India Gate, amidst a downpour of heavy rain.
And now, with a sparkling diamond ring gracing my finger three years later, I am officially his fiancée.
The journey to this moment has been anything but smooth.
The first year felt like a magical fairy tale, a dream I never wanted to end. But in the next two years, life took an unexpected turn. I ran away, seeking solace from the overwhelming challenges life threw me. And after a hundred mistakes, a thousand misinterpretations, and a million tears later, here we were.
Lost in deep reflection, I was jolted back to reality when I realised we had arrived. Fumbling to pay the cab driver, I checked the house. I had never seen the place in daylight.
The two-storied house stood bathed in a gentle glow in the warm afternoon sunlight. Its cream-coloured exterior absorbed the sunlight, giving the residence a soft, inviting appearance. A small garden adorned with flowering plants added a touch of vibrancy to the front.
Approaching the front door through a thankfully open gate, I took a moment to compose myself before ringing the doorbell. Nervously, I stole a glance at my outfit. It seemed decent enough, just in case Sahil's parents were a bit old-fashioned.
With a deep breath, I pressed the doorbell, the sound echoing through the quiet afternoon. The tension hung in the air as I waited for the door to open, uncertain of what lay on the other side.
And then, the door opened.
A woman stood before me, bearing a striking—yet not-so-striking—resemblance to Sahil. It was in the eyes, my mind instantly noted. Those coffee-bean-roasted eyes, brown swirling in black, mirrored his so perfectly. Beyond that, her facial features didn't quite match Sahil at all. She wore a dull and faded saree, matching the subdued tones of the surroundings.
I found myself face-to-face with Sahil's mother. Her gaze met mine, and for a moment, the air crackled with unspoken recognition.
"Ji?" she asked, her tone carrying a faint hint of command, much like how one would address a stranger. The formality hung in the air, bridging the unknown and the expected politeness. The moment stretched, suspended between acknowledgement and inquiry, as I gathered the courage to explain my presence on their doorstep.
"Namaste, Aunty. " I folded my hands in greeting, "Jaya Malhotra?" I asked, my voice surprising me as it came out calm and composed, starkly contrasting the tension inside me.
She nodded, her eyebrow narrowly raising. Her eyes, reminiscent of Sahil's, held a curious but guarded expression as if deciphering the purpose of my visit.
"My—my name is Ayesha. I am Sahil's friend."
Those eight words hung in the air, but her face went blank. It was as if those words had opened the door to a deluge of memories, catching her off guard. The air thickened with unspoken questions, and I braced myself for whatever response would follow. Then it occurred to me that I should probably speak in Hindi, and maybe she didn't understand what I said.
I began repeating the same in Hindi when she rudely interrupted me, "I heard what you said."
Her words sliced through the air, carrying a tension that left a palpable unease. The moment hung, caught between the vulnerability of my revelation and the stoic reaction it received. The silence that followed echoed with unspoken narratives, leaving me on the edge of anticipation for what would unfold next.
"I heard what you said," she repeated, the words carrying a stern finality.
Her eyes, still holding that guarded curiosity, bore into mine with an intensity that hinted at a sea of emotions beneath the surface.
Feeling vulnerable yet determined, I decided to press on, switching to Hindi. "Maaf kijiyega, Maine -," I began apologising, hoping the familiar language might bridge the gap.
But she cut through my attempt, "I understand English just fine. No need for the Hindi drama," her tone clipped and cold.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, realising my assumption had added another layer of tension to an already delicate encounter.
"I apologise if that was unclear. My name is Ayesha, and I am Sahil's friend," I reiterated in English, this time with apprehension. The air hung heavy with the unresolved, the following moments poised on the brink of revelation. "Can we talk?"
Jaya's face initially betrayed a flicker of anger, a storm clouding her features as the weight of unspoken words hung between us. The lines on her face etched a narrative of frustration and confusion, the uncharted territory of Sahil's absence and the silent questions that lingered.
But then, as if a softening breeze had swept through the room, the anger in Jaya's eyes gave way to a subtle vulnerability. Without uttering a word, she moved aside, a nameless, wordless gesture inviting me to step into the house.
Jaya Malhotra shut the door with such a loud bang that it startled me. The echo lingered in the air. And then, I realised it would be better if she would lead me on to settle in the hall or whichever room she wanted to.
Thankfully, she took the lead and walked ahead, and I followed. She escorted me to the hall and pointed at a neat couch.
