“That’s right I can’t,” he released her from his body and helped her down on the bed, nudging until she was horizontal. He pulled up the duvet to her chest and strode to the chair. Like the intern he had once been, Nilay grabbed each piece of clothing, shaking it gently to get rid of the dampness of sweat, then carefully turned them all out. He folded the dupatta with extreme care, holding the ends and ensuring the sequins didn’t tangle among each other. And then he left the ghaghra and blouse open on the chair to air out. When he turned, Ritu was on her side, only her face visible over the duvet, palms pushed under it. She was staring at him, looking adorable.
“I have some of my dried laundry too.”
He glared — “That’s art that you have left to decay like that.”
She chuckled, the sound throaty but good. So good. Nilay stepped back from the bed and looked at her. A burrito vibrating at him. He didn’t know he was smiling until she said — “You can sit.”
“Can I nap too?”
Her eyes narrowed. She pulled the duvet over her head. Was that her version of in-person block?
“Your side.” Her muffled command echoed. Nilay couldn't rein in his smile then.
He reached for his shirt, starting to unbutton and tuck it out. He was on the last one when she pulled the duvet down. Her eyes widened — “What are you doing?!”
“Napping,” he shrugged out of his shirt. “On my side.”
Her eyes went to his chest and he purposefully flexed it, taking his time unbuckling his belt. He set them both on the chair, over her ghaghra. It was a crime to tamp down his couture like that, he knew, but he couldn’t help the natural instinct — his clothes over hers, airing out. He climbed on his side of the bed and got under the duvet. She pulled it back over her head and he stared at the move. She was still for a while, so still that he thought she had fallen asleep.
And then he felt a vibration. Laughing vibration.
“That’s it!” He pulled off her duvet, grabbed her and bodily hauled her in his arms. She was still chuckling as he turned her in his arms, tamped her legs with one of his and set his palm over her eyes. “Go to sleep.”
“Why are you blindfolding me?!”
“Because you need weight and blackout on your eyes to sleep. Now quiet.”
Her body went still. And a moment later, his palm over her eyes felt wet.
“Ritu?” He pulled it off, only for her to turn and bury her face in his chest, sobbing loudly. He was stunned. He knew those sobs were not because he had covered her eyes. He knew he had asked for it with his constant honest-talk rant. But now that she was shattering to pieces on his chest, he didn’t know how to deal with it. He wasn’t equipped to deal with it. Never had he dealt with it. Tantrums, sure. Cravings, sometimes. Demands, always. For all three, his response had been standard — distance. Break. Break-up. The selfish, self-centred man inside him knew nothing about what to do when a woman was crying and making his skin feel like a fountain.
She hiccupped, and his body tightened. He felt her pull away from him and his arms instantly went around her, holding her there. Instincts were being born inside him, and he kept blindly following, running his palms up and down her back, tightening them to the point of pain. She did not protest again, crying even louder, drenching his neck. Nilay pressed a kiss to her head and her sobs softened.
“That works?” He spoke more to himself than her, and her teary chuckle was answer enough. He peppered her temple with kisses, until her wet face showed itself and brown, beautiful eyes, red with crying, smiled at him. He kissed one of them too, pulling her head back into his chest. At 41, he was ashamed to admit that he was clueless about how to comfort a woman.
“That man was my uncle.” Her small voice registered in his chest. Then went silent again. He pressed another kiss to her forehead. Then, a moment later — “Jimmy fuva. My father’s youngest sister’s husband. When we were kids, he was the cool uncle. They lived in Germany for a few years after their marriage. Then when they returned, they did with such great gifts. And every time they came to visit, even when they were living in Mumbai, Jimmy fuva never came without gifts for us — the exact thing he knew we liked. He was an archeologist, but didn’t make enough so my father absorbed him into his business. Share broking and trading. He was working with my family, but he would always tell us kids stories about his adventures and excavations. As we grew up, I was the most curious of them all, sparking conversations with him that went on for hours, even when others had gotten bored. I even became passionate about exploring archeology as a subject, maybe a profession. Then one day he…” her voice broke.
Nilay did not need to hear the rest to know where this was going. But he needed to hear how far it had gone.
“I never gave him any signs,” her voice thinned. “I never…” she choked. “Phew… I…phew…” she exhaled deep breaths on his chest, making it constrict. “I wasn't even aware of such things at 17… my world was limited to Mills & Boons, one man for one woman. How could I…? And he… he brought some ideas from some sect that… he asked me if I wanted to absorb all that he knew… to… and… I did not understand at first. He sent me SMSs asking if I wanted to know what he did, prepare myself for my future in archeology… I kept smiling through those messages even though my gut knew something was not right. But I couldn’t think so wrong about him. He was Jimmy fuva! And then he openly touched me at Raksha Bandhan lunch, in my room, asking if I had made a decision.” An animalistic cry erupted from her. His own eyes squinted.
“How could he?! He was… how could I not see it? I was so stupid. And then, I told my mother. She told my father. And he decreed that I should not come in front of him at family functions. Stay away.”
Nilay tore her from his body — “What?”
“Really,” her eyebrows went down, as if she thought he wouldn’t believe her. Nilay cupped her cheek — “I believe you, Ritu. I can’t believe a father would do that.”
“My mother was helpless. She had always been helpless, delivering five daughters for my father, the last of which was me, before she delivered a son. She asked me to pick something I wanted to study abroad and leave. I didn’t like it. I didn’t want to leave home and Mumbai. But I was so disturbed. We had three functions after that and every time I lived in terror. The first time I saw him after that, I was so scared. He kept looking at me. He… how can I describe how he looked at me. How can any girl describe it… it’s… helpless… like you are not safe anywhere… like if not today then tomorrow he will catch up with you… especially when he is so close to you and nobody is there to stop him… I didn’t know where to go. My room also didn’t feel safe. That entire night I tagged along with Maya. I spent nights crying and thinking what would my future be? If I couldn’t get over this, I would go crazy. Sometimes I would think I am overreacting. Iwasgoing crazy. I didn’t want to study or do anything. My weight started fluctuating then. I wasn’t like this. I liked my body, it was in shape. Then, as if my mind knew that a shapely body is not safe for me, it started pushing me into cravings and binge-eating. I don’t remember from where I found the drive to study, get the required numbers to qualify for Harvard entrance and gave it. I got in and left Mumbai. I only came for my mother’s funeral.”
He pulled her head back into his chest and tightened his arms around her. She hiccuped, finally drained of words. And tears. Nilay breathed slowly, deeply, hating this and needing to end her father. And that man. And then he remembered.
“What did he want from you today?”
She sniffled. “He wanted me to see his ill mother.”
“You will not see her.”
“I don’t know…”
