Saathiya

**A/N - This is my most complicated and dramatic story yet. And probably the story closest to my heart. I'm putting it out for the first time here on Inkitt for the Inferno Challenge. I hope you all like it!

“On a dark and stormy night…”

“Mama, mystery stories aise hi kyun shuru hote hain?”

(Mama, why do mystery stories always start like that?)

“Bas aise.” She shrugged.

(Just because.)

“Tum batao, kaisa shuru hona hain? Hum naye story banayenge.”

(You tell me, how do you want it to start? We’ll make a new story.)

“On a sunny, rainbow-y day…”

She laughed, pinching her daughter’s nose. “Rainbow-y word nahi hota, bacha.”

(Rainbow-y is not a word, baby.)

“Agar naye story bana sakte, toh main naya word bhi bana sakti, na?”

(If we can create a new story, why can create a new word, too, right?)

“Ab sona kam, story zyada ho gaya. Tum so jao, main kahaani continue karti hoon.”

(Now you’re sleeping less and worried more about the story. Come on, time to sleep. I’ll continue the story.)

She gently patted the child’s back as she snuggled into the covers. “On a sunny, rainbow-y morning, a young girl is skipping along to her school when she notices a strange scene…”

___

“Mama, aaj hum car mein jaa rahe hain, na…”

(Mama, we’re going in the car today, right…)

She eyes her daughter’s swinging legs in the rearview mirror with a smile. “Hmm…jitna tak main jaanti hoon, ab hum car mein hi baithe hain.”

(Hmm, as far as I know, we’re sitting in the car right now.)

“Butter bun ke liye ruk sakte hain, kya?” The rhythmic tapping of shoes against cloth stopped, the child’s absentminded kicking replaced by a tight grip on her fingers.

(Can we stop for a butter bun?)

“Nahi, baccha, aaj nahi.”

(No dear, not today.)

The pout was immediate. “Agar bun lene rukne ke liye time nahi hain, phir car mein jaane ka kya faida?”

(If there’s no time to get a bun, then what’s the point of going in the car?)

The grumpy mumble had Maitreyi huffing out a laugh. This girl and her food obsession, bilkul apni Maa ki tarah.

(…just like her Mom.)

“Dhriti, Mama ko aaj kaam pe jaldi jana hain, issiliye car mein drop kar rahi hoon. Agar bun ke liye rukenge, Mama late ho jayegi. Kal lenge, theek hain?”

(Dhriti, Mama needs to go to work early today, that’s why I’m dropping you off by car. If we stop for a bun, Mama will be late. We’ll get one tomorrow, okay?)

Dhriti sighed, rolling her eyes with the drama of an actress. “Fiiiiine…kal phirse bhook ko bulana padega.”

(Fiiiiiine….I’ll need to call my hunger again tomorrow.)

Bhook ko bulana padega…kaise sochthi hain yeh sab.

(Call my hunger again…how does she think of all this.)

Unclicking the seat belt, Maitreyi lifted Dhriti out of the car seat. Hand in hand, they walked to the open front doors of the school. “Bye, Mama!”

Before Maitreyi could give her daughter her daily kiss, she ran through the doors, waving a hand behind her. “Kamaal hain, ab hi toh rut gayi thi. Koi baat nahi. Mahadev, meri bacchi ko aise hi khush aur surakshit rakna.”

(It’s a wonder, she was just pouting. No matter. Mahadev, please always keep my daughter happy and safe.)

It was a prayer she prayed every morning and night, because nothing in this world would matter without her daughter.

___

“Kritika-ji, aap haath ko aise rakhiye…exactly. Aur dupatta ko thoda dheela chhod dijiye. Perfect!”

(Kritika-ji, keep your hand like this…exactly. And let the dupatta loose a little bit. Perfect!)

Scrolling through the photos on her camera, she approached the couple. “Let’s take a quick break, have something to eat or drink. You both can scroll through these pictures on the monitor in the meanwhile, and if they look good, we can have the next outfit change.” After a grueling, but successful, pre-wedding photo shoot, Maitreyi had enough time to stop at the sabzi bazaar (vegetable market) on her way home. An hour later, dropping the box into her handbag, she locked the door and strode to her car. “Hi beta, kaisa tha school aaj?”