"Sit," she commanded.
The hall was neat and well-decorated. I noticed how beautifully the room was set up, with flower vases and decorative items adorning every inch of the space. The scent of fresh flowers lingered in the air, adding a touch of elegance to the ambience.
The only thing the room lacked was the presence of photo frames.
Not a single frame adorned the walls, leaving them bare and void of the captured memories that usually filled such spaces.
The absence of photo frames struck a chord in me, almost resembling Sahil's apartment. Sahil had a penchant for a well-decorated home, but not a single photo frame adorned his walls. It was as if both spaces shared the same aesthetic preference—an appreciation for beauty without the need for captured moments frozen in time. Or was that a conscious choice or a forced decision? I inclined towards the latter.
I glanced around the hall and noticed a few other details that echoed Sahil's taste. The choice of colours, the arrangement of furniture, and even the subtle selection of artwork on the walls seemed to reflect his influence. It was as if the room had absorbed a part of Sahil's essence, creating an environment that felt strangely familiar yet uniquely its own.
"Is Uncle here?" I asked as I settled down and instantly regretted it by the look she threw in my direction. I was met with a stern expression that hinted at a boundary I had inadvertently crossed.
An awkward silence lingered in the room.
"Sorry," I mumbled, looking anywhere but her.
"Say whatever you want to quickly. I don't wish for Adesh to be aware of this meeting. You have time till he returns from grocery shopping."
I didn't like that idea at all. I wanted to talk to both of Sahil's parents. But I decided to rest on that matter and begin the conversation anyway, only to be interrupted by her again.
"You are not his friend," she stated flatly, her gaze fixed on the glimmering diamond ring on my finger. "You are his wife, aren't you?"
"Huh?" I said unwisely, not understanding how can a person draw a correct conclusion within seconds. I could firmly reject the assertion, but I decided to be honest. "We are not married yet, but we intend to. I am his fiancee, "
The air seemed to vibrate with a delicate dance between revelation and reservation.
"You look different from the girl I have seen on TV," she said flatly, her words carrying a blunt honesty that cut through the room. "She was taller and more good-looking. Riya-something, her name is."
I flinched, the mention of Rhea Mishra casting a sudden shadow over the conversation. "Rhea Mishra. Yes, Sahil was with her for a few years, but we have been together for the past—" How many years do I say? Four? One? Two and a half? "past few years, yes."
"Never really liked her, " Jaya commented despite herself. "But why haven't I seen you on screen? Aren't you also an actress?"
"No, I am not an actress. "
"What do you do then?"
"I-" What do I say? A software engineer? But that was 3 years ago. What do I do now? What do I actually do? "I worked in a software company, but now I do donation drives. I go on tours in search of underprivileged orphanages and donate money."
"You donate?"
"Yes,"
"You have a lot of money?"
Taken aback, I answered unsurely, "Yes."
"So, you brought him with money?"
The question felt like a tight slap on my face. My eyes narrowed, and blood rushed into my face. My hands clenched the fabric of my dress.
"That is very wrong to say," I said calmly. "Sahil is not a money-oriented person, and our relationship is not based on that. I love him for who he is, not what he has. And he reciprocates the same feelings to me. And Aunty, although I agree we don't know each other, I think we can converse like mature adults with respect for each other. "
Jaya paused awkwardly for a long time, unwilling to say a word. She looked away from me for the first time in the entire conversation.
"Thank you, Aunty," I said before gathering myself to speak.
And then, I began to speak.
I spoke from the heart, weaving a narrative of Sahil's journey that transcended the glitz of his success. I painted the picture of late-night rehearsals, auditions that seemed insurmountable, and the moments of self-doubt that only his closest friends and confidantes, like me, had witnessed. I shared anecdotes that showcased his perseverance, the countless times he had faced rejection only to rise again with newfound determination.
I spoke about how Sahil longed for the presence of his parents, about how he wanted someone who would hold his back and be there for him amid the glamour of the glitzy world. I spoke of his yearning for their support, the void left by their absence, and the unspoken desire for them to be there with him.
As I continued to narrate, there were moments when tears of pride and pain welled in my eyes, and an overwhelming surge of love for Sahil reverberated through every fibre of my being. Each pause I took was a moment to collect myself before delving into the next chapter of Sahil's life.
