. . .’ A blaze of heat bubbles through Sharda’s ravaged, dread-soaked voice, making her sound clipped, abrupt.
‘I need you. Kushi needs you. Please, Puja.’ Sharda’s anger dissipates as quickly as it flared, and is replaced by raw anguish.
Anguish that resounds in Puja’s chest, which feels as if it has been spliced open, and all the protective armour built up over the years collapses.
Be careful . Her heart, which has never completely healed after the past had finished with her, warns. ‘I don’t know if I can . . .’
‘Please . . .’ Sharda whispers, wretchedly.
‘I . . . I’ll come,’ Puja says, without thinking it through fully. Or, perhaps, thinking more clearly than she has in years. ‘But I can’t promise . . . ’
‘Thank you.’ Sharda’s voice blooms with gratitude like flowering jasmine buds. ‘Thank you. Please, come as soon as you can.’
What have I just done? Puja wonders. And even though Sharda has cut the call, she holds the phone to her ear with her still-smarting hand, the taste of new fears on her suddenly parched lips.
RAJ
FRESH WOUNDS AND STALE ALCOHOL
Raj stares at his mother, watching an alarming array of emotions parade across her face. His mother who is so cool and collected, except when she is raging at him. His mother the accomplished businesswoman and rubbish parent. His mother who’s just given him a tiny glimpse into her secretive past —she grew up in a hut? His mother who’s just hit him for the first time in his life.
Puja sits, uninvited, on the floor of his room, the phone still pressed to her ear. Now that the ultra-rare emotional display is over, she looks completely zoned out. Is she ever going to leave?
Raj is exhausted and wants to sleep away the horrendous evening he’s had. The sobering ride in the police car had seemed to take forever, and he’d prayed that the nightmare he’d wound up right in the middle of would be over soon, and that his mother wouldn’t flip; he’d sworn to himself that he would never drink or smoke or get into trouble again.
‘Raj?’ Puja’s voice is tentative.
The room smells rankly of fresh wounds and stale alcohol. It tastes of blood, hot, red. It feels inflamed, like his throbbing cheek.
He does not want to talk to her. He is so angry. So hurt. So tired. He just wants her out of his room.
‘Go away,’ he mumbles, lying back down, pulling the duvet over his head.
‘Raj,’ her voice insistent. ‘We have to go to India.’
He throws off his duvet, sits up, and glares at her. ‘Have you gone quite mad? First you slap me, and now this.’
His mother blanches, wilts like a flower without water. ‘Son, I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t call me son. You sure as hell don’t treat me like one.’ His voice trembles and he is annoyed with himself for this weakness.
She stands, and goes towards him. He cringes. She hesitates and squats back down on the carpet again.
Raj sighs. What an evening this was turning out to be, going from horrible to abysmal in the space of an hour.
‘You’ve barged into my room uninvited, hit me, and now you won’t leave. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve had a terrible evening, made worse by you. I want to sleep.’
‘I’ll leave in a minute, but you need to know this. I’m not joking. We’re going to India.’
He looks at her, properly this time. She is clutching the phone to her as if it is her talisman. She looks as knackered as he feels. For the second time that day he is surprised by a pang of guilt for what he is putting her through, but it is quickly replaced by righteous resentment when his sore cheek pulses with remembered pain.
‘Why India for Christ’s sake? That wasn’t Dad on the phone, was it? I could have sworn you were talking to a woman?’
Another pang. This one of hurt at the thought of his dad, who moved to India years ago and has invited Raj to visit countless times since. Raj has refused on principle. Why should he go all the way to India when
‘I need you. Kushi needs you. Please, Puja.’ Sharda’s anger dissipates as quickly as it flared, and is replaced by raw anguish.
Anguish that resounds in Puja’s chest, which feels as if it has been spliced open, and all the protective armour built up over the years collapses.
Be careful . Her heart, which has never completely healed after the past had finished with her, warns. ‘I don’t know if I can . . .’
‘Please . . .’ Sharda whispers, wretchedly.
‘I . . . I’ll come,’ Puja says, without thinking it through fully. Or, perhaps, thinking more clearly than she has in years. ‘But I can’t promise . . . ’
‘Thank you.’ Sharda’s voice blooms with gratitude like flowering jasmine buds. ‘Thank you. Please, come as soon as you can.’
What have I just done? Puja wonders. And even though Sharda has cut the call, she holds the phone to her ear with her still-smarting hand, the taste of new fears on her suddenly parched lips.
RAJ
FRESH WOUNDS AND STALE ALCOHOL
Raj stares at his mother, watching an alarming array of emotions parade across her face. His mother who is so cool and collected, except when she is raging at him. His mother the accomplished businesswoman and rubbish parent. His mother who’s just given him a tiny glimpse into her secretive past —she grew up in a hut? His mother who’s just hit him for the first time in his life.
Puja sits, uninvited, on the floor of his room, the phone still pressed to her ear. Now that the ultra-rare emotional display is over, she looks completely zoned out. Is she ever going to leave?
Raj is exhausted and wants to sleep away the horrendous evening he’s had. The sobering ride in the police car had seemed to take forever, and he’d prayed that the nightmare he’d wound up right in the middle of would be over soon, and that his mother wouldn’t flip; he’d sworn to himself that he would never drink or smoke or get into trouble again.
‘Raj?’ Puja’s voice is tentative.
The room smells rankly of fresh wounds and stale alcohol. It tastes of blood, hot, red. It feels inflamed, like his throbbing cheek.
He does not want to talk to her. He is so angry. So hurt. So tired. He just wants her out of his room.
‘Go away,’ he mumbles, lying back down, pulling the duvet over his head.
‘Raj,’ her voice insistent. ‘We have to go to India.’
He throws off his duvet, sits up, and glares at her. ‘Have you gone quite mad? First you slap me, and now this.’
His mother blanches, wilts like a flower without water. ‘Son, I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t call me son. You sure as hell don’t treat me like one.’ His voice trembles and he is annoyed with himself for this weakness.
She stands, and goes towards him. He cringes. She hesitates and squats back down on the carpet again.
Raj sighs. What an evening this was turning out to be, going from horrible to abysmal in the space of an hour.
‘You’ve barged into my room uninvited, hit me, and now you won’t leave. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve had a terrible evening, made worse by you. I want to sleep.’
‘I’ll leave in a minute, but you need to know this. I’m not joking. We’re going to India.’
He looks at her, properly this time. She is clutching the phone to her as if it is her talisman. She looks as knackered as he feels. For the second time that day he is surprised by a pang of guilt for what he is putting her through, but it is quickly replaced by righteous resentment when his sore cheek pulses with remembered pain.
‘Why India for Christ’s sake? That wasn’t Dad on the phone, was it? I could have sworn you were talking to a woman?’
Another pang. This one of hurt at the thought of his dad, who moved to India years ago and has invited Raj to visit countless times since. Raj has refused on principle. Why should he go all the way to India when
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