“Umm…” Samar trailed, glancing between husband and wife.
“Which girls?” Iram repeated.
“There was this MMS…” Samar started.
“MMS?!”
“Of me singing to these guys.” Atharva cut him off.
“What about girls?”
“Therewereno girls!” Atharva poked his back hidden from sight.
“Yes, there were no girls.” Samar agreed and got poked again. “Stop poking me, I said there weren’t!”
“You liars.” Iram was glaring at them.
“Myani zuv, I did not sing to girls. Fine, ok, I was singing with these guys and Adil made an MMS and sent it to who knows who and then there was some…”
“Some what?”
“Retaliation,” Samar added, suddenly enjoying this. “MMSs were expensive, and still it circulated among… elite Delhi circles.”
“Then?”
“Then nothing.” Atharva ended the conversation. Iram’s eyes came to him, and Samar, as a responsible citizen, was compelled to tell her. But he moved a few inches away from the poking hand before he opened his mouth.
“A certain mobile number was made public, and then the mobile owner was compelled to change his number.”
A kick pushed him off his perch. Samar toppled, but sat back, laughing. “Easy, my back can’t take it in this cold.”
Another kick and he went off into the freezing grass, his hands getting muddy as laughter rang out around him. Samar quickly settled back on the rug and got kicked again.
“Enough, enough,” Iram got to her feet, laughing. “Atharva, enough. If you want cake, then stop.”
He stopped. “What’s even the use? It’s not mango.”
“It’s strawberry season.” She walked around the bonfire. “Where is Arth, and Dani?” She traipsed inside the house. Samar moved his gaze over the bonfire and caught Amaal looking at him with a strange expression.
His brows rose.
She smiled, shaking her head.
He got to his feet and rubbed his hands together, the freezing mud contracting his muscles.
“What, are you scared of a little mud?” Amaal taunted him.
“Age.” He countered, walking across Atharva’s leg and kicking it as he went. A ball of something cold hit his back and he ducked, running into the house.
“What happened?” Iram startled from the kitchen.
“I just wanted to wash my hands…” he held them away from his body, feeling his fingers freezing into claws. Samar strode to the wash basin outside the hall bathroom and began to turn the tap with his elbow when Iram held up a bowl over his hands.
“This is hot water, don’t use that.”
Samar held his palms out and she poured warm water that mysteriously blew life back into his frozen flesh. He rubbed his hands together, pumping soap and washing the mud away. She ran out of water and immediately returned with another warm bowl — “I have been asking Atharva to connect this basin to the boiler,” she said, pouring water over his wrists. “But Janab has his own plans.”
“What plans?”