Throughout the narrative, Jaya remained silent, an unwavering listener with an impassive face, revealing no trace of the emotions that might have stirred within her.
It wasn't until the final words left my lips that Jaya spoke, her voice brutally calm.
"Did S-Sahil send you here? Does he know you are here?"
I noticed this was the first time she had taken his name in the conversation.
"No, Aunty. I came here without him knowing; he did not want me to speak to you," I admitted.
And then, she burst into tears.
Silent tears.
She held her hand to her mouth and shut her eyes, the only motion of life being the continuous cascade of tears. Her body began to rock in pain, the vulnerability etched across her features as the walls she had built in my presence before came crumbling.
"Aunty—" I began helplessly, but she shut her ears with both her hands and began crying more, tears continuously cascading down her face.
I felt tears build in my eyes, and the realisation hit—both of us were connected in an eerie way, bound by a thread woven with emotions, pain, and love.
And the connection?
The man we both loved dearly.
With all our lives.
Sahil Malhotra
Not knowing what to say, I stood up and hastened near her and held her shoulders; she silently collapsed into me with a nameless desperation and cried more. I rubbed her shoulders soothingly.
"Jaya?" A masculine, surprised voice interrupted us.
If I thought Sahil's mother resembled Sahil strikingly, I was wrong.
So wrong.
Sahil's father was Sahil in every way—same facial features, body posture, tall, lean, and brawny, though now old. One could replace the grey hair with black, and Sahil would stand instead of him.
But I noticed the difference as my eyes met Sahil's father's.
The eyes.
While Sahil's eyes were a deep, warm brown swirling in black, resembling a roasted coffee bean, his father had raven black eyes. They now held a certain weariness, reflecting the years gone by and carrying different pain.
Sahil was his father except for the eyes.
His eyes were his mother's.
Adesh Malhotra dropped the grocery bags on the floor, the rustle of paper bags echoing through the hall, and rushed to his sobbing wife.
"Who are you?" he snapped at me.
But before I could formulate an answer or decide if I should reveal my real identity when Jaya did not wish to, Jaya answered tearfully,
"She is Sahil's fiancee."
********
Sahil
Having wrapped up the brand contract signing in Pune, a sense of accomplishment and relief washed over me. We had wrapped up the meeting quite earlier than anticipated.
My team suggested a detour to Veer Dam, just a short distance away—a haven for bird enthusiasts and supposedly a nature-soaked place. My team assured me they wouldn't spend more than an hour in the Dam. Intrigued by the idea of nature's spectacle, I agreed.
A quietude enveloped us as we arrived at Veer Dam, approximately 60km south of Pune. The air carried the earthy fragrance of nature. Excitement lingered in the hushed whispers as we approached the water's edge.
The Dam, slightly quieter and less known than other tourist spots, unveiled itself. Waders, flycatchers, and raptors like the Marsh Harrier and Common Kestrel painted the skies with their elegant flight. Yet, the true gems were the migratory visitors—Bar-headed Geese and Demoiselle Cranes—who had chosen Veer Dam as their winter sanctuary, reuniting with the place they considered home for years.
Observing these majestic birds, I reflected on the concept of reunion.
Having traversed great distances, the Bar-headed Geese had found solace and sanctuary in the tranquil waters of Veer Dam. The Demoiselle Cranes, with their graceful dance in the air, seemed to mirror a sense of connection and harmony.
The moment's stillness prompted me to reflect on the essence of reunion—how beings, guided by an innate instinct, could find their way back to a place of belonging. It prompted me to contemplate the enduring cycles of connection and return that weave through life.
How beautiful was that?
*******
Ayesha
As Jaya urged Adesh to listen, I recounted Sahil's journey again.The room transformed to an intimate theatre of family revelations. Now seated beside Adesh, Jaya became a captive audience to her son's life narrative again.
Like a fresh stream, tears cascaded down Jaya's face again, mirroring the unspoken depth of emotions stirred by Sahil's story. At junctures, I paused to take a deep breath, collecting the fragments of a narrative that echoed with the weight of separation and longing. There were moments when sobs escaped Jaya's mouth, a visceral response to the son she had yearned for.
Tears flickered down my cheeks, an involuntary acknowledgement of the emotional terrain we traversed together. The room, once a space of a family's lifeline-their son, now bore witness to a family's raw, unfiltered emotions yearning for reconnection with their lifeline.
