Chapter 38
Samar rang the bell of her house and the shrill echo reverberated through the silent garden.
He glanced at his surroundings. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He had left a man outside at the gate with another to patrol the inside at regular intervals.
Amaal hadn’t even realised that. How was she ever going to protect herself from robbers?
The door pulled open and there she stood. “Hi.”
Samar forgot what was supposed to be said when someone said hi to you.
She looked like a dream. He had seen her in her business clothes and in her party clothes and in her shawls and Kashmiri kurtas and jeans all the time.
Now he saw her in a white T-shirt and a pair of blue pyjamas.
Nothing novel. And yet, to fall into this level of trust with her, to be able to see her like this.
His eyes trailed up the white drawstrings of her dark blue pyjamas to the worn, thin material of her T-shirt.
The white of it made things a little too visible.
He quickly moved over her breasts, her nipples hardening in front of his eyes.
He cleared his throat, trailing his eyes up and to her face. Her hair was up and tied back, her makeup still there, making this even more… intimate. Seeing her unwind after a workday.
“I said, hi.”
“Hi,” he croaked.
“Come in.” She stepped back, and he entered her house, glancing behind him one last time before closing the door. She walked through the hall — “You texted that you won’t have dinner but I am just making tomato soup. Are you sure you don’t want to have a little?”
Samar followed her, noting the sofa covered in a bedsheet and a matching pillow now.
“No.”
“There’s also cheese toast. What did you have?
” She went to the stove, stirring what he smelled was tomato soup.
It did smell good. And she looked good, bent over the food, her back tapering into a tiny waist that he wanted to hold in his hands, flaring to hips that were tight and full.
He had never noticed such things about a woman.
He had had many women once upon a time, drunk in the madness of grief. He had never stopped to admire any.
The ends of her hair brushed her nape as she cocked her head to check the flame.
“Samar, what did you have?” She asked again, attention on her cooking.
“Can’t remember.” He genuinely couldn’t remember.
She whirled, her ponytail hitting her in the face — “When did you have it? Last month?”
He coughed. “Yeah… no, I mean, it was a karyakarta meeting. Whatever they kept in front of me I kept eating while we talked. What about you?”
“I had three cups of coffee and one of them was a cold coffee with ice cream.”
“You look too sleepy for someone who has downed so much caffeine.”
“Mmm…” she blinked. “It’s been a long day.”
“You still have the energy to cook? Can I do the rest?”
“It’s all done. And I felt like comfort food tonight. Mom makes tomato basil soup and cheese toasties to dip into it whenever she feels like comfort food. Dad wants minestrone and he makes that too. And it’s basically soup fest at home.”
“Oh,” he gaped as she ladled a bowl full of dark red soup that did smell warm and tangy. He did not know how to make minestrone soup. In fact, he did not know how to make any of these fancy things.
“Are you sure none for you?” She spooned some soup and blew on it, readying herself for a taste. Blue eyes raised to him over the spoon, eyebrows cocking. “Hmm?”
Samar felt his mouth stretching. “Hmm.”
But he gripped her wrist, and pulled the spoon to his mouth to take a taste.
“Hey!” She widened her eyes. “I was checking for salt.”
“It’s nice.”
She still went and took a taste, and turned out, the salt was low. As she seasoned her soup and carried the bowl in one hand and her plate of cheese toasts in the other, Samar grabbed a glass of water for her and followed her to the dining table.
“Wanna try the cheese toast dipped in soup?” She sat down, picking up a triangle with melted cheese. She dipped it into her soup and swirled.
Samar shook his head.
“Come on.” She held it out. He craned his neck and took a bite.
“Tastes like pizza.”
“Mmmm…” she soaked the remaining toast into her soup and bit into it. Her eyes fell closed. “It’s the best.”
“Does food make you happy?”
Her eyes popped open. “Who does it not make happy?” She chewed.
“Back in London, ordering out was a regular thing for my friends when I was in school. Their parents worked. My parents worked too. But Indian mindset, right? Eating out is not what you do regularly. So whenever we ordered out, I used to get so excited. The moment that buzzer rang, it would be Christmas. The anticipation of good food is always better than actually eating it. And eating it is awesome anyway.”
“Eat before it gets cold,” he pointed to the food in front of her, sitting back and observing.
“I am not great company when I am having this,” she pointed to the soup, drinking it.
“Why?”
“Because I see nothing but the soup and do nothing but eat.”
She didn’t even look at him, busy devouring.
“Eat,” he said. “I will be forced to look at you quietly.”
