reduced to bones, when something smashed downstairs. Getting out of bed dressed only in boxer shorts, I used the cane to hobble downstairs.
“Fucking whore bitch! I knew it!” Another smash.
My eyes caught Shanti’s. She was hovering outside the main lounge, twisting her hands and swallowing hard. I shook my head and nudged upward.
No hesitation today before she took off back upstairs. I knew she’d go to Pari first, make sure her daughter wasn’t scared. I, meanwhile, entered the doorway. Alcohol fumes wafted off my father, the whites of his eyes red and his shirt buttons half-undone, the tails flapping out of his pants. Whiskey sloshed out of his glass as he poured himself another tumbler.
“Ah, Aarav, son.” Walking over on wavering feet, he laughed. “Her son. Same judgmental eyes.”
I said nothing, just watched.
Slugging back the whiskey, he threw the tumbler at the fireplace. Shards glittered in the overhead light, joining the other shattered pieces of crystal on the rug that had replaced the one from Rajasthan. Fractures of light in my mind, the memory of more broken glass.
“Did you throw a glass at her that night?”
My father slumped into an armchair. “Having an affair,” he said, features twisting. “She rubbed my face in it.”
“You were fucking your secretary at the time.”
No sharp anger, just a curl of his lip. His senses were too dulled to wallow in the fullness of emotion. “What if I was? That was my right! I owned your mother. I bought her!” said the virtuous citizen whose wrist was encircled by a yellow prayer thread.
“Who was she having an affair with?” I asked softly, deciding to slide under his lowered defenses.
“One of the fuckers in the Cul-de-Sac. That’s what she told me. Said I had beers with him every goddamn barbeque. Probably lying. Always lying. Always.”
Leaning against one side of the doorjamb, I continued to speak in a gentle, nonaggressive tone. Wearing masks was my specialty after all. “No other hints?”
A one-shouldered shrug. “Who the fuck cared? I didn’t.” He lifted his nodding head without warning, his eyes full of broken blood vessels and hate. “Wasn’t the first time, either. Did you know that? Your sainted mother was a whore.”
“Did you ever ask yourself why?” I said with a smile. “I mean, you’re rich, good-looking, and yet you couldn’t hold on to your wife. Probably because you’re an asshole.”
Making a roaring sound, he lurched at me, but only succeeded in stumbling into a wall. I thought about just leaving him to it but he’d probably fall on his face on the broken glass, and right now, I didn’t need distractions. I needed answers only Ishaan Rai could provide. Sighing, I went over, the muscles of my right arm flexing and tightening as I put my weight on the cane; even with only one usable hand, I managed to lead him back to his armchair.
It helped that he’d gone from anger to sobs. “Bitch,” he said, and it was almost a croon. “So beautiful. Like a bullet to the gut,” he mumbled. “Nina. Nina.”
Disgusted with him, I nonetheless walked out to the kitchen and came back with the little dustpan and brush Shanti kept under the sink. The weekly cleaning service rarely had much to do—Shanti ensured the place was spotless.
I thought he’d fallen asleep by the time I got back, but he jerked up his head when I swore as I got myself to the ground. I basically had to sit on my ass and sweep. No other way to do it without losing my center of gravity.
As I did so, my eye fell on the family photos arranged on Pari’s gleaming piano. One with all four of us, the rest mostly featuring Shanti and Pari together, but there was a selfie of me and Pari with ice cream. And a faded image of my father on his motorcycle from back when he’d been young.
Poor Pari. She kept looking for her knight in a father who was the villain of the story.
“This floor is fucking hard,” I muttered. “Needs a proper rug.”
My father slurred as he spoke. “Threw it away. Too stained after you . . .” A snore erupted from him while I was still staring in his direction, my mouth dry and my brain clawing for the next word.
Too stained after you . . .
What the hell was that supposed to mean? Sitting there amidst the edges of glass, I ran back the tape in my head from that night.
My mother’s scream.
A desperate race