Chapter 12
as his house always this cold? It didn’t make sense. November shouldn’t feel like this, Neel thought as he unpacked his suitcase. Maybe it wasn’t the weather. Perhaps it was everything else.
Natara had gone straight home after they landed.
He sighed. He already missed Rally’s heat, but that wasn’t what was gnawing at him. He missed Kaavi. He pulled out his phone, hesitated, then typed: Hi Kaavi. Just wanted to let you know I landed safely in Jo’burg. He hit send.
What else could he say? I miss you. I want you back. Please don’t sign the divorce papers. Please don’t go to Miami. No. None of that would help. Not now.
When Kaavi’s phone lit up beside her, she was halfway through drafting the empowerment class plan her grandfather had asked for.
She grabbed the phone. What was she hoping for?
It was a message from Neel, but just to let her know that he was back in Johannesburg.
She’d known he was leaving, but seeing the message made it sink in.
He was really gone. They were really apart.
She stared at the screen. There were so many things she wanted to say, like ‘Come back. I miss you. I want this to work.’
But instead, she tapped the thumbs-up emoji and went back to her notes.
The doorbell rang and Kaavi got up slowly, figuring it was her mother stopping by again. But when she opened the door, it was Sen.
She looked up and blinked. Sen was in suit pants and a white shirt – his work clothes – but he wasn’t at the office in the middle of a Friday afternoon.
That wasn’t like him. He was the definition of routine.
So, this was obviously intentional. It was a check-in disguised as a casual visit, just like the rest of the family had done this week.
Sen walked in and made himself comfortable on the couch. ‘Hey cuz, what’s up?’
Kaavi smiled weakly. ‘All good,’ she replied, settling into the armchair across from him.
‘You haven’t bought your Diwali clothing,’ he said.
‘Is that why you’re here? To talk about clothing?’
‘Hey, Kaavi, clothing is serious. I’m married to a fashion designer, so clothing is a big thing.’
Then he leaned back on the couch, grinning like he’d just won something.
‘I’m married,’ he said, smugly.
Kaavi rolled her eyes, grabbed the nearest scatter cushion and flung it at him. He caught it easily, still grinning.
‘And so are you. You’re married.’
She groaned and sank deeper into the armchair.
Sen set the scatter cushion beside him and leaned forward.
‘Tell me, Kaavi, how did you think this was going to play out with Neel? You got married and what, just pretend it didn’t happen? No one was ever going to find out?’
‘Hey, you found out. You knew the whole time, Sen, but you never said anything. Why?’ she shot back.
Sen shook his head slowly. ‘Trust me, I wanted to. Every time I went to Jo’burg, I would think about tracking down this husband of yours, but Granddad said no. He said you’d run.’
Kaavi blinked.
‘You hate confrontation,’ Sen added, softer now. ‘And you run. We love you too much to risk pushing you. So yeah, I knew. I just couldn’t do anything about it.’
Kaavi didn’t say a word.
Sen leaned back. ‘Okay, I’m here to talk about four things.’
‘So specific,’ Kaavi muttered.
Of course he was. Sen always had a plan. The guy had probably made notes before showing up.
‘Alright,’ she sighed. ‘Hit me.’
‘The first thing concerns your Diwali outfit. Shona says Bashi’s Creations on Main Street has new stock. You’re going to Bashi’s before the weekend ends and you are going to buy something. That’s a direct order from Shona.’
Surprisingly, Kaavi nodded. No fight.
‘So, this is our first Diwali as a married couple and Shona’s going all out. I can’t stop her. Diwali is on Monday, but on Sunday evening we’re having a little get-together. It’s just a pre-Diwali prep thing. We’re hoping you’ll come by.’
Kaavi tilted her head and grinned knowingly. ‘You want me to help prepare for Diwali? I’m guessing that means kitchen duty?’
‘No, no, not the kitchen, Kaavi,’ he said quickly. ‘You’ll be there for moral support. That’s it. But you’re invited. Sam and Anni too. We want you there.’
‘Then, the third thing,’ Sen said, his tone shifting slightly, ‘as your lawyer, I just wanted to ask when are you planning to sign those divorce papers?’
Kaavi froze. ‘Um … well … I don’t know, Sen. I mean, I don’t know,’ she said quickly.
Sen nodded once. ‘Okay.’
‘Okay? That’s it? Just okay?’
‘Yes, Kaavi. Just okay. You make your own decision.’
