Chapter 4: DNA, Doubt, and Dairy Milk

The air fell silent again.

“You said your mum is Priya Jain?” After a while, the man in front of me asked slowly.

I nodded: “Mm.”

The man’s gaze fell carefully on my face, as if trying to see someone else’s shadow in me.

His eyes flickered, and for a second, I felt like he wasn’t so tough after all. The next second, before anyone else could react, he picked me up and strode forward.

Behind us, another uncle called out in confusion: “Sir? Sir?”

I was carried into the lift, holding onto the neck of this man who was supposedly my dad.

His suit was a little scratchy, and he smelled of cologne and sweat, a mixture both strange and safe. He didn’t really know how to hold a child, so I had to adjust my position in his arms.

“What are you squirming for?” he asked.

“Papa, you’re not holding me comfortably.”

So he fell silent and let me wriggle.

He looked a bit lost, his big hands hovering awkwardly. “All right.”

This man named Arjun Malhotra stared at me, then asked: “How old are you?”

“Papa, I’m four this year.”

He fell silent again, then said: “Are all four-year-olds as heavy as you?”

I was a little angry: “Mum never says I’m heavy when she holds me, and I don’t even complain that you can’t hold kids.”

The uncle who came up in the lift with us was silent like a mute, but his eyes seemed to have a lot to say.

When the lift opened, I was carried into an office.

The air smelled of air freshener and coffee. As we passed, several uncles and aunties looked at us in surprise. I heard someone behind whisper: “Assistant Rohit, whose child is Sir carrying?”

The uncle called ‘Assistant Rohit’ shook his head and said nothing.

I was put on the sofa, facing the man.

He brought over paper and pen, and said: “Didn’t you say your mum is Priya Jain? Write her name down.”

The uncle who came along couldn’t help but interject: “Sir, a four-year-old might not know how to write yet?”

Before he finished, I gripped the pen too tightly, tongue poking out in concentration, and wrote ‘Priya Jain’ on the paper. It was a bit crooked, but I wouldn’t write Mum’s name wrong.

Dad looked at the name for a long time without speaking, but then his gaze fell on my face again.

His face looked softer, but he tried to hide it by clearing his throat. “Did your mum tell you I’m your dad?”

I shook my head.

He snorted again: “Then how do you know I’m your dad? Maybe you’re her child with another man, otherwise why didn’t she bring you to find me?”

The barrage appeared again.

[Stubborn man. Excited inside, aren’t you?]

[So stubborn, no wonder he’s sentenced to wife-less prison.]

[If you want to know, just do a DNA test. Little Meera, pull out a few hairs with roots from your dad.]

[LOL, the man is probably already planning to acknowledge her no matter what.]

[……]

I thought for a bit, then started pulling my hair.

One, ouch, two, ouch…

Dad grabbed my hand: “What are you doing?”

I winced, my eyes watering. Amma says never to pull your hair, but this was for Papa. I hope he’d believe me now. I gathered the hairs I pulled out and put them in his palm.

“Papa, go do a test, then you’ll know if I’m your child.”

He froze: “Who taught you this? Your mum? Where is she?”

“Mum is at work.”

“Do you know your mum’s phone number? Call her to come pick you up.” Dad seemed determined to see my mum.

I shook my head again, looking at him disapprovingly: “I said, Mum is at work, don’t disturb her.”

“Is she at work or afraid to see me?”

“Mum didn’t do anything wrong, why would she be afraid to see you?”

I stared at him with all the confidence I could muster, the way Mum faced off with nosy aunties from our building.

Then I heard him snort again.

This dad really has a bad temper.