Chapter 1
“Come on! Chalo, chalo, chalo!” Aditi’s perky holler welcomed him into the hall. Zubin clicked the clasp of his watch and glanced up, only to find her crawling under the dining table. He ran and set his hand on the edge where her head had disappeared — “What are you doing?!”
“Apple…” came her muffled voice, and then her head, from the other side. She held up a whole red apple.
“Watch out for the edge, your got hurt yesterday, too.” He went around the table and into the open kitchen to grab his Stanley cup. “And what is this new hobby of dropping everything under the table?”
“It rolls, what to do? Listen.”
“Listening!” He scooped out his protein powder, coffee and water into the cup and gave it a whisk.
Nowadays, his body needed more protein top-up because touching 40 and muscle degeneration and extra gymming were real, if he could manage the last one, that is.
If he could go even thrice a week, he considered it a victory.
“I am taking Aara to Presha’s birthday party at 4. Can you come home early for the cook?”
“How many birthdays does Prisha have in a week?” Zubin asked, sealing his cup and walking around the counter.
His coat and gown were already on the back of one of the sitting room sofas, where he had left them late last night.
He had never been a slob but the exhaustion was real.
The Mumbai heat? Crazy. The long hours at the firm where he was now a partner? Crazier.
“Presha, Presha,” Aditi clarified. “Another Hip Hop class girl.”
He frowned, just as their personal Hip Hop star came bounding out of her room, twirling with her arms in rhythm.
The child could fall on her bum and even make that look gracefully Hip Hop.
With that high ponytail flipping like Aditi’s, those browns more honeyed when she was happy instead of angry, and the glint in them always up for the next prank — Zubin couldn’t remember what life had been like before she had existed.
Five years had passed in a blink but he didn’t remember who he was before being her Papa.
“Hey, how many Prishas do you know?”
She took her glass of milk from Aditi and tipped it, bottoms up, holding one finger up. Zubin snorted.
“Seven,” she came up for air, panting, her glass still half-finished.
“And don’t they have a rule or something to not have birthdays in the same week?”
“What’s the fun in that, Papa?” The tiny firecracker rolled her eyes, taking her milk glass and tipping it again, that glint a little brighter.
“How do I not know all seven of those Prishas/ Preshas?” Aditi asked, leaning back on the dining table, looking sharp in her white shirt and black wide-legged pants.
“…Cause…” she came up for air again, this time the milk almost finished. “Nani knows.”
“How many in school?”
“Three or four.”
“You haven’t received invitations for all these seven birthday parties.” Aditi narrowed her eyes at her.
“Their Mummas will send you. Can we go shopping for their gifts today when we shop for Presha?”
Bingo. Zubin met Aditi’s eyes and they were yet again a goner for their daughter’s case building skills. What a little liar, and what a great one.
Like you, Aditi mouthed at him, half amused, half stoic, because however much they commended these tactics in the real world, they couldn’t enable it in a child. Their child.
“We will only shop for Presha today,” Aditi decreed. “We will go for the rest of the Preshas and Prishas as and when their invites arrive.”
“But you have so much work every day, Mumma.” Her tiny brows went down in concern. Marvellous.
“If I have work, Papa can take you,” Aditi smirked.
Those drawn brows came to him. He was a sucker for them. “You also have so much work, Papa.”
“I do,” Zubin nodded solemnly, then smiled. “But I am always ready for you.”
Those tiny lips pursed now. “Mmm… but what if you get invite now and we have to go in the afternoon only and you are very busy and even Papa is in court?”
“Then I’ll pick something from the gifting cabinet,” Aditi reached for her chai.
“Let’s pick it out now!”
Aditi’s hand froze on her cup. Her eyes reached him, and they were wide.
The gifting cabinet was a secret stash that was out of their daughter’s reach, and even her awareness.
Aditi would hide extra gifts from her birthday, return gifts from the hundred birthday parties and play dates she attended, and stowed them into a locked cabinet behind the kitchen pantry for emergency use, like the multiple Prisha parties.
How did their pint-sized know about it? And get it out like a pro?
Aditi was shaking her head at him in astonishment.
My daughter, he mouthed.
YOURS, she mouthed back.
“Come on, Mumma! I know where it is, let’s open it!”
“And who will go to school? Your Papa?”
His daughter looked at him and shrugged.
“Huh?” He reached over the table and plucked her to loud giggles, her hair flying with the flip he gave her. “I went to school thirty years ago and finished my turn,” he blew a raspberry into her throat. “Whose turn is it now?”
“Papa’s!”
“Papa’s, huh?” He flipped her again.
