Chapter 6: Questions in the Heat

When I woke up again, I heard arguing. I opened my eyes on the sofa, rubbed them, and saw Mum.

Her eyes were red and angry, her braid messy, and she looked like she hadn’t slept. “Arjun Malhotra, I told you, Meera is not your daughter.”

Under the dim light, Mum looked especially slender across from Dad.

“If she’s not my daughter, why did she run up to me and call me Papa?” I heard Dad sneer, “She said she’s four. If she’s not my daughter, then you must have cheated on me back then. Priya, tell me, who’s the other man?”

His voice was harsh, but I could hear a break in it, as if he wanted Mum to shout back, to fight instead of leaving. “What’s the point of saying this now?” Mum sounded tired. She adjusted her sari pallu, voice cracking as she tried to stay composed. “It’s all in the past, Arjun. She’s not your child. I’m taking my daughter home now.”

Arjun clenched and unclenched his fist, looking away at the city lights outside the office window. “You say she isn’t, so she isn’t? I took her for a DNA test this afternoon. When the results come out, we’ll know who’s lying.”

This made Mum tremble. She moved her lips but said nothing.

I saw her grip the end of her dupatta tightly, her knuckles white. “Mum.” I called her.

“Meera,” Mum finally focused on me. She came over and hugged me, her eyes red, “You scared Mummy so much.”

Her embrace was tight, and I could feel her heartbeat racing, tears dropping on my cheek. I pressed my face to hers, whispered: “Mum, I’m sorry.”

Mum kissed my face too: “Sorry, it’s Mummy’s work problem, I didn’t watch you well.”

I could smell her familiar scent—Dettol, rose oil, and a hint of tears. An ill-timed voice interrupted: “What, you mother and daughter are so close, what am I, the villain?”

I looked over. Dad’s handsome face was very dark.

I asked Mum: “Mum, how did you ever like someone so fierce?”

She looked away, her lips pressed tight. “……”

Both were silent. I stared at them.

“Meera, let’s go home.” Mum didn’t say more, picked me up and tried to leave.

Her arms trembled with the effort, but she wouldn’t let go. Dad reached out at that moment, still sounding cold.

“Let me carry you. I don’t know how you’ve been living these years. The daughter’s so sturdy, and you’re so thin. Aren’t you afraid you’ll hurt your back?”

His voice was softer, and I caught a glimpse of worry in his eyes.

“Dad, I’m not fat.” I stressed to him.

He weighed me, snorted: “All your family’s food must go to you, huh?”

I decided not to talk to him anymore.

Mum silently followed, looking at me and Dad, her expression complicated.

In the lift, Dad finally asked: “Priya, back then you broke up and left without a word. Why?”

Mum lowered her head and said nothing.

“If you really didn’t care about me, why did you have my child?”

The question hung in the air between them, heavier than the city’s evening heat.

Before anyone could answer, my smartwatch buzzed again—a new message. But this time, it wasn’t from Mum.