Chapter 2: Dinner Table

"It's been six months," Uncle Prakash said, his voice trailing off as he glanced toward the living room where Rony still sat hunched in his corner. "The doctors keep saying the same things. Time. Patience. Normal grief." He shook his head. "But this doesn't feel normal."

Sri touched her brother's arm. "Have you considered talking to someone else? A different doctor?"

"We've been to three. They all say variations of the same thing." Uncle Prakash rubbed his temples. "One suggested a psychologist. We've been going for two months now."

"And?"

"Some days I think it helps. Other days..." He gestured vaguely toward the living room. "Well, you saw."

Raj stood awkwardly near the doorway, not sure if he should stay or give them privacy. His mother seemed to have forgotten he was there, her full attention on her brother.

"Why don't we have dinner together?" Uncle Prakash said suddenly, straightening up. "All of us. The psychologist keeps saying we should try to maintain routines, create a sense of normalcy. Family dinners, that sort of thing."

Sri nodded slowly, her eyes drifting back toward the living room. "That sounds good."

"I'll start preparing something. Nothing fancy—just dal and roti, maybe some vegetables." Uncle Prakash headed toward the kitchen, then paused. "Sri, would you mind helping? I'm not... I'm still not great at this domestic stuff. Meena always handled the cooking."

"Of course." Sri followed him, and Raj trailed behind, feeling useless but not wanting to be left alone with Rony either.

The kitchen was small but tidy, with copper pots hanging from hooks on the wall and the lingering smell of spices from lunch. Uncle Prakash pulled out vegetables from the refrigerator while Sri washed her hands at the sink.

Raj leaned against the counter, watching his mother tie back her long hair with a band she kept on her wrist. She moved with the easy confidence of someone who'd spent years in kitchens, immediately locating cutting boards and knives without asking.

Uncle Prakash set onions and tomatoes on the counter, then glanced toward the doorway. Satisfied they were alone, he lowered his voice.

"Sri, there's something the psychologist told me. About how to approach Rony."

She paused mid-reach for a knife. "What did they say?"

"Dr. Mehta—that's the psychologist—she explained that forcing him to interact could make things worse. But complete isolation isn't good either." He picked up a potato, turning it over in his hands without really looking at it. "It's this delicate balance. We're supposed to include him in activities, but naturally. No direct pressure. No demanding he participate or speak."

Sri absorbed this, then nodded and began chopping an onion with practiced efficiency. "So we just... act normal around him?"

"More or less. Create an environment where he feels safe to engage if he chooses, but never forced." Uncle Prakash started peeling the potato. "Dr. Mehta said sometimes trauma victims—especially young people who've lost a parent—they need to maintain control over their interactions. Forcing them strips that control away."

"That makes sense." Sri scraped the chopped onions into a bowl. "Poor boy. He must be suffering so much."

"He adored his mother." Uncle Prakash's hands stilled on the potato. "They were incredibly close. When she got sick, he barely left her side. I think he was hoping..." He swallowed hard. "Well. It doesn't matter what he hoped."

Raj shifted uncomfortably. The conversation felt too intimate, like he was intruding on grief that wasn't his to witness. But leaving felt wrong too, so he stayed quiet and tried to look occupied with examining the spice jars on the shelf.

Sri reached over and squeezed her brother's shoulder. "We'll help however we can. Both of us." She glanced at Raj, including him in the statement.

Uncle Prakash managed a weak smile. "I know. Having you here already helps more than you know."

They fell into a comfortable rhythm after that, Sri chopping vegetables while Uncle Prakash prepared the dal. The kitchen filled with the sounds of sizzling oil and the aroma of cumin seeds hitting the hot pan. Raj eventually made himself useful by washing the cutting board and finding plates in the cabinets.

About forty minutes later, the meal was ready. Uncle Prakash ladled dal into a serving bowl while Sri arranged fresh rotis in a basket covered with a cloth to keep them warm. Raj carried glasses of water to the dining table.

The dining area was just an extension of the living room, separated by an open archway. A rectangular wooden table sat beneath a ceiling fan that wobbled slightly as it spun. Four chairs surrounded it, the seats worn smooth from years of use.

Uncle Prakash set the dal in the center of the table. Sri placed the roti basket beside it, along with a bowl of mixed vegetables. Raj added plates and spoons to each setting.

