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Pune in July was green, wet and unbearably familiar. His mother, Sunita, met him at the door, small and quick, in an apron, with her arms already out. She did not say anything about the rank. She fed…
Pune in July was green, wet and unbearably familiar.
His mother, Sunita, met him at the door, small and quick, in an apron, with her arms already out. She did not say anything about the rank. She fed him, fussing, a plate of poha and a glass of milk, and sat beside him while he ate, watching with the worried tenderness of a woman who had spent five years speaking to her son by phone on Sundays.
His father came home at seven. They ate dinner at the long table, the three of them and a fourth chair, empty since his sister left for Delhi. Nobody mentioned the exam. His father asked about the hostel, the food, the weather in Kota. Dev answered in monosyllables. At the end, Mr Malhotra folded his napkin.
"Tomorrow," he said, "I will take you to see Mr Joshi. He runs a coaching centre in Kothrud. He has agreed to take you for the drop year, at a discount."
"Papa..."
"There is a place. We will not waste it." His father stood. "One more year. This time, we will do it properly."
Dev looked at his plate. He wanted very much to say I'm tired, and did not know how.