Chapter 7

2 years ago

varshaoforange

@varshaoforange

Aryan woke up to the sound of his phone alarm, blaring at 5:30AM. Without thinking he got out of bed, turned off the alarm and went to change into workout clothes. Ever since Arvind’s death, the only way he was able to decompress from the stress and grief was to run. For the first year after Arvind died, he ran maybe fifteen kilometers every day. Then he was able to drop it to ten km, but if he didn’t run that day, it was almost always one of the worst days he’d have. As he put on his shoes, his mind turned to last night. Imlie jumping on her bed, dancing as if her life hadn’t been completely destroyed by a selfish man and his ungrateful family. The smile on her face was definitely infectious, because Aryan was smiling to himself now. He could still smell her shampoo somehow, coconut and that damned flower he couldn’t figure out. He shook his head and focused on the day’s tasks as he headed downstairs to the gym and his trusty treadmill. He used to run outside, but he found the smog of Delhi frustrating, also no one in the world could accurately predict when it would rain here, let alone actually go running in the rain.

He’d just hit five kilometers, it was six in the morning, he was running slowly today. Damn it, he thought, Why the hell am I lagging today? Then he heard something he should have been used to by now, because it had been almost a month since she’d moved in, but every day he was surprised by it. Imlie was singing an aarti to her precious Sita Maiya and she had a pretty voice, but Aryan could not, for the life of him, figure out where that girl got that much faith. He’d stopped believing in God a long time ago, even before Arvind’s death. It was probably when his father had died. He didn’t have particularly fond memories of his father. He’d been a strict man, but he saw the pain in his mother’s gaze almost every time she spent too long looking at Aryan. Aryan had inherited his father’s looks. “Your eyes are just like Papa’s,” Arpita would say often. She had more memories of him because she had been twelve when he’d died, not like Aryan who’d only been eight.

The fact that his mother, someone who could barely watch a sad commercial without crying, had managed to raise the two of them without the support of her husband, infuriated Aryan. It was clear to him, that if there were a God, and he’d done that to his mother, that God was a cruel one. So it was easier to assume there wasn’t a God, that there wasn’t a benevolent power watching over the world, because that was the only way to explain why horrible things happened to good people in this world. If there wasn’t a God it made more sense why those that had led Arvind to his death hadn’t been punished yet, because a just God wouldn’t have let Arvind die in vain.

It was the only way to explain why Imlie was still standing. It wasn’t that her Sita Maiya was supporting her from the heavens, but that Imlie was strong enough to weather all the crap that thousands of other people probably went through but couldn’t handle. Imlie was strong because she was Imlie, not because of some other-worldly being. And Aryan was going to protect her from Aditya and anyone else who wanted to take advantage of her, because he knew that there wasn’t a God watching over her.

He stopped the treadmill, he’d only run five and a half kilometers today, but that would have to be enough. He grabbed a towel and wiped his face as he headed to the main hall, walking towards Imlie’s singing. By the time he’d reached there, she’d finished the Aarti and she turned around to see who was coming.

“You showered very early today, I see.” Imlie said, smiling. She held out the diva for him to take the aashirvaad and what looked like ladoos she’d made herself.

“I didn’t shower, I just ran five kilometers.” Aryan grumbled. He reluctantly reached out his hands to take the aarti.

“Wait, you didn’t shower? No you can’t take the aarti or any ladoos until you’ve showered. How long have you been living in India anyway?” Imlie took back the veneration plate quickly and turned to place it at the feet of the idols in Aryan’s mother’s temple.

“I was just going to shower, but I was disturbed, yet again, by your insipid singing.” Aryan shot back, “And I’ve lived in India my whole life, I didn’t even go to America for college like most kids these days.”

“Well, only people who can’t hear properly would call my singing insipid, I’m going to go make breakfast for Kaki Maa and Arpita Didi, don’t you dare touch a ladoo until you’ve showered.” Imlie walked past him and towards the kitchen.

Aryan turned on his heel and caught up with her, “Why the hell do you keep cooking for us when you clearly have other work to do, and more importantly when we have a full staff who we pay to cook for us?”

Imlie glared at him, and then smiled at him, clearly getting ready to say something silly Aryan assumed, “Pehli baat” Imlie started, “I cook because it’s fun and I’m good at it—”

Aryan tried to interrupt her, but Imlie held up her hand to stop him, “Doosri baat” she winked as Aryan registered she was mocking the way he spoke, “There’s nothing wrong with doing work for your family, even when you’re not asked to or paid for it—”

Aryan tried to interrupt her again, but Imlie barreled on, “Teesri baat…”

Aryan took the bait, “Teesri baat?” he asked.

Imlie giggled and skipped to the kitchen, “Teesri baat udder rahee” she yelled as she entered the kitchen to cook for the Rathores, yet again.