Reality, like monsoon rain, doesn't knock. It just arrives.
On the sixth morning in Srinagar, Arjun's phone rang. It was his mother.
"Beta, where are you? Your Bangalore number is not reachable. Mrs. Trivedi called — she says you haven't been at office for a week. What is happening? Are you sick? Are you in trouble?"
He stepped off the houseboat and onto the ghat, the wooden planks creaking under his feet. "Maa, I'm fine. I'm on a trip."
"Trip? What trip? You didn't tell us anything. Your father is worried. I am worried. You know his blood pressure."
"I'll explain everything when I get back. I promise."
"When are you getting back?"
He looked at the lake, at the mountains, at the houseboat where Meera was probably editing photos on her laptop, her legs crossed, her lower lip caught between her teeth the way it always was when she was concentrating.
"Soon," he said.
After his mother hung up, Nandini called. He stared at the screen for four rings before answering.
"Arjun." Her voice. That voice he'd fallen asleep to for years. "I've been trying to reach you."
"I know."
"We need to talk. About the apartment, about our things. I —"
"Not now."
"When?"
"I'll let you know." He paused. "Are you with him?"
Silence. Then: "Arjun, I didn't call to —"
"Are you with him?"
"Yes."
The word was a small, sharp stone. It hit its target and sank.
"Okay," he said. "I'll call you about the apartment when I'm back in Bangalore."
He hung up. Stood on the ghat for a long time, watching the shikaras glide across the water. The pain was still there — not the acute, stabbing kind from a week ago, but a deep ache, like a bone that's healed but still knows where it was broken.
When he went back inside, Meera could tell. She always could.
"Nandini?" she asked.
"And my mother."
"Ah. The double-headed monster of Indian adulting."
He didn't smile. "Meera, I need to be honest with you."
She closed her laptop. Gave him her full attention — that was something she did that he'd never experienced before. When Meera listened, she listened with her whole body. Her hands went still. Her breathing slowed. She looked at you like you were the only thing in the frame.
