“Smart-ass answers are not allowed.”
“Fairplay, one for one.”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“B.A.”
“That’s it?”
“I was studying fashion and fabric courses on the side. Be glad I could manage this.”
“I’ll give you that. And I wasn’t judging you for your education. I was just surprised you have built a business out of an Arts degree. Anyway… What is…” she looked around and changed course. Now was the time for hardballs. “What does this village mean to you?”
“How do you know it means something to me?”
“It came and whispered to me.”
He smiled. “My mother was from here.”
“What? Really?”
He nodded. “I have spent summer vacations here at my Mama’s house.”
“Where are they now?”
“They live in Modhera, but their factory was here.”
“In Patan? Did they make Patola?”
“Hmm, weavers for 18 generations. Or at least, that’s how far they can trace their lineage.”
She felt stars drop and shine in her eyes. This man was not just a prodigy but had the blood of artists running through his veins? There were so many parts of him that were still breaking down and re-emerging. And she wanted to keep doing it. She wanted to be proven wrong over and over again.
“Where is your mother?”
“She passed away a long time ago.”
“Oh.”
“Mmm… what’s number three, Doctor?”
“Number three… right. Oh yes, what is that transcript you talked about? From our first meeting?”
He smirked — “Where you cut, burned and did not have mercy on me?”
“You were staring uncouthly and I should have what? Stricken a pose and let you stare?”
He stepped back and gave her a once-over. This time, it did not feel objectifying, or creepy, or even rude. Ritu was ashamed to admit that this time it made her breath hitch.
“You don’t need to strike a pose.”
And that breath was gone. Suspended. She couldn’t find it.
“Lies,” she found her voice, though.
“I don’t lie.”
Ritu rolled her eyes — “Your transcript, Nilay.”
