invisible string ✓

twenty eight

• ADVIKA •

“What happened next?” Ishaan asked the moment I was done explaining to him about the hospital chaos.

“I ran away. That was when I spotted your house and…” I paused midway, unable to add words for continuing the sentence.

“Fine. Now… What are we going to do now? Should we go back to your world?”

“Go back to my world?” I raised my voice out of bewilderment and continued, “No fucking way, Ishaan. Aadya Chatterjee would exactly want that from me. She wanted me to give up and go back to my world. That was what she has been—”

“I didn't ask you to go forever,” Ishaan interrupted, his tone calmer than mine. “For now. Until things calm down. I will come for you to your world when that day dawns on us.”

“It won't, Ishaan,” I cut through his words the moment he completed speaking while matching my tone with his calmness. Tapping my index finger on his chest, I questioned, “Do you think Aadya Chatterjee wishes me to go to my universe as your girl?” I released my finger from his chest. “I'm here. If I have to go now, it has to be once and only as the Advika Bansal who is no longer related to Ishaan Ahuja.” The suffocation in my windpipe was abstract to me, which made me pause my speech to exhale a little. Swallowing hard in spite of a lump on my throat, I continued, “We have only two choices. One: End things between us at this moment and part ways. Two: Fight back against your creator till she gives up. What do you say? You know that I will definitely won't back off yet, I am posing this question. What is your call on this?”

***

THREE HOURS LATER…

After convincing Ishaan for me to stay back with him, we went to Cremona, where his parents were relishing their retirement years.

The moment we reached his parents' house that resembled those of a wooden cabin, his mother— Margherita Ahuja— waited at the entrance, still in her gridded apron. Embracing her son while exchanging pleasantries in Italian, Mrs Ahuja broke the hug to shoot a motherly look at me and ask, “You must be Advika Bansal,” in a tone so Italian yet so Indian.

“Yes, ma'am,” I replied while bowing as humble as one would in front of their boyfriend's mother.

“Oh, please! No formalities. Call me Margherita. Or Rita, if you want to make it short.”

“Sure, ma'am.” While receiving a mock glare from Margherita, I corrected, “I mean, Margherita,” earning a motherly smile from her as she led her inside the cabin house.

The house was made of wood all over while adorned with dream catchers, souvenirs from various corners of the world, and pictures that are almost so cheesy as if it was straight out of romcoms.

Mr Ranjit Ahuja was seated at the couch near the fireplace, filling four glasses with red wine and placing them on the teapoy that had playing cards scattered all over.

Then, he looked up at the three of us and shot a fatherly smile at Ishaan and I. “Hello, busy man! How do you do?” After hearing voices coated in Italian accent for an exhaustive amount of times, hearing a voice in an Indian accent felt like I was back to my world.

“I'm grand, Dad,” Ishaan replied with a smile I knew to be fake.

“I can see it,” Mr Ahuja sang while glancing sideways at me and letting out a playful lopsided smile. Shifting his focus fully towards me, he asked, “How are you doing, madam?”

“I'm fine, Sir. And, you don't have to address me so formally. Call me Advika, please,” I requested as I felt the hairs of my back shoot up due to goosebumps at him calling me Madam.