“Tum kyun nhi gaati? Akshara ma'am itni badi singer hai, music therapist hai. Tumhe kabhi gana gane ka ya sikhne ka shaukh nhi hua?”
Armaan asked, tracing his fingers thoughtfully along the rim of his coffee mug.
Abhira took a sip from her own mug, contemplating his question for a moment before replying.
“Its not like maine kabhi try nhi kiya. Mumma ko gaate dekh kar mujhe bhi bachpan mein shaukh hota tha to sing but....”
“But?” Armaan leaned in slightly, his curiosity piqued. “What happened? I hope I’m not being too personal,” he added, noticing the slight hesitation on Abhira’s face.
“It’s hard to explain,” she said, her voice softening. “I guess I never connected with music the way she did. The way Mom feels and lives through music—I never felt that. It was always her thing, not mine. Kuch relatives ko to lagta tha I’d become a singer just because of Mumma’s legacy, and Abhir would follow in papa’s footsteps to become a doctor. You know how stereotypes work.” Abhira chuckled lightly. “But it was papa who put a stop to all that. He’d say, Hippocrates ne yeh to nhi kaha tha ki doctor ke bachhe doctor banenge, to mere bachhon se itna expectations kyun? And that’s how I became a designer, and my brother pursued his passion as a chef.”
Armaan smiled, clearly impressed. “Your dad has quite a unique perspective. I’ve always admired his approach to things, but using Hippocrates to defend your choices—that’s next level.”
“I know, right?” Abhira beamed, her smile broadening. “He’s always been that way.”
The conversation trailed off, and a brief, awkward silence filled the room. Abhira found herself wrestling with her thoughts, unsure of whether she should voice what was on her mind. She wanted to ask something but couldn’t decide if it was the right time.
Suddenly, Armaan broke the silence, his voice gentle yet probing.
“To tumhe wo mila jo tum dhund rhi thi??”
Abhira looked up, confused. “What? I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Well main jb room mein aaya awaz sunke to I saw tum already mere files samet rahe the. Thanks for that. But Maine kuch or bhi dekha.” Armaan said, his gaze steady, almost piercing.
Abhira felt her cheeks warm under his scrutiny, her eyes instinctively lowering. “What do you mean?”
“You were looking for something, weren’t you? Did you find it?” Armaan asked, his voice soft yet direct, pushing her gently toward the truth.
Abhira’s face flushed. Was she blushing? She hadn't expected him to ask this so openly. She fumbled for words, her mind racing.
“Well, I... I was just...” she began but trailed off, Armaan’s patient yet insistent gaze compelling her to speak the truth.
“I was trying to figure out if the guitar was yours,” she finally admitted, feeling slightly relieved yet still embarrassed.
Armaan leaned back against the headboard, his eyes moving to the guitar. He regarded it thoughtfully before speaking. “Yeah, it’s mine. It’s always been mine. The only thing, really, that belongs to me.”
There was a subtle weight in his voice that caught Abhira’s attention. She looked at him, curiosity overtaking her embarrassment.
“The only thing? Main samjhi nhi.”
Armaan sighed deeply, his expression shifting into something more distant, more introspective. “Materially, I own a lot of things,” he began, his voice calm but heavy with meaning. “The money I make, this house, that car, the watch on my wrist, those sunglasses over there. But emotionally, spiritually... this guitar is the only thing that’s truly mine. Everything else... everything else is hers—her memories, her essence. Even I belong more to those memories than to myself. This room, this house, that Shiuli plant outside—it’s all hers. I’m just a part of what’s left behind.”