(Hi beta, how was school today?)

“Bohot mazaa aaya, Mama! Maine aaj Dhruv ko hopscotch khelna sikhayi.”

(It was super fun, Mama! I taught Dhruv how to play hopscotch today.)

“Accha? Ek kaam karo, yeh khate khate mujhe batao kaise sikhayi.” Pulling out of the parking lot, she stretched her hand back, holding out a box.

(Really? Do one thing, tell me about how you taught him while eating this.)

“Pakode! Mama, yeh toh mere favorite hain!”

(Pakode! Mama, these are my favorite!)

“Really? Mujhe toh nahi pata tha.”

(Really? I didn’t know that.)

“Offo Mama, of course aapko pata hain. Aap humesha yeh banate hain mere liye!”

(Offo Mama, of course you know. You always make them for me!)

“Phir buddhu, aisa kyun kaha tumne?”

(Then silly, why did you say that?)

“Mammmm mujhmmmmm achhammmmmm…”

“Dheere se khao, Dhriti, kahi bhaag nahi jayega. Aur khaate waqt baat nahi karte.”

(Eat slowly, Dhriti. It’s not going to run away anywhere. And we don’t speak while we’re chewing.)

___

“Nahi, Dhriti, shoes kaha rakhte hain?”

(No, Dhriti, where do you put your shoes?)

“Fine…” Sighing like a seasoned professional, she tucked her shoes away on her allotted rack.

“Fresh ho jao, aur homework ka kya karna hain dekhte hain.”

(Freshen up, and we’ll see what to do about your homework.)

“Phad ke phenkna hain,” Dhriti whispered under her breath.

(Tear it to bits.)

Once Dhriti was out of her hearing, she added, “Kabhi kabhi mujhe bhi aisa lagta hain.”

(Sometimes, I also feel that way.)

Hanging her purse away in her closet, Maitreyi strode towards the bathroom. “Aao, main buttons kholthi hoon.”

(Come here, I’ll open the buttons.)

As Dhriti carefully twirled her braids, clipping them with her favorite butterfly claw clips, Maitreyi checked the temperature of the bath and hung Dhriti’s clothes on the rack. “Main yahi hoon-”

(I’m right here…)

“Haan Mama, pata hain. ‘Kuch chahiye toh chilao.’”

(I know, Mama. ‘Just holler if you need anything.’)

Setting out Dhriti’s school folder, Maitreyi also poured her a glass of juice. The pitter-patter of tiny feet against marble caught her attention as Maitreyi chopped carrots. “Dhriti, kitne baar bataya maine! Itna zor se mat bhagna.”

(Dhriti, how many times have I told you! Don’t run so fast.)

Ignoring her, Dhriti only smiled, lifting up her arms. “Mama, uthao.”

(Mama, lift me up.)

Placing Dhriti on the counter, she handed her the glass of juice. “Hmm, ab batao, hopscotch ka kya hua?”

(Hmm, now tell me, what happened with hopscotch?)

Licking the juice mustache on her lip, Dhriti answered. “Main Dhruv ko hopscotch khelna sikha rahi thi. Lekin pata hain, thoda slow hain.”

(I was teaching Dhruv how to play hopscotch. But do you know, he’s kinda slow.)

She pinched her fingers together to demonstrate. “Dhruv? Yeh toh naya naam lag raha hain.”

(Dhruv? This sounds like a new name.)

It’s just a name, it should mean nothing to you. Besides, he’s a little kid. “Haan, last Monday hi join kiya. Break time pe woh Amaira hain na, gandi wali, Dhruv ko chhed rahi thi ki hopscotch khelna nahi pata. Toh maine usko bola sikhaungi tumhe. Mujhe itne baar samjhana pada,” she stretched out her hands as wide as she could, “pura break time lag gaya. Mujhe bohot gussa bhi aaya, lekin usne sorry bola aur promise kiya ki Monday tak practice karke aayega. Toh maine cuttif wapas le li.”

(Haan, he joined last Monday. During break time, that Amaira, the horrible one, was teasing Dhruv that he couldn’t play hopscotch. So I told him that I’d teach him. I had to show him sooo many times, that it took up all of break time. I got really angry, but he said sorry, and he promised that he’d practice and come for Monday. So I took my cutiff back.)