That got her eyes to his. “Did you just crack a joke?”
He smirked.
Her food called out to her so loudly that she snarled at him and went back. And Samar sat through her dinner, not at all forced to look at her enjoying her meal quietly.
“Aaah…” she sat back, her bowl wiped clean and the plate empty.
“Should I get more?”
“Was that a joke?”
“No,” he deadpanned.
Amaal shook her head. “The rest for breakfast.”
“Breakfast?” His mouth twitched, however much he tried to hold it.
“Soup for breakfast with pepper opens all sinuses. I’ll show you tomorrow.”
“I was thinking of making upma for breakfast tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have upma.”
“You don’t have upma?” He raised his brows. “That’s staple…”
“Yuck.”
“We need to work on your breakfast options.”
“We need to work on your belief that we can work on my breakfast options.”
“We need to work on your attitude about my belief that we will work on your breakfast options.”
“We need to work on your… everything!”
“Everything?” He smiled.
“Everything! What is this white shirt and black pants again? Did we or did we not talk about colours years ago?” She got to her feet, walking into the kitchen with her crockery.
Samar splayed back on his chair, taking a moment to admire her.
Swinging ponytail, sass in every step, shoulders with quiet muscles tapering to lithe arms holding bowl and plate.
Was the good inside him so good that he got to keep her?
She kept ranting about his clothing choices and his untamed stubble and he didn’t retain most of it, liking the sound of her voice in his ears after a long, heavy work day.
Samar got to his feet and padded to the kitchen, the sound of her voice getting louder and louder.
He turned inside the door and she was popping a tablet into her mouth.
“What are you taking?” He grabbed her wrist.
“Dolo, Daaxsaab.” She showed it to him. Then threw it into her mouth and drank down the water.
“What happened?”
She rubbed her eye. “Headache.”
“And you have been cooking and talking to me all this while?”
“I have done rallies with you guys with headaches.” She grinned. Samar scowled, roving his eyes over her face. Suddenly the links clicked. Her makeup was still on because she was hurting and tired. He set his palms over her forehead and the back of her neck.
“Why do you feel hot?”
“Because I am?” She popped that godforsaken dimple at him. He did not give in, grabbing her chin and flashing his phone torch into her eye.
“Samar…” she began to push away but he held her face steady. “Amaal.”
Her pupils were dilated.
“Is your throat hurting?” He circled her jaw and pressed on her glands.
She swallowed. “It may start hurting but you never know, a Dolo and a night’s sleep can work wonders.”
Samar stepped back, looking at her. It was not about to work wonders because he sensed something else. He did not say it out yet.
“Ok,” he softened his voice. “Let’s see tomorrow. Now go to bed. I will…” he glanced at the long platform that she had made a mess of. “Clean this up.”
“I can clean it up…”
“No.”
She began to move and he grabbed her shoulders, turning her and pushing her down the kitchen, the hall and into her bedroom.
“Store the soup in the fridge.” She managed as he pushed her down on the bed, switched on the AC and shook the thick blanket open for her.
“Ok.”
“And close the sink tap tight, it leaks.” She lay down.
“Ok.” He threw the blanket over her and tucked it in.
“I have left a bottle of water and glass for you on the TV table.”
“Amaal?”
“What?” Her eyebrows were knitted, her eyes gone small already.
“Sleep.”
She turned away from him, burrowed into her pillow and nodded.
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“Amaal?” A hand patted her cheek.
“Mmmmm…” she groaned. Her throat was aching.
“Amaal, get up. We need to go for a blood test.”
“Nnnn…” she pulled the blanket over her head. “Fever…”
“I know.” He pulled the blanket down slowly. She squeezed her eyes tighter, hating him.
“Come, the fever is high. It’s malaria. It will come positive right now.” He began to raise her by her shoulders.
“Samar no!” She resisted.
“Amaal.”
She opened her eyes at that stern tone. The lights were off, the curtains drawn. She couldn’t see much of him.
“It’s night… We’ll go tomorrow.”
“It’s morning.”
“Huh?”
His thumbs found her closed eyelids and massaged them. She slapped at his wrists, kept slapping with both hands but he kept rubbing them clean. And her sleep was instantly gone. The bad fevery feeling wasn’t.
“Samar!!!” She yelled. Her eyes tore open.
“It’s 6.30. Come on, your fever has been rising steadily for the last two hours. I waited to wake you up.”
She mock-cried. “No!”
“Get up and wash your face or…”
“Or what?”
“I’ll stick you into a cold tub.”
“Go fill it.” She turned and began to pull the blanket back.