A Long Way Home

by Mitali Meelan

  ‘No,’ I added, taking the phone in my hand. ‘That will be nice.’

  ‘Good. So, I’ll text you the place?’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. I couldn’t explain the feeling I had when I hung up, like a knot in my chest slowly being untangled, like I was finally getting scattered pieces of my life together and there was only one word I could think of to explain it… happiness.

  TWO-AND-A-HALF YEARS LATER

  Y

  ou can have the world handed over to you, but you’ll only feel like you’re living a fulfilling life when you earn your achievements, feeling each muscle as you hike to the top. There is real joy in owning every milestone. And that is something Arihant experienced first hand one hot summer evening.

  Sitting at his desk in office, on call arguing with an author about why his article was rejected, an email notification popped at the bottom of his screen. Propping the phone between his shoulder and ear, he clicked on it. As he read on, the sounds in his surroundings fell away, the fuming words of the writer now a muffled gibber. A week later, he was at the door outside his house, adjusting his shirt, dabbing his forehead and tightly clutching a piece of paper to his heart.

  Only three years ago, his confessional blogpost had blown up, garnering him over fifty comments in an hour, being shared on social media over the course of days, leading him to getting featured in blogs of other writers whom he’d only followed so far. He also received emails from magazines like Youth Voices, an online monthly periodical that had half a million followers and a print run of over forty thousand, asking to write for them. The snowball that had tipped off the mountain by Nyra’s innocent words had an effect Arihant wasn’t prepared for, an exposure he wasn’t used to. And he decided to ride on the wave for as long as it lasted.

  Tasting the sweet success for about a month, the sheen of the popularity waned, quicker than Arihant liked to admit, and he was back to being the known anonymous. By then, the internet had found another phenomenon, another shiny object to gaze at and he was promptly forgotten.

  But that short-lived admiration earned him more readers and writing assignments than he’d hoped to get by being in the dark. Somehow, shining a light onto himself led to a lot of people noticing him. One of them was the owner of Marshall Publishing.

  Of course, the Marshall owner wasn’t so sure about Arihant. People like him came and went, dozens by the day. They weren’t serious about the art, the healing power of words, the magic of a make-believe world laced with sweet lies, revealing bitter truths; they just wanted quick money and fame. He knew very few people lasted in the business. But one year passed, then another and this boy didn’t stop loving words, despite fluctuating devotion from his audience. He was as dedicated to sharing consistently as he was to writing. He might not have many readers, but the ones he had were incredibly engaged with his world.

  The owner sat on the novel proposal Arihant had sent him for over a year, contemplating if the boy was worth his money. Then, seeing his perseverance, he decided he had potential worth exploring.

  Mr Adhikari sauntered to the door, taking his time to find his glasses, slipping his feet into slippers. He disliked it when people rang the doorbell during late evenings, especially when there was no one at home to receive it. He wasn’t lazy, but his muscles were beginning to grow crankier, revolting against the years of relentless grinding.

  Grudgingly, he opened the door and found his younger son standing there.

  Arihant seemed to have grown taller than the last time he saw him, his face puffed out, his body stronger, more muscular than he remembered, his hair spiked up. His spectacles had changed too, from a thick black frame to a stylish brown. It suited his angular face.

  Arihant smiled at him, then bent down to touch his feet. ‘How are you, Baba?’ he asked, rising up, as if he wasn’t just seeing him after three years. Three years and two months, he counted. He might not be excellent with numbers, but he kept a count of this.

  Mr Adhikari bobbed his head, taking in the face of his son, then turned and shuffled into the house. He didn’t return the greeting, but he didn’t close the door either. It was open, welcome to him. Of all kids, he knew Arihant wouldn’t ask for permission to cross the threshold. He hoped Arihant wouldn’t.

  He heard the door shut close. ‘Still not talking to me?’ the son asked.

  Words rushed into his mouth, but Mr Adhikari felt a lump in his throat that made it hard for him to speak. So he quietly took a seat. Resting his body against a chair seemed to take forever.

  Arihant stepped forward, closing the distance between them. ‘I know you’re mad at me, but there’s something I have for you. After reading it, if you still think I am wasting my life and I’ve let you down, then I’ll walk away and promise never to come back until you call me yourself.’

