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Sheetal, Rakesh, and Yash clustered about the Snakes and Ladders boardgame set up on the carpeted floor of Yash’s bedroom.
Rakesh lay on his right side, body parallel to the board’s black-and-white tiles, propped on an elbow with his cheek cupped in his hand while the other hand rested along his thigh. He cracked jokes and laughed every time he moved his counter down one of the colorful snakes, carefree and at ease in a way Sheetal hadn’t seen in a long time.
She rolled a die, moved her counter two spaces, and waved toward Yash, who sat cross-legged with his back to the bed. He scooped up the die and rolled it on the board. “Six!” he squealed. “Extra turn for me!”
Although the rules did not give a player an extra turn for rolling a six, she and Rakesh allowed Yash the bonus in the hope that he’d win.
While Yash moved his yellow counter, Sheetal’s attention wandered to clusters of miniature Thomas the Trains printed on the light blue duvet behind him. His sports-car-shaped bed, custom designed and imported from the U.S., and curtains bearing smiley-faced trains, both chosen before Yash transitioned from the nursery, seemed like purchases they’d made just yesterday.
Yash’s second roll of the red cube bounced and glided across the board and stopped at the tip of Rakesh’s finger. “Six again!” Yash slid his counter across six tiles. “May I have the die, please, Dad?” Yash straightened his back against the bed and waited.
“Of course, you may.” Rakesh passed the die.
May? Please? Sheetal recalled when Yash was six and how he grabbed the die on every turn. Last summer, she noticed how he tucked a napkin into the neckline of his shirt and waited until he finished chewing before taking the next mouthful. Six months later, here he was, using a grown-up voice and waiting politely for his turn.
Yet, this morning, when she discovered him in Rakesh’s closet secretly trying on Rakesh’s leather Ballys, her heart knotted. She asked what he was doing and Yash raised his foot with the shoe dangling on the tips of his toes. Despite the six-inch gap between his heel and the shoe’s back curve, he squealed, “Look, Mum! I’m almost like Dad!” Her chest tightened. Yash didn’t need to fill Rakesh’s shoes.
Yash rolled the die, moved his counter four spaces, and handed the die to Rakesh.
Rakesh blew air into the crevice between thumb and index finger. “Five. Come on, five.” He threw the die.
The die knocked Yash’s toe and stopped. “No, two!” Yash moved Rakesh’s counter to ninety-seven, then all the way down the snake’s body to thirty-five. “Now, you’re last. I’m first.”
“Oh no,” Rakesh feigned disappointment.
“My turn.” Yash waited for Rakesh to hand the die over and then rolled it on the board.
“Ah ha!” Rakesh sat up. “Three, and down you go.”
Yash slid the yellow counter down a green snake, then pressed both elbows onto his knees and dropped his chin on his palms. “Not fair. Now I’m last.”
“That’s life. You can’t always be number one. Sometimes life is fair, sometimes it isn’t.”
“But I want to win,” Yash whined.
“Don’t we all? Anyway, it’s just a game. One minute you’re up a ladder, next minute, down a snake. You’ll be up again soon. Your turn.” He rolled the die toward Sheetal.
Sheetal scooped the die and tossed it onto the board. Diamond bangles tinkled down her wrist, and she remembered the jacket sliding off Arvind’s shoulders. “Five.” She moved her counter.
“Sheetal—”
“Shhhh.” She wove the counter in and out of the tiles’ borders, remembering the glide of seven buttons through the buttonholes of Arvind’s checkered shirt. “We shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t what, Sheetal?” he sounded annoyed.
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
“Seven, Sheetal?”
She blinked and the board crystallized into view. She’d crossed seven tiles. “Oh, I didn’t realize.” She pulled the counter back a space.
“You rolled a five. Look.” He pointed to the five on the die. “How can you miss that?”
“Like how you forgot my hotel reservation? Besides, didn’t you say it’s just a game?” she snapped.
