Episode 27

“Shh, here, drink this.” Ruhi coos, caressing Tara’s hair as she nudges the glass of water against her lips letting the girl take tiny sips.

As expected, they had found the girl unconscious in her room, calling the doctor immediately to their house as well as Mihir. Both had reached the place within fifteen minutes. Mihir with a panicked, ‘You guys should have called me before’ to the siblings.

It had been Raghav who with laboured breaths had told the doctor about Tara’s condition, asking if she’ll be ok soon, while it was Ranveer who had finally told them what had happened, not that he knew the case in detail, just that she saw Samrat’s mother on the laptop screen and had rushed to her room.

It has been five minutes since the girl has woken up and all her friends are sitting surrounding her.

“Are you feeling any better now?” Mihir asks the girl who nods but her lips quiver as she does.

Raghav takes a seat beside the girl, his hand hovering over hers not knowing whether she would appreciate the contact or not. He puts it beside her on the bed.

“What’s wrong, Tara? Tell us. Ranvi told us about the video. Is it – is it something to do with it, something to do with Samrat’s mother?” Just as he says that an immediate sob escapes her lips as she breaks down completely, her shoulders shaking as she cries.

They all know that Raghav has hit the nail.

Ranveer starts tearing up with the girl, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand, his lips turned down.

“She –” Tara begins but her wailing interrupts her. “She – that woman –”

Tara looks at her friends, her vision blurred with tears as she chokes out, “She was the one who k-killed them …my parents. She had sh-shot my father, and she had put my mother into jail where she breathed her last. That w-woman was the one who took them away from m-me!” Tara cries, immediately curling to herself after saying those words hearing which Ruhi’s hands pause on Tara’s face from where they were wiping away her tears while blood drains from Raghav’s face. Ranveer stops his crying, while it is Mihir who chokes out a horrified, “What?”

Silence follows the question as no one answers, too busy to take in the information that might just change their whole lives.

*

“So, Daya Sir, huh?” Samrat asks with a gentle voice walking with her to the kitchen once all the guests have left the house, the evening sun lightening the atmosphere.

“Yeah…” Mishti smiles, putting the plates in the dishwasher and getting herself a glass of water. “You want?” she asks but Samrat shakes his head, choosing to go and stand against the counter as she drinks water.

“I was his favourite in the orphanage.” Mishti reveals with a huge smile, eyes twinkling that sadden visibly as she murmurs the next few words in her mouth, “Everything was good until he was there….”

“I’m sure you were,” Samrat replies with a smile of his own, getting her out of her mournful reverie. “I have seen that drawing of you in his purse. I used to be so jealous of you.” he huffs out a chuckle, so does Mishti. “He didn't talk much about his day outs in the orphanages, guess because he didn't want me to be sad, but if he had, I’m sure I would’ve heard about you or even met you.”

Mishti hums agreeing, a part of her mind imagining how things would have been if she would have met him in childhood.

Maybe Samrat wouldn't have liked her because she used to be a pouty child who needed her brother everywhere.

Or maybe he would have liked her because the times she laughed, she made everyone laugh.

Maybe they would have become best friends and would be living a story totally different from the current one.

Maybe.

Mishti nods unconsciously, gaze stuck somewhere on the wall behind Samrat, smiling, only to pause in the action immediately, eyes widening and head snappy towards the man.

“You’ve shaved.”

Now Mishti doesn’t know why she said that but only that she had seen it as soon as she had entered the hall and seeing the man without his usual beard was different, to say the least. By no means she could say that it was a bad 'different' though.

Samrat’s hand unconsciously reaches out to stroke his chin at the comment, removing it immediately. He clears his throat and nods. “Yeah, I did…” he trails off, a distant look on his face. “Something tells me it’s the way to keep people around.” He says and Mishti’s left tongue-tied.

It can’t be it.

Does he still remember that?

“They all leave. Am I so bad? Is it, is it my face? Is something wrong with it? Is it the scruff? I’ll shave it tomorrow, I promise.”

