“Of course, he shouldn’t have! But how dare he call you those things…” she trailed to a stop. “It’s not my place to say that. Sorry.”
“Trust me, whatever you say about him, I will be on your side.”
“Is he your only sibling?”
“Yes.”
She came in front of him, and he was unable to let go of her waist.
“And your father?”
“Daddy?” Nilay gave a bitter laugh, staring into the distance. “Multiply this by fifty. And raise it to the power of hundred.”
He tried to make light of it, but his blood boiled and a regret nowhere near bearable crushed his chest at the thought of his father. At the thought of his family. The four of them. Once upon a time.
“Nilay?”
“Hmm?”
“Your mother passed away 25 years ago?”
“Hmm.”
“And your father wants to get together for her punya tithi?”
“That’s what my brother says.”
Her cheeks puffed up, as if holding the question inside them.
“Ask the question, Ritu.”
“It is not my place.”
“You say that and still do as you please.”
Her chuckle was forced.
“Ask.”
“Why don’t you want to go?”
“Because I was cut off from them the day I lost my mother. There is no going back now.”
“What do you mean cut off?”
He remained silent.
“If it is not something you want to talk about…”
“I am a 41-year-old man. I have dealt with this and moved on. Long ago.”
“Then?”
“The simple fact is that I haven’t spoken about it with anyone in a long time. Actually, I haven’t spoken about it at all. I was 16 when my mother died. Until then, our family of four was like any regular family. Wealthy, because Daddy was one of the biggest landowners in the Panchmahal district. Our villages. Leased out to farmers for tilling. Life was normal. Regular. We weren’t spoiled, but we never felt the need for anything. Never had to ask. Toys, bicycles, VCRs, vacations abroad. And like any normal family of four, each parent had a favourite. I happened to be a Mama’s boy. I also happened to like all the things that she did — cooking, picking flowers and decorating the house, understanding colours and what looks good, sewing. She loved it. She was the daughter of the family of the best weavers of Patan. I inherited that. Sanket was all still waters, cold, keep-his-head-down and do-as-Daddy-says good boy. My father hated my hobbies, scolded me almost every single day. He called them ladies time pass. I never cared about it. Mummy was there to shield me. Then she left, and that grief was not even healing when suddenly I was thrust into a world where not only my lifeline and shield was gone but everything I ever held dear was also being snatched away. Daddy made my life hell. There is no point in going into details,” his throat dried, remembering the burnt pieces of woven fabrics that he and his mother had created together. Destroyed trunks of all good things he had made from scratch. Embroideries, laces, linens, tableware. Not just pieces but his memories with Mummy. Nilay snapped out of it.
“So, it came to a point of no return. And where my father thought he could finally break me, I got up and left. My Mama, my mother’s cousin, had a garment shop here in Kaapad Bazar. We had visited them every year for vacations. This time I came to him, asking for work and a few days of stay in his house. He and his family gave it. I didn’t ever look back.”
“You brought your mother’s sewing machine.”