“Little slips happen. It’s not like you spent the night on the streets because you didn’t get a room. You missed two turns before and didn’t notice. If you’re not interested, you don’t have to play.” Rakesh rolled the die, whacked Sheetal’s counter by accident and threw it several squares back. He charged his counter past Sheetal’s and ascended a ladder.
Yash followed Rakesh’s lead, not bothering to give her a turn. They left her at the bottom, alone.
***
A string of advertisements blared on the TV as Yash slept on the sofa with his head on Sheetal’s lap and his stockinged feet pointed toward Rakesh, who sat three cushions away. Sheetal ran her fingers through Yash’s hair as the TV cast shadows on the half-empty bottle of Blue Label to Rakesh’s left and a cigar burning on an ashtray.
“So, how did the appointment go with Dr. Kishore?”
Rakesh raised the bottle of scotch to his lips and drained the liquid. “My problem. I deal with it.”
“It’s not just your problem.”
“It is.”
“I can help.”
“How?”
“Tell me what the doctor said.”
“Fuck off alcohol. Can you help? No. Happy?”
Sheetal winced. “At least mind your language when Yash is here.”
His attention remained fixed on the TV screen.
“When will we know the results of your blood work and MRI scan?” She watched smoke rise from the burning cigar. “Can you put that out? The smoke is harmful.”
“I was minding my own business when you two decided to join me. I didn’t ask you to. Besides, Yash is sleeping. He doesn’t know.”
“He’s breathing the same air.”
“He can’t see.”
Sheetal shifted attention to the images on the TV. “He doesn’t need to know. The secondary smoke will affect him.”
“Don’t know what your problem is. Every time....”
Sheetal closed her eyes, placed a palm on Yash’s ear, and pressed her head into the sofa’s backrest. The cushion reminded her of the warmth and comfort of Arvind’s embrace.
“What the hell am I supposed to do? Just give it up? Who do you think you are? And what fucking....”
You share a life when you have someone to live for. To live with, Arvind’s voice melted her heart. She cracked open her eyelids. Shadows flickered across the ceiling. I did. She left me. She tightened the pallu around her shoulders. So warm. So silky. Like Arvind’s pashmina embrace.
“Sheetal!”
She swallowed and semi-sweet mocha glided down her throat.
“Are you fucking listening to....”
She helped Yash to his feet and glimpsed the stub of the cigar at the end of its life.
“That’s it? Walk off? Are you....”
Sheetal left Rakesh with another bout of advertisements blaring in the background and the way he deserved to be left—alone.
***
The entire Dhanraj mansion had been thoroughly cleaned and draped with strings of colorful lights and tinsel for Diwali, the Hindu Festival of Lights.
Sheetal, Rakesh, and Yash dressed in their finest to join the family for prayers, but before they left the bedroom, Rakesh ducked into his closet, pulled out a shiny blue package, and gave it to Yash.
“A surprise? For me?” Yash’s eyes twinkled.
“That’s right. For you.” Rakesh sat on the carpeted floor beside Yash, tucked the cream-colored, knee-length kurta trimmed with brown and gold embroidery under the seat of his baggy silk trousers, and crossed his legs. Sheetal had never seen Rakesh sit on the floor and give anyone so much of his time and attention, which could only mean that the gift was something special.
“Is it my Diwali gift?” Yash peeled away the shiny blue wrapper.
“It’s more than that.”
Yash lifted the box’s lid and unraveled the neatly folded clothes. “It’s a kurta pajama.” He frowned.
“Like the one I’m wearing. I had one made for you so we can look the same.”
Yash dropped the kurta.
“Wear it. Everyone will know we’re father and son.”
Sheetal turned to Yash. “You’ll look just like your Dad. Isn’t that what you’ve wanted for so long?”
“I don’t want to look like him,” Yash said.
Sheetal took a step and pressed Yash’s shoulder. “Why did you say that?”
