Chapter 1: The Arrival

The taxi pulled up to a modest two-story house just before noon, its paint faded but the front garden well-maintained. Raj stepped out first, squinting against the bright sun, and reached back to help his mother.

Sri emerged gracefully, adjusting her light blue salwar kameez and smoothing down her dupatta. Even after the long journey, she looked put-together in that effortless way mothers seemed to manage. Her height made her stand out—she was taller than most women, taller than Raj himself by an inch or two, something that had always made him slightly self-conscious.

"Finally," she breathed, her eyes scanning the house with an expression Raj couldn't quite read. Nervousness? Excitement? Probably both.

He grabbed their suitcases from the trunk while Sri paid the driver. The bags weren't particularly heavy, but carrying them both up the short pathway made him aware of how his shirt was already sticking to his back. The afternoon heat was relentless.

Before they even reached the door, it swung open.

"Sri!"

The man who emerged was shorter than Sri, with graying hair at his temples and a warm smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. Raj recognized his uncle from the few photos his mother had shown him over the years, though those pictures were old enough that they'd barely prepared him for the actual person.

"Bhaiya," Sri's voice caught slightly on the word.

They embraced at the doorway, and Raj noticed his mother's shoulders trembling. His uncle—he'd been told to call him Uncle Prakash—patted her back in that awkward way people did when they weren't sure how to handle someone else's tears.

"It's been too long," Uncle Prakash said, his own voice thick. "Far too long."

"I know. I'm sorry. I should have—"

"No, no. You're here now. That's what matters."

Raj stood there holding the luggage, feeling like he was intruding on something private. Eventually his uncle seemed to remember he existed and pulled back from Sri, turning to him with that same warm smile.

"And this must be Raj. Look how tall you've grown! Though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised—last time I saw you, you were barely walking."

Raj shifted the suitcases to shake his uncle's extended hand. "Nice to meet you, Uncle."

"Come in, come in. Everyone's been waiting."

Everyone?

Raj followed his mother and uncle through the doorway into a narrow entrance hall. The house smelled like incense and something cooking—curry, maybe. His uncle led them directly to the living room, and that's when Raj realized what he'd meant.

The room wasn't large, but it was packed. At least a dozen people sat on various chairs and the two sofas, with plates of samosas, pakoras, and other snacks covering the coffee table. Teacups clinked against saucers as conversations paused mid-sentence when they entered.

"Everyone, this is my sister Sri," Uncle Prakash announced, gesturing proudly. "And her son Raj."

A chorus of greetings erupted. Raj found himself nodding at a blur of faces—older women in colorful saris, a few men his uncle's age, some younger people who might have been cousins or neighbors. He couldn't keep track.

Sri pressed her palms together in namaste, her smile wide but her eyes slightly overwhelmed. Uncle Prakash began the introductions, walking her around the room. "This is Mrs. Sharma from next door, and her daughter Priya. This is my colleague Ramesh and his wife..."

Raj set the luggage down by the wall and accepted a cup of tea from an elderly woman who patted his cheek and said something about how handsome he was. He mumbled a thank you, scanning the room while his mother worked her way through the introductions.

That's when he noticed Rony.

His cousin sat alone in an armchair pushed back into the corner, almost hidden behind a large potted plant. While everyone else sat forward, engaged in conversation or watching Sri make her rounds, Rony was hunched over, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he was trying to bore a hole through it with his eyes.

Raj studied him. They were the same age—both eighteen—but that seemed to be where the similarities ended. Rony was small, significantly shorter than Raj, and thin in a way that made his clothes look a size too big. His shoulders curved inward, and his dark hair fell across his forehead, partially obscuring his face.

He wasn't acknowledging anyone. Not the guests, not Sri, not even his own father.

"Rony," Uncle Prakash called out, his cheerful tone taking on a slightly forced quality. "Come meet your aunt and cousin."

No response. Rony didn't even twitch.

Uncle Prakash's smile tightened. He called again, louder this time. "Rony!"

This time Rony's head lifted slightly. He stood up slowly, mechanically, like someone moving underwater. The room had gone quiet, everyone watching.

He walked about halfway across the room, his gaze never leaving the floor. When he was still several feet away from where Sri and Raj stood, he stopped. He gave a brief nod—barely a dip of his chin—and turned back toward his corner.

The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Someone coughed. A cup clinked too loudly against a saucer.

Sri's face had fallen, her earlier warmth replaced by something that looked like concern mixed with sadness. She glanced at her brother, who gave her an apologetic look.

"Rony, beta," Sri said gently, taking a step toward him.

