Chapter 11 #2
“I have been thinking of excuses to text or call you ever since we returned from Patan but couldn't find any. Then I knew my tests were coming up and I counted down the days to go for them. I ran. I didn’t even care what the result was as long as I got to send them to you.
When I sent them to you and you blocked me, and then I heard your voice, I couldn't stop. I am glad I did not stop. Who was he?”
“You were not anxious about your tests?”
“That’s what you caught from this?”
She chuckled. And he felt himself return it.
He had never been so upfront with a woman.
His dating life had always hinged on mystery.
Keeping the partner guessing kept the spark alive.
But here, with her, he suddenly had no qualms about laying it all bare.
What was happening to him? This wasn't even dating.
She had made it very clear. And yet he was prostrating himself in front of her.
“I really need to change.”
“It’s that bad?” He eyed his creation.
“The stitching inside the blouse is, and… I need the bathroom…” she managed before she ran inside what he assumed was a bedroom. Nilay burst out laughing.
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He was drinking a glass of water when she returned, dressed in loose pyjama bottoms that he was intimately familiar with and a T-shirt that was two sizes too big for her but looked like it gave her immense comfort.
She was now fresh-faced, out of all the makeup, and looked even more tired.
He set the glass down and met her halfway, taking her hand into his and pulling her into his chest, turning both their feet around and back to the bedroom.
She did not protest. Instead, her body became lax in his.
And his resolve to make her ok became harder.
The bedroom was just as bare as the kitchen, only her discarded clothes — all turned inside out and looking like a mess, scattered on a chair. He felt laughter bubble inside his chest at the sight.
“What?” She asked, her head too close to that part of him which was vibrating.
“I would sack a member of my team for leaving my couture like this,” he pointed with his chin.
“You can’t sack me.”
“That’s right I can’t,” he released her from his body and helped her down on the bed, nudging until she was horizontal.
He pulled up the duvet to her chest and strode to the chair.
Like the intern he had once been, Nilay grabbed each piece of clothing, shaking it gently to get rid of the dampness of sweat, then carefully turned them all out.
He folded the dupatta with extreme care, holding the ends and ensuring the sequins didn’t tangle among each other.
And then he left the ghaghra and blouse open on the chair to air out.
When he turned, Ritu was on her side, only her face visible over the duvet, palms pushed under it.
She was staring at him, looking adorable.
“I have some of my dried laundry too.”
He glared — “That’s art that you have left to decay like that.”
She chuckled, the sound throaty but good. So good. Nilay stepped back from the bed and looked at her. A burrito vibrating at him. He didn’t know he was smiling until she said — “You can sit.”
“Can I nap too?”
Her eyes narrowed. She pulled the duvet over her head. Was that her version of in-person block?
“Your side.” Her muffled command echoed. Nilay couldn't rein in his smile then.
He reached for his shirt, starting to unbutton and tuck it out. He was on the last one when she pulled the duvet down. Her eyes widened — “What are you doing?!”
“Napping,” he shrugged out of his shirt. “On my side.”
Her eyes went to his chest and he purposefully flexed it, taking his time unbuckling his belt.
He set them both on the chair, over her ghaghra.
It was a crime to tamp down his couture like that, he knew, but he couldn’t help the natural instinct — his clothes over hers, airing out.
He climbed on his side of the bed and got under the duvet.
She pulled it back over her head and he stared at the move.
She was still for a while, so still that he thought she had fallen asleep.
And then he felt a vibration. Laughing vibration.
“That’s it!” He pulled off her duvet, grabbed her and bodily hauled her in his arms. She was still chuckling as he turned her in his arms, tamped her legs with one of his and set his palm over her eyes. “Go to sleep.”
“Why are you blindfolding me?!”
“Because you need weight and blackout on your eyes to sleep. Now quiet.”
Her body went still. And a moment later, his palm over her eyes felt wet.
“Ritu?” He pulled it off, only for her to turn and bury her face in his chest, sobbing loudly.
He was stunned. He knew those sobs were not because he had covered her eyes.
He knew he had asked for it with his constant honest-talk rant.
But now that she was shattering to pieces on his chest, he didn’t know how to deal with it.
He wasn’t equipped to deal with it. Never had he dealt with it.
Tantrums, sure. Cravings, sometimes. Demands, always.
For all three, his response had been standard — distance.
Break. Break-up. The selfish, self-centred man inside him knew nothing about what to do when a woman was crying and making his skin feel like a fountain.
She hiccupped, and his body tightened. He felt her pull away from him and his arms instantly went around her, holding her there.
Instincts were being born inside him, and he kept blindly following, running his palms up and down her back, tightening them to the point of pain.
She did not protest again, crying even louder, drenching his neck.
Nilay pressed a kiss to her head and her sobs softened.
“That works?” He spoke more to himself than her, and her teary chuckle was answer enough.
He peppered her temple with kisses, until her wet face showed itself and brown, beautiful eyes, red with crying, smiled at him.
He kissed one of them too, pulling her head back into his chest. At 41, he was ashamed to admit that he was clueless about how to comfort a woman.
“That man was my uncle.” Her small voice registered in his chest. Then went silent again.
He pressed another kiss to her forehead.
Then, a moment later — “Jimmy fuva. My father’s youngest sister’s husband.
When we were kids, he was the cool uncle.
They lived in Germany for a few years after their marriage.
Then when they returned, they did with such great gifts.
And every time they came to visit, even when they were living in Mumbai, Jimmy fuva never came without gifts for us — the exact thing he knew we liked.
He was an archeologist, but didn’t make enough so my father absorbed him into his business.
Share broking and trading. He was working with my family, but he would always tell us kids stories about his adventures and excavations.
As we grew up, I was the most curious of them all, sparking conversations with him that went on for hours, even when others had gotten bored.
I even became passionate about exploring archeology as a subject, maybe a profession. Then one day he…” her voice broke.
Nilay did not need to hear the rest to know where this was going. But he needed to hear how far it had gone.
“I never gave him any signs,” her voice thinned.
“I never…” she choked. “Phew… I…phew…” she exhaled deep breaths on his chest, making it constrict.
“I wasn't even aware of such things at 17… my world was limited to Mills & Boons, one man for one woman. How could I…? And he… he brought some ideas from some sect that… he asked me if I wanted to absorb all that he knew… to… and… I did not understand at first. He sent me SMSs asking if I wanted to know what he did, prepare myself for my future in archeology… I kept smiling through those messages even though my gut knew something was not right. But I couldn’t think so wrong about him. He was Jimmy fuva! And then he openly touched me at Raksha Bandhan lunch, in my room, asking if I had made a decision.” An animalistic cry erupted from her. His own eyes squinted.
“How could he?! He was… how could I not see it? I was so stupid. And then, I told my mother. She told my father. And he decreed that I should not come in front of him at family functions. Stay away.”
Nilay tore her from his body — “What?”
“Really,” her eyebrows went down, as if she thought he wouldn’t believe her. Nilay cupped her cheek — “I believe you, Ritu. I can’t believe a father would do that.”