Dil Beparwah | ✔

thirty one

||CHAPTER 31||
《¤》

┊A R V I K A┊

Thin sheets of the newspaper covered his face. Our father sat in his usual resolve, still in his dark grey suit, his posture seemingly relaxed. The setting sun flooded the suite with its warm glow, illuminating the distance between us. An article on page 6 particularly interested him, and he peered at it through his glasses, leaning against the cushioned wingback chair with a commanding disposition.

My brother and I shared a look. He had been jittery even before he was informed about the meeting. Interactions between them were few and far between, and the last time Jolly Bua tried to bring the two of them in the same room, things didn't pan out too positively. So when our father requested his presence specifically, we had the hint of a notion as to what it was he wished to discuss.

Arnav's eyes darted towards the center table. Three gold rimmed cups and a kettle were placed neatly on a tray. Our father rarely spoke a word before his afternoon cup of tea. Two sugar cubes, tea leaves procured from Darjeeling. He had a type, a very specific taste that he harbored for as long as we could remember, a taste that he couldn't pass on to us.

I scratched below my ear, shaking my head. Whenever his feet had been planted firmly on the ground with no rhythmic leg bounce, grave business matters followed the pattern. Pouring him tea to initiate the conversation was pushing oneself to bear the wrath of his mood. I didn't want to risk having him being upset with me—not when we were sailing, especially not when his mood after the sail would command the weather of the Board Meeting. Arnav's brow creased, pleading at me with a look. The prolonged silence was deafening, beating down on us as a proof of our cowardice.

Our heads turned towards our father's secretary. His had always been an expressionless face, now with the wisps of grey hair peeking about. He guarded the door, standing a few feet away from us. One of our father's oldest and most trustworthy employees, Mr. Kumar wasn't very friendly to begin with, but right now, his stoic face was the only source of comfort we sought.

His jaw ticked, refusing to meet our eye for more than a second. His way of caving in was jutting his chin negligibly towards the tray on the table. The crinkling sound of pages drew us in again. From the other end of the sofa, Arnav hooked me with his beseeching eyes. With a silent sigh, I uncrossed my legs and bent forward. Perhaps, I could do this for my brother. Just a small gesture to hold against him in time if this small sacrifice worked favorably. For once, he did have it harder than me.

Hot vapors wafted upwards as I tilted the kettle to pour the tea into the cups. He took three sugar cubes, much to his doctor's dismay, so I had to swap the brand that was served in his suite. I had inherited his sweet tooth, but wasn't as flexible with restrictions.

When the first sip failed to impress him, I found myself clenching the ring of my mug tightly. On the newspaper that he laid on the table, Mr. Gupta was photographed at a press conference, dating back a few months. I didn't need to read the headline to know what it was this time that the media had written about their company—a wrenching feeling told me that was what this meeting was going to be about.

"Gupta ji bohot impressed hai ship ke saath," he began, dunking another cube of sugar in his tea. "Vika, you should thank him."

"I—uh," I fumbled, "Gift bags have been prepared—"

"Upgrade their suite. We have known them for years, this is the least we can do."

"But Dad," I dared to object, "Many others were impressed with the launch too. I've already upgraded the Raichands a few hours ago, that too because they are planning on booking the entire ship next month. Guptas are not exactly in business with us right now."