"Rony," Uncle Prakash called toward the living room. "Dinner's ready."

No response. Raj peered around the archway and saw his cousin still in the same position, like he'd been carved from stone.

"Rony," Uncle Prakash called again, louder. "Come eat, beta."

This time Rony stood, moving with that same underwater slowness. He walked to the table and pulled out a chair—the one farthest from where Uncle Prakash sat at the head—and lowered himself into it.

Uncle Prakash, Sri, and Raj took their seats. Uncle Prakash began serving himself dal, then passed the bowl to Sri. She spooned some onto her plate and handed it to Raj.

Rony sat perfectly still, staring down at his empty plate. He made no move to serve himself, didn't even acknowledge the food in front of him.

Sri glanced at her brother. Uncle Prakash gave a small shake of his head—don't push.

"Bhaiya," Sri said, her voice deliberately bright and casual, "do you remember when Ma used to make that terrible kheer?"

Uncle Prakash looked up from his plate, eyebrows raised. Then recognition dawned and he laughed. "Oh god, yes. With the cardamom pods she never bothered to remove."

"I bit down on one when I was seven and thought I'd broken a tooth." Sri tore off a piece of roti, smiling at the memory. "I cried for an hour."

"She got so mad at you for crying." Uncle Prakash spooned dal over his rice. "Kept saying you were being dramatic."

"I was being dramatic. But it really did hurt." Sri chewed thoughtfully. "She was a terrible cook, wasn't she? I don't think I ever admitted that out loud before."

"Awful," Uncle Prakash agreed. "Remember her attempts at samosas?"

"They were always soggy. Every single time."

"And the filling would leak out one side."

They both laughed, and Raj found himself relaxing slightly. The tension that had filled the house all afternoon seemed to ease a fraction. Even the air felt lighter.

Sri was speaking louder than necessary, projecting her voice so it clearly carried to where Rony sat. But she never looked at him directly, keeping her attention on Uncle Prakash as if they were the only two people at the table.

"She tried so hard though," Sri continued. "I remember she'd get up early every morning to make fresh parathas for breakfast."

"Burnt half the time."

"Well, yes. But she tried." Sri's expression softened. "I miss her. Even her terrible cooking."

"Me too." Uncle Prakash stared at his plate for a moment. "You know what I miss most? The way she'd hum when she was working. Didn't matter what she was doing—cooking, cleaning, mending clothes—she'd always be humming these old songs."

"From those ancient films she loved."

"Exactly. What was that one she played constantly? The one about the rain?"

Sri started humming a tune, and Uncle Prakash's face lit up. "Yes! That one! God, she'd play it on repeat."

"Drove Papa crazy."

"He'd hide the cassette sometimes just to get a break from it."

They shared another laugh. Raj watched his mother, seeing a side of her he rarely glimpsed. She was younger somehow when she talked about her childhood, more animated. The worry lines around her eyes smoothed out.

"We used to play this game," Sri said, breaking off another piece of roti. "Do you remember? In the courtyard behind the house?"

"Which game? We played dozens."

"The one with the chalk and the stones. I can't remember what it was called."

"Hopscotch?"

"No, not hopscotch. The other one. You'd draw boxes and we'd throw stones and—"

"Oh! Stapoo!"

"Yes! Stapoo!" Sri laughed. "I was terrible at it. Always lost my balance."

"You were terrible at most games," Uncle Prakash said, grinning. "Remember when you tried to climb the mango tree?"

"I climbed it successfully, thank you very much."

"You got stuck on the third branch and cried until I came to get you down."

"I was six!"

"You were eight."

"Details." Sri waved her hand dismissively, but she was smiling. "At least I didn't fall out and break my arm."

"That was one time," Uncle Prakash protested. "And I was reading a very engrossing comic book."

"What was it about?"

"How should I remember? That was thirty years ago."

"You remembered falling out of the tree."

"Because I broke my arm! That tends to stick in your memory."

Their easy banter continued, filling the dining area with warmth that had been absent since Raj and Sri arrived. Uncle Prakash told a story about the time he and Sri convinced their younger cousin that their house was haunted. Sri countered with a memory of Uncle Prakash getting caught stealing jalebis from the sweet shop.

Through it all, Raj ate his dinner quietly, watching. And he wasn't the only one.