Yet, amid this emotional tempest, Adesh maintained a neutral, undecipherable face. His features, a mask concealing the tumult beneath, held an enigmatic calm.
As the tears continued their silent descent, we sat together, engulfed in a shared silence that spoke volumes. The room now echoed with the hushed emotions of a family yearning for a reunion. The three of us formed an unintentional circle, bound by the shared tale of a life lived apart. The weight of the unspoken pain settled in the room, creating an atmosphere of profound vulnerability.
"But he left," Adesh said with a seething intensity when I concluded my narration. "He left ten years ago. He made that choice. He left us. With what? A useless letter saying he wanted to act? Useless!" His voice elevated into a shriek, echoing the years of pain and abandonment.
Jaya's response was a silent sob, a delicate symphony of heartbreak in the room.
"He left to follow his dreams, to become the person he is today!" I asserted, determination lacing my words. "But he hasn't forgotten you. He talks about you all the time."
"Talk is cheap, young lady," Adesh snarled, bitterness cutting through the air. "He chose fame over family."
"He chose his passion!" I countered emotionally, a fervent defence rising within me. "Is that so wrong? He's not the same person who left. He is mightily successful, but he's still your son. Your only son!"
"Success doesn't erase the past," Adesh retorted, clinging to his resentment.
"I understand your anger, but he's hurting," I implored, my voice softening. "And if family means so much to you, why didn't both of you reach out to him once? He was barely twenty-two, a young boy, figuring life as it is. You can't expect perfection from a young boy! We all make mistakes. So did he. But was it not your duty to counsel and get him back if he made a mistake? Was it not your responsibility to allow him to follow his passion? Was it not your fault for not being there when he needed you the most?" Tears streamed down my cheeks, an unfiltered expression of the emotions that surged within.
"What do you want from us? Why are you here now? After all this time?" Jaya asked tearfully, her voice a fragile melody.
"Because Sahil misses you both so much. Please, I request you both come back to him. He loves you both so much. It has been ten years; it's time for the scars to heal," I pleaded, the room now echoing with the silent plea for reunion and healing.
In the room, emotions swirled like a tempest. Jaya, a tapestry of silent sobs, carried the weight of maternal yearning. Adesh, a storm of anger and bitter regret, clung to the wounds of abandonment. I, a vessel of passionate defence, sought reconciliation amid tears. The room pulsed with the unspoken plea for a reunion.
"We need time to think," Adesh said, echoing the unresolved turmoil.
"Please. He is just a flight away." I extracted the ticket from my handbag, pushing it across the table that separated us.
Adesh scanned the printed ticket, anger flickering on his face. "What is this?" he demanded.
"Your tickets to Mumbai this evening," I said, pleading silently with my gaze fixed. "Please meet Sahil. I know you both want this as much as he does."
"Are you mad, young lady?" Adesh growled fiercely. "How could you even assume we would return with you that quickly? We are not going anywhere! Absolutely not. And the audacity to suggest this-"
"I am going with her," Jaya interrupted.
Adesh stared at Jaya, his expression contorted in anger. "No, you are not."
"Yes, I am," she spoke firmly. "I have had enough of this drama for the last ten years, but now I can't continue. You don't know how painful it is to wake up every day and wonder if he is okay." She choked on her sentence, a fresh wave of sobs flooding down her cheeks.
"Uncle, please—"
"I don't know?" Adesh demanded, standing up, his voice raising several decibels. "I don't know?"
"Uncle, Aunty—please," I pleaded.
But by then, Adesh had stormed to the adjacent room. He returned a minute later, carrying a medium-sized cardboard box. And before we could fathom what he was doing, Adesh had emptied the crate, throwing the contents in the air, revealing a treasure trove of newspaper clippings.
Newspaper clippings—thousands of them—spanning a decade. Each clipping featured Sahil's photograph, accompanied by a headline. Neatly pasted on respective-sized chart papers, they chronicled the journey of Sahil's fame over the years.
Each clipping flew around us, creating a whirlwind of memories before settling in a pile beneath us. Now adorned with echoes of Sahil's journey, the room became a sanctuary of tangible milestones, a silent testimony to the son they hadn't seen in a decade.
"Oh my god," I murmured in the entirely silent room, my gaze fixed on the accumulated pile near our feet. Jaya looked equally stunned by this sudden revelation, unaware that her husband had silently collected milestones of their son, whom they had long lost.
