No one breathed.
Kaveri whispered, “Sir…”
He raised one hand.
“No, Kaveri. Not today.”
He looked at me again.
“After your mother died, I stopped functioning. I went to work, came home, signed papers, paid bills, but I was not alive. Your mother’s family came to manage things. My sister came. Your aunt. You remember her?”
I remembered.
Vasudha Bua.
Sharp perfume.
Sharper tongue.
The woman who took charge of our kitchen after Maa died and told me, “Crying too much makes children ugly.”
I had hated her without knowing why.
“She said the house needed order,” Papa continued. “She said people were talking. A widower, a young maid, a growing daughter. She said Kaveri was becoming too important in your life.”
“She was important.”
“I know.”
“You let them remove her?”
His lips trembled.
“I came home late that night. Vasudha told me Kaveri had taken her salary and left. She said Kaveri was angry because I refused to increase her pay. She said Kaveri had spoken badly about your mother.”
Kaveri’s head snapped up.
“No,” she whispered.
Papa turned to her.
“I know that now.”
Her face crumpled.
He looked back at me.
“I believed it because believing it was easier than admitting I had failed to protect the person protecting my child.”
I gripped the back of a chair.
“You did not ask me?”
“You were twelve. You had just lost your mother.”
“And then you took Kaveri from me too.”
His eyes filled.
“Yes.”
The word was almost soundless.
Kaveri wiped her tears with the edge of her sari.
“I came many times,” she said softly.
The room turned toward her.
My father looked at her, stunned.
“What?”
She nodded, still not meeting his eyes.
“Three times. First week. Then after one month. Then on Kavya’s birthday.”
My breath stopped.
“My birthday?”
She looked at me then.
“I brought coconut barfi. You liked the corner pieces.”
My knees weakened.
“I never got it.”
“I know,” she said. “The watchman said madam’s orders. I was not allowed near the gate.”
Papa covered his face.
“Vasudha.”
Kaveri continued, voice shaking now, twenty years breaking loose.
“Last time, I waited outside till evening. You came in your car, sir. I tried to call out. Your sister pulled me aside before you saw. She said if I returned again, she would file theft complaint. She said poor women like me survive only because rich people stay kind. She said she could make me vanish from every house in Pune.”
My hands curled into fists.
“And you believed she left for more salary?” I asked Papa.
He lowered his hands.
“I wanted to believe one clean lie instead of facing a dirty truth.”
I looked at the sweater.
“Why did you keep this?”
He lifted it gently.
“Because one week after she left, I found it in your cupboard. You were sleeping with it. Every night. You had tucked a note inside.”
My heart stopped.
“What note?”
He reached into his kurta pocket and took out a folded paper, yellowed at the edges.
He had kept that too.
My childhood handwriting slanted wildly across the page.
Kaveri Maasi,
I am not angry. Come back.
I ate two rotis today. You will be proud.
Maa went to God. Please don’t also go.
— Molu
The boardroom blurred.
I remembered writing it.