Dhriti tilted her head back, holding the empty juice glass over her mouth to catch the last few drops. “Baccha, aise nahi bolte, ‘gandi wali’ nahi kehte kisi ko.”

(Dear, we don’t say that. We don’t call anyone ‘horrible.’)

She slammed the glass down on the counter. “Par Mumma, woh hain gandi. Sab ki chugli karti hain, mean mean baatein karti hain. Mujhe bilkul acchi nahi lagti.”

(But Mumma, she is horrible. She complains about everyone, and says really mean things. I don’t like her at all.)

“Hmm, tumhe yaad hain, pichle hafte, maine tum par thoda gussa kiya.”

(Hmm, do you remember? Last week, I got a little mad at you.)

“Haan…”

(Yes…)

“Uss din mujhe bohot kaam tha na, aur pet mein dard tha.”

(I had a lot of work that day, right, and my stomach was hurting.)

“Haan…”

(Yes…)

“Toh, kabhi kabhi jab humara din bura chal raha hain, yah kuch dard hain, toh hum acche se nahi peshate. Shayad Amaira bhi waisi hi karti hain.”

(So, sometimes when our day isn’t going well, or we’re in pain, we don’t behave very well. Maybe that why Amaira behaves that way.)

“Har roz?”

(Every day?)

“Haan, beta. Shayad ghar par uske parents bohot jhagadthe hain, shayad uske parents usko saath waqt nahi bitaate, shayad uski tabiyat theek nahi rehthi. Kuch bhi ho sakta hain. Jab humare dil mein, ya shareer mein, dard hota hain, toh kabhi kabhi hum mean ban jaate hain. Lekin iska matlab yeh nahi ki hum apna gussa sab par nikale, woh ghalat hain.”

(Yes, beta. Maybe her parents fight a lot at home, maybe her parents don’t spend time with her, maybe her health isn’t very good. It could be anything. When there’s pain in our bodies or our hearts, we sometimes become mean. But that doesn’t mean we should take out our anger on everyone else – that’s wrong.)

“Shayad uske paas aapke jaisa Mama nahi hain joh usse yeh bataiye.”

(Maybe she doesn’t have a Mama like to tell her these things.)

Not exactly what I was thinking, but sure. “Exactly!” Giving Dhriti a high-five, Maitreyi added the chopped vegetables into the pan.

“Dusre ghalat ho ya na ho, hum sahi hone ki humesha koshish karna chahiye. But I’m very proud of you, Dhriti.”

(Whether other are right or wrong, we should always try to do right…)

She pressed a soft kiss to her daughter’s temple. “Tumne Dhruv ko madat karke bohot accha kiya. Aur gussa control karke. Kyunki har koi kuch cheezein jaldi sikhthe hain, aur kuch slowly.”

(You did a very good job by helping Dhruv. And by controlling your anger. Because everyone learns some things slowly, and some things quickly.)

Pushing off the counter, Dhriti dangled by her arms, her legs not reaching the floor. “Mama!”

“Arey! Aao idhar.” Maitreyi lifted the child onto her hip.

(Arey! Come here.) Maitreyi lifted the child onto her hip.

“Mama, mujhe stir karna hain.”

(Mama, I want to stir.)

“Woh stool lekar aao.”

(Get that stool.)

Dhriti jumped out of her mother’s arms as she set her down and dragged over the short stepping stool from the side of the counter. Holding her mother’s hand, she climbed on and grabbed the stirring ladle. Gently holding her hand, Maitreyi guided Dhriti, stirring the vegetables.

“Mama, I have a question.”

“Poocho.”

(Ask.)

She turned around, waving the ladle in the air, nearly hitting Maitreyi across the nose. “Aaram se,” she guided Dhriti back to the pan, “yeh karte karte poochna.”

(Slowly…do this while asking.)

“Dhruv keh raha tha ki apna CP ek aunty pen hain. Woh kya hota hain?”

(Dhruv was saying that his CP is an ‘aunty pen.’ What is that?)

“Kya? CP? Aunty pen? Aaram se batao, beta.”

(What? CP? Aunty pen? Tell me calmly, beta.)

“Mama, mujhe lagta hain woh uske Papa ko CP kehta hain. Kabhi kabhi pick up karne aate hain.”