"Uncle, please," I whispered, tears flowing down my cheeks as I joined my hands before him. "Returning to him does not make you any less of a person. In fact, it makes you a bigger person. I don't have a father, and I cannot fathom a life where he would have been indifferent to my pain. But any father would do this for their child. I know you love him. Please don't let your ego lose your son. Please come back with me to Mumbai. He misses you. He really does."
"Adesh," Jaya whispered tearfully beside me, "We lost our son once; we cannot lose him again. Please, let's go. He needs us. Please."
A long silence engulfed the room, the weight of unspoken emotions echoing within its confines.
Adesh, a stoic figure in the face of vulnerability, finally gave a nod, a silent agreement resonating through the room.
As a single, unnoticeable tear trickled down his bearded cheek, the room seemed to exhale, releasing the tension that had held it captive for a decade.
********
When we landed in Mumbai that night, a sense of gratitude washed over me. Sahil and his team's detour to nature-rich places in Pune had inadvertently led them to miss their early flight. Now, they would be driving back and arriving at 9 PM instead of the original 6 PM schedule.
"I am so sorry," Sahil wailed when I called him before boarding the flight at half past four.
"It's okay, Sahil," I reassured, sighing relief. Originally planning to barge into the house with his parents, the delay allowed me to settle Sahil's parents before Sahil's arrival, a comforting change of plans. Of course, I had no intention of revealing my plans to him.
"Did you get the certificates?"
"Yes, I did. Don't worry, I'll reach home and call you."
"You'll be okay by yourself, right?" he asked anxiously.
"Don't be silly," I chuckled. "Of course I will."
The flight was exceptionally awkward. We were assigned different seats—two together and one separate, which I gratefully accepted. Sahil's parents didn't speak to me unless absolutely necessary, and it seemed pointless to engage in conversation when both were clearly engulfed in their thoughts. The air between us was thick with unspoken tension.
I had shared everything about Sahil's life with his parents except for my battle with cancer—a part of Sahil's life that I believed should be his decision to disclose. Moreover, I wanted the focus to remain on reuniting the family rather than adding another layer of complexity.
When we reached Sahil's apartment, it was half past seven. I assisted Sahil's parents with their luggage. While I hadn't travelled with anything except my handbag, Sahil's parents had a trolley filled with their necessities. There was another neatly wrapped, slightly dusty package that Adesh seemed hesitant to disclose to his wife.
I escorted them into the house, and once they had settled, I offered to make tea. They agreed. As I busied myself in the kitchen, my eyes anxiously darted towards the giant family clock in the hall—it would be eight soon. The uncertainty of Sahil's reaction lingered in the air. His parents sat on the couch, deep in thought, not exchanging words. I served them tea, and they drank it silently. I told Sahil's parents that Sahil was in Pune for a brand contract and would be arriving at nine. They did not acknowledge that.
Time trickled.
And at 8.55 PM, the doorbell rang, and all three of us stiffened. Sahil's parents rose from the couch. Giving a nervous, reassuring nod to Sahil's parents, I opened the door. Sahil stood there with his hair messed, and the navy blue blazer on his left arm. He gave me a wide grin.
"Do we have guests?" Sahil exclaimed loudly, pulling me into a big bear hug and giving me a mild peck on the lips. He walked inside with an arm around my shoulder, "I saw pairs of slippers outside our house. Who has arrived—"
He stopped dead at the sight of people standing near the couch.
His arm dropped from my shoulder as quickly as it had wrapped around it.
Sahil's parents froze, too, surveying their son whom they had not seen in the past ten years.
The room hung in suspense, the ticking of the family clock echoing louder than ever. Sahil's eyes stilled, locking onto his parents. A wave of emotions surged through the air—surprise, disbelief, and a hint of something unspoken.
Time stood still as the clock struck nine.
***********
A/N:
I apologise for the delay. Though I had 60 days of Semester-end break, I couldn't write. I was hit by something so massive that I lost my writing ability. I just couldn't. I could not write a single poem, which is ironic because writing has always healed me. But not this time. I just did some bland writing internships that I had taken up. But an emotional piece would not come out of me. No matter how hard I tried. No matter how bad I wanted to finish this book by the year-end, no matter how much I wanted to pen some things down, I couldn't bring myself to write. I never really thought something could steal away my writing ability like that, but it happened. Apologies for that. Hope you all are hale and healthy!
Loads of Love.