‘Lastly …’ Sen’s voice dropped, a little softer now. ‘The local community paper in your parents’ suburb published an article about your father.’
Kaavi sat up straighter. ‘What? What do you mean? What could they possibly have written? Don’t tell me they have the story of me being arrested. Oh my God, did they find out?’
‘Okay, Kaavi, breathe. No. No one knows anything about that.’
She stared at him.
‘They’ve done more of an … obituary-hero kind of profile.’
‘Hero profile?’ What does that even mean?’
Sen hesitated. ‘I think it’s better if you read it yourself.’ He pulled out his phone, typed and then shoved it back in his pocket. ‘I sent the link to your phone. I’ll stay here if you want.’
‘Sen, what are you saying?’
‘They called your dad a hero cop. They painted him like some great man and you and I both know he wasn’t. I don’t want to open that link again because if I do, I’m going to lose it.’
He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘So … yeah. I don’t really know what to say to you, Kaavi.’
Kaavi saw the tension in Sen’s jaw, the anger behind his eyes.
‘You know, Sen,’ she said slowly, ‘Mom and I … we were always seen as my father’s victims. Everyone assumed it was just us.’
She paused and then shook her head. ‘But I never thought about you. You were his victim too.’
He looked away, but she kept going.
‘You were a young lawyer, just out of university and suddenly you were dragged into his mess. And you had to clean it up. You had to protect me.’
‘You know, Kaavs,’ Sen said quietly, his voice stripped of its usual sharpness, ‘I used to hate your father. I mean really hate him.’
He stopped, exhaled. ‘I hated him to the point where … okay, never mind. Let’s just say it was deep.’
Kaavi watched him carefully.
‘But then one afternoon, back when we first got to London, you remember that dingy little apartment you insisted Granddad rent for you? You rushed in excited about being invited to an audition. You were so hopeful and determined and it hit me: without your father, we wouldn’t have you.
While I still hated what he did to you, a part of me just let it go because, without him, there wouldn’t be you.
’ He let out a long breath, like the weight of that truth had been sitting on his chest for years.
‘Wow, Sen. That was … wow. That means a lot to me.’
Then she added softly, ‘You know, one day you’re going to be a great father.’
‘Hey, cool it,’ he said, grinning. ‘I just got married a few weeks ago. Kids are future talk. Far, far away future.’
He smiled, then the smile faded just enough for sincerity to slip back in. ‘But seriously, Kaavi. Do you want me to hang around while you read the article?’
She shook her head. ‘No, Sen. I think I need to do this one alone. But thank you for always having my back.’
He gave a small nod, got up, and walked to the door. Just as he reached it, he looked over his shoulder and said, ‘Don’t forget about Sunday evening.’
Then he was gone.
Kaavi locked the door behind him, then went to her bedroom. The look on her cousin’s face when he mentioned the article was enough to tell her it would hit a nerve. She didn’t need to read it to know it would trigger her. All she wanted was to lie down. She was just tired of everything.
She got comfortable and opened the link.
The article loaded with a picture of her father in uniform.
She knew it was recent because his hair was grey.
In all the years they were estranged, she’d never asked to see a photo of him.
She hadn’t known how he’d aged until that day in the hospital, frail and on his deathbed.
But here, in this image, he was smiling.
Smiling like he hadn’t wronged his daughter, smiling like he wasn’t estranged from his only child, smiling like his wife hadn’t lived in fear of him.
No, he looked every bit the hero. The perfect picture of a police officer.
She started to read. Sen was right: they’d painted her father as a hero. She snorted at the line about him dedicating his life to serving others. The anger came slowly, then all at once. But it was the last line that shattered her:
‘Jay Archary is survived by his wife, Yanam, and his only daughter, Kaavi.’
She was furious. She should’ve thrown her phone at the wall, but she didn’t. Instead, she started to cry. The ugly kind. The shaking, painful sobs.
She cried for six-year-old Kaavi, who already knew something was wrong because daddies weren’t supposed to be mean.
She cried for 18-year-old Kaavi, desperate and helpless, sitting in a prison cell her father had put her in.
She cried for Kaavi, who, over the years, was terrified he would find her and ruin her life. The one who made her husband promise to keep their relationship a secret so her father wouldn’t find out. She cried for the Kaavi who knew she would never get a true apology but still yearned for it.
It was another scorching day in Rally, but she was suddenly shivering. She shifted on the bed and pulled the duvet over her. She got deeper under it and cried herself to sleep on a sunny Friday afternoon.