Chapter 4: Bhaiya Leaves, Kabir Stays

That night, my brother came home, looking tired and apologetic. He said, "I have to fly to the US for a business trip tomorrow. I’ll hang out with you when I get back."

He had dark circles under his eyes, a laptop bag slung over one shoulder, and kept checking his WhatsApp for work messages. He pressed a five-rupee coin into my palm for ‘shagun’, grinning as if I was still a kid going for my board exams. He ruffled my hair, promising me some chocolates from Duty Free. I could see he felt bad about leaving me so soon after I’d arrived.

Then he told Kabir to take good care of me.

He shot Kabir a look, half stern, half trusting, as if warning him and thanking him at the same time. There’s always this unsaid understanding between them.

I saw Kabir answer indifferently, then turn his back and keep cooking.

His back was ramrod straight, but he didn’t say much—just went back to stirring dal in the pan, the sound of the tadka filling the kitchen.

My brother kept reminding me not to stay up late, but I wasn’t really listening.

I nodded at all the instructions, but my mind was buzzing with thoughts of Kabir—of being alone with him for days on end.

Thinking about being alone with Kabir for half a month, I lowered my head, both expectant and nervous.

A fluttering feeling settled in my stomach, the kind that makes you want to smile and hide at the same time. What if I messed up? What if I said something silly?

"Kabir, take good care of my sister, or I’ll kick you out when I get back."

"Let her starve."

He shot back at my brother with his usual attitude.

My brother laughed and pretended to hit him. The two of them messed around for a bit.

Kabir ducked away, dodging a playful slap, and Bhaiya laughed, calling him a useless housemate. It was all good-natured, but I could see the fondness underneath.

I watched them laugh at the dining table.

A little envious of my brother. I don’t think I could ever interact with him so naturally.

I wished I could join in, but I just picked at my food and smiled, feeling like an outsider to their camaraderie.

The next morning when I woke up, my brother was already gone.

The flat was quiet, with just the faint sound of birds outside and a gentle breeze ruffling the curtains. His room was locked, a note left on the table: "Call me if you need anything, Ritu."

I glanced at the message on my phone—his worried instructions. After washing up, I went downstairs and made some Maggi.

The water whistled in the kettle, and I quietly made my Maggi with extra masala, just the way I liked. The kitchen felt strangely big without Bhaiya’s music playing in the background.

Halfway through eating, Kabir came down.

My brother once said he had a terrible temper when he woke up. Seeing his annoyed, irritable face, I swallowed my greeting and quietly buried my head in my noodles, not daring to make a sound.

He looked as if he hadn’t slept properly, hair sticking up in all directions, eyes narrowed like a lion just disturbed from a nap. He didn’t say anything, just stared at me for a moment.

"Arrey, that’s not very polite."

I froze and looked up, giving an embarrassed smile under his dissatisfied gaze. "Morning."

I tried to sound cheerful, but it came out a bit squeaky, and I felt the tips of my ears burning.

He came over, glanced at me in disdain. "No nutrition. Next time, wake me up and I’ll cook."

His voice was gruff, but I saw him glance at my bowl with a kind of grudging concern. I felt a tiny spark of warmth beneath the scolding.

It was as if he came down just to say that, and then he went back upstairs.

His slippers slapped against the stairs, and soon all I could hear was the door closing upstairs. I blinked, half-amused, half-bewildered.

I watched his tall, thin back in confusion. Did he really come down just to scold me?

I poked at the last noodles, thinking he was like the strict hostel warden—always grumpy in the mornings, but still caring in his own way.

But Kabir has always had a bad temper, so I didn’t think much of it.

At noon, Kabir came down with messy hair to cook.

I heard him in the kitchen and spoke up awkwardly, "Sorry, Kabir, for troubling you."

He sneered, didn’t look back, and snorted, "You don’t even call me Bhaiya. Be careful, I’ll let you starve."

His words were sharp, but I could hear the smile in his voice. The sound of the spatula hitting the pan was almost musical, blending with his banter.

I laughed behind him. Kabir is fierce, but his bark is worse than his bite.

"You wouldn’t."

His back seemed to pause for a second, then he brought the food over and said, still fierce, "Come eat."

The way he set the plates, banging them a little too loudly, made me grin. He was all talk—deep down, I knew he’d never let me go hungry.