He'd already sat back down, resuming his previous position as if nothing had happened.

Sri didn't give up. She crossed the room and knelt beside his chair, bringing herself down to his level even though it made her tall frame fold awkwardly. Raj watched as she placed a hand on the armrest, careful not to touch Rony himself.

"I've wanted to meet you for so long," she said, her voice soft enough that Raj had to strain to hear. "I'm so sorry about your mother. I wish I could have been here sooner. I wish I could have met her again."

Rony's fingers twitched on his lap. He mumbled something.

"What was that, beta?"

"Okay."

Just that one word, barely audible.

Sri tried again. "Your father's told me a little about you. He says you like cricket?"

"Sometimes."

"That's wonderful. Raj plays cricket too. Maybe you two could—"

"Maybe."

Each response came out flat, emotionless. Rony still wasn't looking at her, his eyes fixed on his hands like they were the most fascinating thing in the world.

Sri stayed there for another minute, trying different approaches, but getting nowhere. Finally she stood up, smoothing her dupatta, and returned to the center of the room. The guests immediately resumed their conversations, probably grateful to break the tension.

Uncle Prakash ushered Raj and Sri to the sofa, making sure they had plates of snacks and fresh tea. The afternoon wore on with typical visiting conversation—questions about the journey, about Sri's husband and why he couldn't come, about their life abroad, about how big the city must be compared to here.

But throughout it all, Raj noticed Sri's attention kept drifting back to the corner where Rony sat.

She tried again about half an hour later, standing up during a lull in conversation and walking over to him with a bright smile.

"Rony, would you like some more tea? Or something to eat? You haven't had anything."

He shook his head without looking up.

"Are you sure? The pakoras are really good."

"Not hungry."

"Maybe later then." She hesitated, then added, "Your father mentioned you like to read. What kind of books do you enjoy?"

"Different ones."

"That's nice. I used to love reading when I was younger. Maybe we could—"

But Rony had already withdrawn further into himself, if that was even possible. His shoulders hunched even more, his head dropped lower.

Sri stood there for a moment longer before returning to her seat. Raj saw the frustration in the tight line of her mouth, though she hid it quickly when one of the guests asked her something about the weather.

The third attempt came about an hour after that. This time Sri approached with a different strategy, settling herself on the armrest of a chair near Rony's corner rather than hovering over him.

"You know," she said conversationally, as if they were in the middle of an ongoing discussion, "I remember when your father was young, about your age. He used to hide in the garden whenever guests came over. Drove our mother crazy."

Nothing from Rony.

"She'd send me to find him, and he'd be up in the mango tree, reading comic books." Sri laughed softly. "One time he was up there for so long he fell asleep and fell out. Broke his arm."

She glanced at Rony, hoping for some reaction. His expression didn't change.

"Your grandmother made the best laddoos," Sri continued. "She always said she'd teach me the recipe, but I never learned. I wish I had now. I bet you remember her laddoos, don't you? She must have made them for you when you were little."

Rony's jaw tightened. For a second Raj thought he might actually respond, might say something real. Instead, he mumbled something that sounded like "don't remember" and shifted further away from her in his chair.

Sri's shoulders sagged slightly. She sat there a moment longer, then stood and walked back to the sofa without another word.

The guests, to their credit, kept up the pretense of normalcy. They drew Sri into conversations about recipes and family memories, asked Raj about school and his plans for university, complimented Uncle Prakash on his garden. But Raj could feel the weight of Rony's presence—or rather, his absence—pressing on the room.

Every so often someone would try to include him. Mrs. Sharma asked him about his studies. He mumbled a one-word answer. Ramesh asked if he was following the cricket season. A slight nod. Priya, probably around their age, asked if he'd seen some recent movie.

He just shook his head.

Eventually people stopped trying.

By late afternoon, the guests started making their excuses. "Oh, look at the time." "I really should get home." "Thank you so much for the tea."

As they filtered toward the door, Raj noticed some of them stopping to murmur to Uncle Prakash. He couldn't hear everything, but he caught fragments: "Poor boy... takes time... be patient with him..."

Mrs. Sharma gripped Uncle Prakash's hand. "He'll come around. It's still fresh."

Uncle Prakash nodded, smiling, but his eyes looked tired.

When the last guest left and the door finally closed, the house fell into a heavy silence. Uncle Prakash stood in the entrance hall for a moment before turning back to them with an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry about that," he said to Sri. "About Rony. He's... he's been like this for a while now."

"How long?" Sri asked quietly.

"Since Meena passed. Six months ago." Uncle Prakash rubbed his face. "At first the doctors said it was normal grief.