Chapter 2: Unexpected Storms
393 Words
His name was Arjun Malhotra, and he had the most patient way of explaining things that made Meera feel simultaneously comforted and frustrated. Over cups of cardamom tea on the veranda, with rain drumming on the tin roof above them, he told her how he’d come to be living in her grandmother’s cottage.
“I was traveling through Kasauli six months ago,” he said, his fingers absently sketching patterns on the condensation of his cup. “My car broke down in the storm. Your Nani found me walking in the rain and insisted I stay until it was fixed.”
“And you never left?”
“She offered me the studio space in exchange for maintaining the house. Said it was too quiet without someone creating things in it.” His smile was soft, tinged with grief. “She talked about you constantly. Meera the art historian, Meera who understood beauty, Meera who would come home when she was ready.”
Meera felt tears prick her eyes. Typical Nani, orchestrating connections even from beyond. “I had no idea she was ill.”
“She wasn’t, not in the way you’d expect. She just said her heart had done its work, that it was time to let the next generation tend the garden.” Arjun gestured toward the overgrown backyard where marigolds and jasmine fought for space among the wild monsoon grass. “She made me promise to take care of things until you arrived.”
“And now I’m here.”
“Now you’re here,” he agreed, and something in his tone made her pulse quicken.
The rain intensified, turning from gentle pattering to a proper downpour. Through the silver curtain, Meera could barely make out the mountains that had seemed so clear just an hour ago. She realized she was stranded—not just by the weather, but by circumstances she hadn’t fully processed yet.
“There’s a guest room upstairs,” Arjun said, as if reading her thoughts. “Your grandmother kept it ready. She always said you’d need somewhere to land when London stopped feeling like home.”
How had Nani known? Meera hadn’t told anyone about the cracks in her marriage, about how Marcus’s world of gallery openings and wine tastings had begun to feel like a beautiful prison. She’d barely admitted it to herself.
- Writer