“Zubin she’s just had milk!”
He slowed down, pressing more raspberries.
“Papa,” she was giggling, half over his shoulder, holding his head between tiny hands.
When she was not setting up her traps or arguing sweetly without breaking a sweat, her tiny hands reminded him what an innocent little thing she was.
Zubin held her in the cradle of his arms, nicely folded and blinking up at him with those Aditi eyes.
He kissed her forehead — “We will pick out all your Prisha gifts and one gift for you this evening after you come home from school and your birthday party. Done?”
“Zubin.” Aditi’s tone behind his name was warning enough. He did not look up just yet.
“Okkkkkkaaaaaa!” The pint in his arms wiggled to jump down, then ran.
“Get your bag!” Aditi hollered after her. To him — “Explain.”
“I will come early anyway, I’ll empty the cabinet and keep only four or five gifts.”
Aditi’s eyes grinned evilly — “Good idea.”
“I always have good ideas.” He reached for her hand and tugged it until she was pressed to his side. “What a child I produced.”
“What a child you produced.” She grabbed his cheek and kissed him. “What are you doing today?”
“Meetings in first half, court after lunch. You?”
“Court in first half. That Burma & Co. case.”
“It’s still going on?”
“Justice Shukla gave this date after eight months. The next one is going to be after two years for sure. I think even he is fed up of hearing it.”
“Just get them to settle out of court.”
“Thanks, Zubin, I didn’t try it at all.”
He poked her nose — “Try,” he poked. “And try.” He poked again, fending off her attempt to slap his wrist away. “Till you,” he poked. “Succee…”
They heard their daughter’s door click shut and pulled away.
“Aarzoo Daruwala, are you ready?” Zubin challenged.
“Ready!”
“ARE YOU READY?”
“READDDY!”
“On your marks, get set…”
“GO!” She screamed and made a beeline for the main door before he could finish. Zubin grabbed his Stanley, his coat and his gown, Aditi right behind him as they raced out of the house.
————————————————————
Batliwala & Associates was still the same. But he was not the same. From a hotshot Senior Associate once on his way to Partner, he was now a Partner with his corner office polished up and up for refurbishment annually with the ludicrously vast funds he was allotted.
The space was still the same. Smallish. Mumbai real estate. Who knew it better than him? The last few years had exploded with redevelopment projects — both residential and commercial. His firm’s pockets, and by extension his, had never been fuller.
But, he no longer could come into the office sauntering and singing.
He no longer ran to court at the drop of a hat for petty issues.
Life had eased up, his own team of Associates had expanded, interns and paralegals and the entire nine yards.
He had needed it too, because he had married, become a husband and then a father.
Even today, his life was busy enough outside of work. But…
Zubin did not go there. He did not think about the fun part that was missing. It was natural to feel a little dry in a career spanning two decades. After all, what was midlife crisis? And did you even make it in life if you didn’t have it?
Wait, was he middle-aged?
Zubin’s heartbeat kicked up. Fuck off! He was 40 and still in his prime.
Wasn’t he?
“Sir?” Meera knocked and entered his office.
“Meera, am I mid-life?”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, am I middle-aged?” He sat up straight in his chair. She peered at him, eyeing him like he had gone crazy. That’s it! Zubin had missed that look. Because that’s how she had greeted him every day a few years ago, because that’s how he had acted on a daily basis.
“If you take an above-average human life expectancy of 80 years, then you are at 40, so yes, that can be called the official mid-life. Oh, actually it’s exactly the mid-point. Your birthday was six months ago…” she grinned, proud of her math.
“Say goodbye to that, Meera,” he pointed at the clear blue sky outside his window.
“What’s that?”
“Your Diwali bonus.”
She glared — “You try and your Christmas will be hell.”
He believed her.
“What’s up?”
“Oh, yes, I have a woman waiting outside for you.”
“Now? I thought my meetings were done for the day?”
“She says she is an old friend. Chandni Jethmalani.”
“Aah… Chandni Aunty? Did she say why she is here?”
“No, she said it’s personal and then began to explain how she knows you… Also, you went to a laughter club every morning?”
“Yes, before I hit mid-life,” Zubin deadpanned. “Bring her in. But please come back in exactly ten minutes because I have to leave for court and she does not stop talking.”
“Done.”
Zubin quickly collected his mobile, coat and gown, keeping it all in one place so he could dash. Chandni Aunty, once kickstarted, did not have a stop button.
“Knock knock?” Her naughty, shrill voice echoed outside his door. Zubin smiled — “Come in, Chandni Aunty.”