“Don’t know how this idea got into my head but it had been at the same day my father passed away. It’s silly, I know.”

“It’s not!” Mishti says before the man could give her that self-pitying smile that she is so familiar with because of her own experiences, the implication behind the words and the memories that they bring leave Mishti wailing from inside, Samrat’s sombre expression still fresh behind her lids.

“It’s – It’s not silly. I’m sure anyone would’ve stayed after hearing those words.” She gulps. “Anyone.”

Samrat gives her that self-pitying smile that she was trying to avoid, anyways and heaves a sigh. “I don’t remember anyone staying though. Not my father, not her.” He murmurs to himself, but Mishti hears it crystal clear.

And for some reason just knows that the 'her' that he is talking about is not his wife. Not this time.

It is her. Mishti.

And oh, how she wants to let him know that she would’ve stayed that day. Had it not been for that bag and her brother and her being a criminal, she would’ve stayed even if it was the first time she had met him.

Though before she can say anything more about that, her gaze falls on the thing that is kept on the tabletop outside of the kitchen, directly in her line of sight.

A white porcelain vase. Her next task, something she is yet to think about.

“Th-That’s a beautiful vase.” She comments and Samrat traces her gaze, his lips falling from the up twitch.

He gulps. “It is, isn’t it? I treasure it.”

Mishti swallows thickly listening to the confirmation, hands going sticky.

“Vivek had told me that your father bought it, is it because of that?”

Samrat turns to her, his eyes slightly widening before they come back to their old size. He nods. “That and because this is the only reminder of something that I want to forget yet I don’t. I don’t want it to break like everything else did.”

It is with a courageous yet stuttered exhale that Mishti puts forth the next question, not too sure that she’ll get the answer but does it, nonetheless.

“What else broke? A-And who broke it?”

Mishti is afraid to see the reaction, not wanting to see his hardened face, stone-cold gaze or doubtful look ever again but she has no option. She looks him in the eyes.

Samrat isn’t angry as she had thought, nor is he sad. In fact, there is a small smirk resting on his face that has a visible tinge of melancholia to it. “You’re all about raking up old wounds today, aren’t you?” he says, his words lacking heat. “You sure you want to hear the answer to that?”

Mishti nods hesitantly and a self-deprecating smile grows on Samrat’s lips, his face yet again gaining that faraway look.

“It was my heart that broke and lies that broke it.” He murmurs with a voice that Mishti hasn’t heard in years; wavering and wounded. Mishti doesn’t want to hear it. But before she can tell him to stop saying things that pain him, he says, “Lies, Mishti. Lies are fatal. They break hearts, they break people. I hate them.”

Oh, and Mishti hates them too. Hates them for sowing this sadness in his eyes and for reaping these melancholic tears. Mishti hates lies, and they make her hate herself too.

Makes her want to reveal everything about herself. She doesn’t want to lie to him anymore. She can’t.

“Sir….” Mishti begins and the man in question turns to her, a small furrow between his brows.

Samrat shakes his head. “I told you to not call me that.” He says and Mishti’s eyes widen, not expecting him to remember that.

“B-But –” She argues and the frown between his face furrows as he purses his lips, his face portraying a look that Mishti never wants to see on him; closed off, impassive and reserved.

“Fine, Preeti, I think two can play the game.” He aims to say it sarcastically and yet a hint of hurt seeps in his voice, fists clenching at his side as he turns around to walk outside the kitchen, leaving Mishti to struggle with all kinds of thoughts and precautions conflicting with each other, not liking that fake name spilling out of his mouth one bit, an invisible line shining in front of her eyes warning her to not cross it.

Mishti does it anyway.

“Samrat!”

He stops immediately, turning around to face her, a surprised yet pleasant look immediately replacing the stoic look previously adorning his features, giving peace to Mishti’s aching heart.

She swallows an invisible lump in her throat, immediately breaking the eye contact. It’s then when with a low voice she asks, “Should I c-call you like that?”

It’s with an even lowered voice that she gets the answer. “Yeah…. just like that.”