“Because all he does is drink that stuff and stink of smoke. If I’m like him, I’ll have to do the same.”
“That’s not how it— It’s not all your Dad does.” In the corner of her eye, she saw Rakesh’s expression fall. She had to act quickly before Rakesh lost his temper.
Yash leaned toward Rakesh, sniffed, and wrinkled his nose. “He smells. See! You can smell him. My teacher says smoking is bad.”
Rakesh’s expression tightened and he looked away.
“Yash, I understand. There are some not-so-good things in life. How about if your Dad promises not to drink and smoke again?”
“I heard you both talk last night. All he ever does is shout at you. I don’t want to shout at you.” Yash stood and stomped toward the door, walking across the clothes on his way out, and then slammed the door behind.
Rakesh rose to his feet. “Who asked you to bring him in the TV lounge last night? I was sitting by myself, minding my own business, but you had to ruin it. See what you did? And now you make promises on my behalf?”
“He didn’t mean it that way,” Sheetal protested. “He’s only eight. He probably just—”
“Knows what he wants. It’s not me. It’s all because of you.”
***
That evening, Sheetal convinced Yash to wear Rakesh’s gift for the Diwali Lakshmi puja. The family congregated in the temple at 6:30 p.m. and she stood between Rakesh and Yash as Mummyji conducted the prayers.
Both Rakesh and Yash pressed palms together in prayer, postures erect, heels touching and shoes fanned slightly apart at the toes. Even the way their heads bowed ever so slightly in prayer to show reverence but not submission was identical. Rakesh’s once titanium-and-steel complexion, tarnished over time, contrasted with Yash’s milky-white skin that glowed with pink highlights around the ears, cheeks, and lips. Rakesh’s left temple pulsed in sporadic intervals, creases formed along the contours of his face, and his nostrils flared intermittently while Yash barely flinched.
Carved from ice, Rakesh reflected death.
Carved from blood, Yash reflected life.
Unable to sleep despite fatigue from the day’s celebrations, Sheetal rolled over in bed to face Rakesh. A moonbeam spilling in through the window combined with the yellow light cast by her bedside lamp illuminated the green veins that branched across his bare skin. Somewhere in the distance, fireworks whistled through the night sky.
She returned to her other side and stared at pink, green, and orange splotches of light cast on the wall by the jewelry box. She shifted attention and ran a thumb along the box’s edge, then dangled a finger inside the cavity and watched her finger flood with colors. Rakesh hadn’t commented upon the box. Perhaps he didn’t notice it, like most things he didn’t care to see. But now that Yash had spoken the truth, maybe Rakesh would change for the better.
Something rough touched Sheetal’s arm and she edged toward the lamp.
Rakesh caught her wrist and yanked her to him, but she peeled off his fingers. He grabbed her thigh and gripped so hard, his chapped, rough fingers sent pain searing up her leg. She dug her toes into the mattress and pushed away. However, he yanked her back with force. She kicked, but he locked her legs. She opened her mouth to gasp, but he clamped his lips over hers and his breath filled her with the stench of stale alcohol and cigar fumes.
She flattened a palm against his chest and shoved. “What’s wrong with you?”
“You turned Yash against me,” he hissed. “You brought him in the lounge on purpose so he’d hate me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You want Yash all to yourself. Admit it.”
She struggled against his grip, but he held tight.
“You’re so fucking overprotective, I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out like you—the biggest coward on Earth.”
Bile raced up her throat. “You don’t know what you’re saying. I wanted to talk to you about Dr. Kishore, but you’re so obsessed with yourself—”
“Fuck Dr. Kishore! You don’t care about anyone but yourself.” His acrid breath washed over her face.
“Rakesh, let go.”
“Why? Don’t you want me now?”
“That was before...before—”
He stamped her with saliva-coated kisses reeking of vomit, then pummeled her inside until he was done. Finally, like the discarded shreds of shiny, blue wrapping paper, he left her bruised and in pain, turned his back to her, and fell asleep.