(Mama, I think he calls his Papa ‘CP’. He sometime comes to pick him up.)

“Accha, samajh gayi main. Phir kya hua uska CP ko?”

(Ok, I understand now. So what happened to his CP?)

“Uska CP ek aunty pen hain. Ek bada sa company hain. Company matlab bada dukaan, yeh pata hain mujhe. Kya woh aunties ko pens bhejne wala company hain kya?”

(His CP is an ‘aunty pen’. He has a big company. Company means big store, I know that. Is it a store that sells pens to aunties?)

Aunty pen, yeh kya hota hain?

(Aunty pen, what is that?)

“Tumhe aur kuch pata unke kaam ke baare mein?”

(Do you know anything else about his work?)

“Ummm…” She tapped her chin, thinking. “Haan! Woh khud ka boss hain, jaisa aap hain! Lekin aap toh aunty pen nahi hain,” she added with confusion.

(Yes! He’s his own boss, like you! But you are not an ‘aunty pen’.)

Kya ‘entrepreneur’ kehne ko koshish nahi kar rahi hain?

(Is she trying to say ‘entrepreneur’?)

Adding the wet rice to the pan, she rinsed her hands. “Dhriti, kya Dhruv ‘entrepreneur’ keh raha tha?”

(Dhriti, was Dhruv saying ‘entrepreneur’?)

“Shayad…”

(Maybe…)

Placing a lid on the pan, she lifted Dhriti off the stool, carrying her to the table. Pulling up the definition of entrepreneur on her laptop, Maitreyi turned the screen towards Dhriti. “Yeh hain entrepreneur ki spelling. Joh khud ka dukaan, ya business, ya company banakar chalate hain, usko entrepreneur kehte hain.”

(Here is the spelling for ‘entrepreneur.’ Whoever has their own store, or business, or runs their own company – we call them entrepreneurs.)

Spelling out the word letter by letter, they practiced the pronunciation. “En…tre…pre…neur!”

“Shabhash! Kal Dhruv se pooch lena, theek hain. Ab hum tumhare homework ko dekhte hain.”

(Very good! You can check with Dhruv tomorrow, ok? Now let’s look at your homework.)

After dinner, Maitreyi and Dhriti lounged on the couch, scrolling through the pre-wedding shoot pictures from earlier in the day. “Oh, yeh wala bohot pretty hain!”

(Oh, this one’s very pretty!)

“Ok, then let’s add this to the video…”

“Mama, jab main itni badi ho jaungi, toh main aise pretty pretty lehenga pehen sakti hoon?”

(Mama, when I become this big, then I can wear these really pretty lehengas, right?)

Laughing, Maitreyi kissed her daughter’s cheek and ruffled her hair. “Haan, zaroor! Lekin itna kyun wait karna. Abhi bhi pehen sakti ho. Bohot waqt ho gaya na, shopping jaake. Kal jaate hain.”

(Yes, of course! But why should you wait that long. You can wear it now. It’s been a while since we’ve gone shopping, let’s go tomorrow.)

“Yay, yay, yay!” A short while later, Dhriti poked her mother’s shoulder. “Mama, mujhe aapke wedding pictures dekhna hain.”

(Mama, I want to see your wedding pictures.)

“Beta, maine bataya na, meri shaadi nahi hui. Toh pictures kaise honge?”

(Beta, I told you right, I didn’t have a wedding. So how would I have pictures?)

“Toh shaadi karo na, Mama. Mujhe aapko aise pretty, pretty dresses mein dekhna hain.”

(Then get married, Mama. I want to see you in these pretty dresses.)

Maitreyi cupped her cheek, bemused at the innocence of children. “Iske liye shaadi ki kya zaroorat. Hum dono pretty lehenga khareed lenge, aur hum dono photoshoot karenge. Theek hain? Aur Sweta maasi ki shadi mein bhi pehen sakti ho.”

(Why do I need to get married for this? We’re both going to buy pretty lehengas, and we’ll do a photoshoot. Ok? Aur you can wear it in Sweta aunty’s wedding, too.)

“Theek hain!”

(Ok!)

“Aaj ke liye yeh kaafi hain, chalo so jaate hain.”

(This is enough for today. Come, let’s sleep.)