Page 93 of The Rules of Playing with Fire

“I tried to call him,” I broke the silence softly. “He has blocked my number. I wanted to get in touch with his parents, but he warned me off. I am out of options, Tara. I don’t know how to help him if he doesn’t let me in.”

“We’ll keep trying. It has to be something serious that he has turned us all away like this,” Tara said sagely.

I looked at my half-eaten cupcake. “What is he hiding from us?”

Tara shook her head and shrugged.

“Sameer ran into him at lunch last week,” she continued after a pause. “He has lost weight and looks different. Slumped is the word Sameer used.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better, Tara. In fact, it makes me sadder. I don’t have to tell you I still have feelings for him.”

“I know. That’s why I didn’t want to bring him up, but I thought you should know. Anyway, tell me about your summer plans in India.”

My chest tightened. What the heck was he doing—with his life and mine? I was angry, but that didn’t mean I’d stopped caring for him.

My eyes burned. When I had walked away from Mihir—twice—he had chased me down and forced me to face my demons. Now, when he was possibly facing his own demons, I couldn’t let him untether us so easily.

He had blocked my number, but I could still use Tara’s phone. She agreed, gladly.

You probably don’t want to hear from me, but I know how terrible you are at asking for and receiving help. I’m offering anyway. You know where to find me. I can be a friend if you need me to be one ~S

P.S. I didn’t steal Tara’s phone for this. Just borrowing it.

I hoped the lighthearted tone would help open some sort of portal to get us out of this dark hole in our relationship.

MIHIR

It had been two months and twelve days since I'd broken up with Sona. Two months and sixteen days since I’d discovered the letter. Two months and five days since I’d last spoken to my parents. I had lost my appetite, my sleep, and thirty pounds off my body. My life was now reduced to numbers. Facts and figures.

I worked round the clock because I had no life outside it. I ran twice a day, every day, because I wanted my body to be as numb as the rest of me. Lashing out at my associates and yelling at my staff had become my new normal. Despite the image I had put out for the world, the people who worked for me knew the real me. They knew the smiles behind the arrogance. They were familiar with the kindness past the cold-hearted decisions demanded by the business. Now they were terrified of me.

I had become the person I had projected myself to be all these years: ruthless, cruel, coldhearted.

A bastard.

That’s what I discovered in the letter that Friday in March.

While my parents were out enjoying an evening with friends, I’d gone back home. With the spare key I’d always had and the code to the alarm, I’d gained easy access to my former home. Contrary to the lies they had fed me, the closet in question was clean and well-organized. I had never doubted it. Mom would never allow it to get out of hand. I’d spotted that lame, evasive deflection from a mile away.

Bins and boxes were stacked neatly and labeled clearly with dates where relevant. I pulled out a box that said Mihir’s Photos, full to the brim with old pictures in weird colors, reflections of flash glaring back. A picture of my young, happy parents caught my eye and brought a smile to my face. They held me with pride, as if they had won a prize. I was stocky, even as a baby. I sifted through the box but found no sign of the said letter. They had hidden it away elsewhere. Or had they destroyed it?

Rummaging through the closet, my eyes landed on a box on the top shelf that I knew was a sure shot: Sneha-Arvind Photos. Mom knew I would treasure those. My heart raced as I heaved the box off the shelf onto the floor and knelt beside it. Inside were three albums of different sizes and several stacks of pictures held together with rubber bands. I opened the bulkiest, which held pictures from their wedding ceremony. They looked like movie stars from yesteryears. I gushed at the beauty of my young parents.

After going through all three albums and the loose pictures, I still hadn’t found the letter. I was about to give up when something struck me. I went back to the clunky album and surveyed the contents again. One particular picture of the smiling, happy couple was bulging at odd angles. I looked behind it and found the elusive letter tucked between two pictures in the old-fashioned album. Carefully, I retrieved the yellowing paper.

The script was Devanagari, the language looked Hindi, and the blue ink on the page had bled through to both sides. My Hindi reading skills were out-of-practice, and the condition of the paper made it difficult to decipher the individual letters. Walking up to Dad’s study on the second floor, I switched on his desk lamp and stared at the letter.

By now, I realized my parents hadn’t written it. Given my limited skills in the language, they wouldn’t pen one for me in Hindi.

I started reading one letter at a time. Knowing the spoken language helped, and I used the internet for the rest. At least I could get the gist. If my parents hadn’t written it, why had they concealed it but wanted me to find it after they were gone?

When I was through, I refused to trust my translation and interpretation. I went through it again, twice. I sent Sameer pictures of a few words I thought I had gotten wrong. Of course, I didn’t tell him about the letter. Meticulous like my dad, I began jotting down the translation on a letterhead from his desk.

I had just scribbled down the last word when I heard the door, followed by the characteristic double chirp of the home alarm. Armed with the letter and my translation, I marched down the stairs with angry, determined steps.

My parents were in the living room, but Mom had spotted the open closet in the hallway and the boxes strewn on the floor. She spun around and saw me. Her face turned pale as Dad grabbed her arm to steady her.

“What does this mean?” I demanded firmly, holding out the oily, yellowish paper.

---