Rony's eyes had lifted from his plate.

It was subtle at first—just the slightest upward movement of his gaze. But gradually, almost imperceptibly, his head shifted. He was listening. Actually listening.

Sri had moved on to describing their grandmother's garden. "She grew the most beautiful roses. Remember how she'd cut them every morning?"

"And put them in vases all over the house," Uncle Prakash added. "The whole place smelled like flowers."

"She tried to teach me how to prune them properly. I kept cutting in the wrong places."

"Killed three bushes before she banned you from the garden."

"I did not kill them. They were already struggling."

"Sri, they were prize-winning roses. They were thriving until you got your hands on them."

Sri reached for the dal bowl, refilling her plate. As she did, she continued talking. "Ma used to get so frustrated with both of us. We were always underfoot when she was trying to work."

"Especially you. You'd follow her around the kitchen constantly."

"I wanted to learn," Sri said. "I knew I'd need to cook someday."

"Did you learn?"

"Some things. Not as much as I should have." She paused, her expression growing distant. "I remember when I was upset about something—I can't even remember what now—I wouldn't eat. Just sat at the table staring at my plate, being stubborn."

Uncle Prakash nodded. "You did that a lot. Drove Ma insane."

"She had this way of handling it though." Sri's voice softened, taking on a quality that felt more intimate, more personal. "She wouldn't force me. Wouldn't yell or demand I eat. She'd just... sit with me. Talk about other things. Tell me stories."

"About what?"

"Anything. Her childhood. The village where she grew up. The festivals they'd celebrate." Sri tore off a small piece of roti, her movements slow and deliberate. "And then, very casually, she'd break off a piece of whatever we were having—roti, or paratha, or rice formed into a little ball—and she'd just... place it on my plate."

She demonstrated, pinching off a small portion of roti. "Not trying to feed me. Not pushing it toward me. Just leaving it there, like an offering. And then she'd keep talking, like nothing had happened."

Uncle Prakash watched his sister, understanding dawning in his eyes.

"I'd stare at it," Sri continued. "This small piece of food. And somehow it felt different than the food I'd served myself. It felt like..." She searched for the word. "Like care. Like she was taking care of me even though I was being difficult."

She held the piece of roti between her fingers for a moment, then turned slightly—not looking at Rony directly, but angling her body toward him—and placed it gently on his empty plate.

The small piece of bread sat there, the only thing on the white ceramic surface.

Sri immediately turned back to Uncle Prakash, continuing her thought. "And I'd eat it. I don't know why exactly. Maybe because it came from her hand. Maybe because she wasn't demanding anything. But I'd eat that piece, and then another, and before long I'd finish the whole meal."

But she wasn't really talking to Uncle Prakash anymore. The words were for someone else.

Rony's eyes locked onto the roti. Raj watched his cousin's gaze track from the bread upward, following the path Sri's hand had taken as she withdrew it. Slowly, slowly, Rony's head lifted.

And then their eyes met.

Raj felt something shift in the air. It was like watching a connection form, an invisible thread stretching between his mother and cousin. Rony stared at Sri with an intensity that made Raj's skin prickle.

It wasn't the blank, dead-eyed stare from earlier. This was focused. Present. Aware.

Uncle Prakash had gone completely still, his fork halfway to his mouth. He didn't dare move, didn't dare break whatever was happening.

Sri held Rony's gaze. She didn't smile, didn't speak. Just looked back at him with infinite patience.

Rony's hand moved. His fingers, thin and pale, reached across his plate. They touched the piece of roti, tracing its edge. Then, in one smooth motion, he picked it up.

He brought it to his mouth. His eyes never left Sri's face. Not for a second. He chewed slowly, mechanically, but with complete focus on his aunt.

Uncle Prakash exhaled—a long, shaky breath that he'd apparently been holding. Relief washed over his features so completely that he looked like he might cry.

Raj pushed dal around his plate, a strange unease settling in his stomach. There was something about the way Rony was looking at his mother. Something about the unwavering intensity of his stare.

It didn't feel like a grieving child looking at a maternal figure.

It felt like something else entirely.

Rony swallowed the roti, still maintaining that locked eye contact. His expression had changed. The blankness had cracked, revealing something underneath. Not happiness exactly. Not relief. Something harder to define. Something that made the unease in Raj's chest grow heavier.