“Want to unpack first or eat or shower?” Krish
asked, poking a hole in her fantasy dialogue.
Diya
shook her head, as much to clear it as to say no. She was so tired and functioning
on sheer force of will, hence the spontaneous daydreaming. It had been a crazy,
busy few months and the last two days had sort of bled her energy levels dry.
If she was indeed the vampire the tabloid twerp had painted her as, she’d
be snoring inside her coffin after having gorged on a blood-filled vein.
“I’ll
get to it tomorrow—the unpacking and showering. I’m hungry. I’m sleepy. And I’m
sure you need to get back to your office and resume snarling at figures of the
numerical and human variety.” Diya strolled into the bedroom alongside Krish.
“Not
really.” He slanted an undecipherable look her way. “I’ve taken the day off.”
“Oh!
Don’t be silly. You don’t have to baby-sit me.” She flapped a hand at him. “Go
to your office, play with your spreadsheets. Punch some numbers. Whatever. I’ll
be fine.”
Krish
was a Menon to the hilt—the hardest of taskmaster’s. He hated losing work-hours
and became an intolerable grouch when he did. It was a testament to his regard
for her father that he’d taken the afternoon off to fetch her from the airport
in person and not sent a cab. To be fair, he’d sent a cab only the once to pick
up his family during a visit a few years ago, due to some emergency at the
office. Lee-sha and Savitri Aunty hadn’t made a big deal about that kind of
deficient host behavior. Diya wasn’t so forgiving. Family should always come
first. But, she was fair as well. He’d settled her in, now he could go.
“I’m
not working today, Diya,” he said, in near exasperation.
Oh-kay.
She’d heard what she’d heard, not once but twice. Diya checked Krish’s
forehead, cheek and throat with the back of her hand. “Nope, no fever. You
could be delirious. Low sugar, possibly. Or,” she paused for dramatic effect.
“You were kidnapped by a UFO and are now an alien in Krish form.”
He
chucked her under her chin. “Smart-ass. Come along, Elf, let me introduce you
to your domain—the kitchen.” With a sly smile, he strode away.
She
stuck her tongue out at his chauvinist backside but didn’t take umbrage, not
when he clearly teased and when it was patently true. It was no secret she
loved to cook. Besides, his previous statement trumped all other concerns for
her.
She
rushed behind him, heels clattering smartly on the wooden floor of the hallway.
“I’m confused. Since when do you take days off?”
The
Krish Menon she knew did not take days off. He worked twelve to fourteen hour
days on most days, sometimes even on Sunday. Work was his religion, numbers
were his mantras and profits, projections and spreadsheets were his portals to nirvana.
He thrived as a beast of burden.
And
as if that confession of sloth wasn’t shocking enough what he said next made
Diya trip on the steps leading down to the kitchen and crash into his back.
“What?”
she gasped, clutching his arms for support when he spun around to steady her.
Nary
a smile or sneer darkened the alien in Krish form. “I have a date. It’s
Valentine’s Day, after all.”
As a reader, I always wondered how an author penned a book. How
did Jane Austen plot Pride and Prejudice. Did she imagine the story first and
drew the characters second? Did she imagine Elizabeth first or Darcy? Was Wickham her inspiration? Did she draw on
real people, real experiences? And if all characters are nothing but their
author’s alter ego, then how could Lizzie and Emma and Catherine and Fanny and
Anne all be different?
THE FOUR SEASONS:
AUTUMN
When icicles hang by the wall
I've realized in my forty-eight hour pout which began with the almost desperate need to grab a pointy, sharp blade from the knife block in the kitchen, flying non-stop to India, hunting down the publishers, editors and authors of said books and hacking them to pieces for destroying this beautiful legend that is the Mahabharata with their rubbish. The murderous urge ended in an anticlimactic, self-induced opening-of-the-eye. 
