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"What are you doing here?" he asks me, his eyes raking over my drenched body and widening. Instantly, he opens the door further, allowing me to slip inside and grab a towel from somewhere, handing it to me.
My sobs may have taken a backseat f...
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I’ve been in this house for less than twenty-four hours and I already feel more loved here than I did for twenty-five years in my own home, with my own parents. It’s weird how little things that I never even paid attention to before have started to make my heart flutter. Like Aayansh always pulling open the car door for me and helping me get in or out. Like him thinking of me before thinking of himself. Like just a few moments ago when Ma slapped him for kissing my fingers.
My heart flutters involuntarily as I try to remember how his lips felt against my skin, how he looked me in the eye as he touched me; the promise in his action, the gentleness in his assurance; it drives me crazy.
And it must really, really be driving me crazy because instead of chatting with Ma like I’ve been doing for the past two hours while Aayansh and Papa make dinner for us, I make an excuse about getting some water and head towards the kitchen.
There’s a sudden spring to my step and a light smile on my face. I haven’t felt this happy in such a long time, it almost feels like a dream. Only some months ago, I was on the verge of losing hope, feeling like nobody cared about me, like the world didn’t exist and now suddenly, my world was too big. I was getting married soon. Married.
Istep into the kitchen, my eyes immediately searching for Aayansh. And there he is. He’s turned away from me, a shelf on the top open as he looks for something.
Papa is standing behind the stove, all the gases turned on with vessels on them. He frantically looks for something on the counter and shakes his head. I almost laugh at the mess in the kitchen. The spice box is entirely opened with turmeric and chilli powder spilled on the pristine white counter tops. There’s an open packet of what I assume is baking soda amongst all the spices and to top it off, the dough for rotis is lying haphazardly at the edge of the counter instead of in a container.
The cooker whistles and Papa startles with a violent curse.
“Hey!” Aayansh chides.
“Baap hu tera,” Papa retorts and turns to him, entirely unaware of me standing in the doorway. “Daal mili kya? Kab se uss cabinet mein ghusa hua hai. Kuch toh kaam kar le, yaar.”
(I’m your father. Did you find the lentils? You’ve been looking in that cabinet for so long. Do some work, man.)
“Dhoond raha hu na. Cooker ki sitti par aapki tarah ucchal toh nahi raha, at least,” Aayansh says and rolls his eyes. Then, he mutters under his breath, “Khana banane aata nahi phir bhi bol kar aagaye hum banayenge. Lo banao ab.”
(I’m finding it, alright. At least, I’m not jumping away at the cooker whistling. Don’t even know how to make food yet you told them we’ll do it. Now, see what we’re doing.)