  Mr Adhikari took the letter, unfolded it, skimmed through it. Some company called Marshall was paying his son one lakh rupees for publishing two books with them. Royalties, they called it on paper. There were so many versions of a ‘salary’ nowadays. Royalties—he said the word in his mind again. It had an elite ring to it.

  He had tried to read a few books in his life, but he only grew up to appreciate the simpleton life depicted in VP Kale’s writings, probably because he related to it the most. He enjoyed listening to PL Deshpande’s recitals, but couldn’t read through many books even if he wanted to. Maybe a few more years of schooling could have helped.

  Now, Arihant was going to be part of that group, the ones who had their name printed on a paper. It would outlive him. Anything he’d helped create, Mr Adhikari thought, was forgotten the next day. Working as a supervisor in a newspaper printing press meant only a handful of people knew him. Arihant would have readers around the nation. People who didn’t know him would know of his work. Mr Adhikari didn’t know how to react to that.

  ‘I wanted to give this to you first,’ Arihant said and took a seat next to him. ‘Baba, I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve put you through. For failing my exams, for lying. But really, whatever I’m doing right now, I’m completely true to it and to you.’ Arihant took Mr Adhikari’s wrinkled hand between his big rough palms. ‘I am seeing my dream come to life after four years of struggle. I can do this without you, but I don’t want to. I hope you give me one chance, Baba. That is all I ask.’

  The boy didn’t need to explain anything. Three years was a long time to dissolve any anger he had towards his son, although he couldn’t reach out first. He was a self-respecting man, one who never turned away from his words, one who did not let emotions determine his decision.

  Although, truthfully, he had thought three years was enough time for his boys to come to their senses. He’d hoped they would both realize the world wasn’t as easy as he’d made them believe it was. He had thought they’d take four to six months, a year at the most, to understand life wasn’t black and white. Career was not something they could play with, responsibilities were not something they could brush off.

  Both of them, however, had proved him wrong and survived just fine.

  Loneliness, he decided, was what you feel when your kids are no longer dependant on you. One day they’re coaxing you to give them a hundred rupees to buy ice cream, the next day they are holding out an achievement to you, standing on their feet, their faces unrecognizably grown up. Nothing could prepare one for that transformation because even though it happens gradually, it hits all of a sudden.

  Mr Adhikari patted his hand and a smile spread on Arihant’s face. He lunged forward and hugged him hard, a squeeze that was painful for the back but comforting to the soul.

  ‘Can I stay for the night?’ Arihant asked after he pulled back. Mr Adhikari nodded. Arihant went in to change and freshen up, a spring in his feet, joy radiating from his presence. Mr Adhikari, taking off his glasses, wiped at the corners of his eyes, then reached into the drawer in the side table and pulled out a pouch. Unzipping it, he stared at the card and a little piece of paper cut-out dated a month ago.
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br />   ‘Ishaan! There’s a call for you!’

  Ishaan turned down the stove, turned off the oven as it dinged on his way to Firoz. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Just a customer,’ he replied. ‘I have to go to the loo. Appreciate it if you attend this.’

  Ishaan prided himself in keeping the environment of his restaurant light, friendly and everything his previous firm wasn’t. But sometimes, it went a little too far. ‘You called me from the kitchen for this?’ he asked, annoyed, giving Firoz a look. ‘You could have just asked—’ Before he could finish, Firoz zipped past him, his shoes squeaking on the floor to the bathroom.

  ‘Hello, Melting Pot,’ Ishaan said into the phone, taking out a hand towel from the front of his apron pocket and dabbing his forehead. The heat in the kitchen melted your skin.

  In the past two years, he’d made decent progress. It was a steady rising graph, income fluctuating but never in loss. Seven months ago, he began a home delivery service, realizing there was a whole new market inside homes, a growing and profitable one. It saved a lot of his staff time serving and cleaning up after customers. Since he began the service, his ratings and reviews had been shooting up. More people praised his constantly updated menu, versatile and colourful but not confusing and daunting.

  Since his business had taken off, he had booked a property up north of Mumbai, farther from here, but a good investment. He didn’t plan on shifting anywhere else. Vartika and her apartment was a fine arrangement for him thus far. But he was sure to buy a house of his own, the next dream in line.

  ‘Ishaan Adhikari?’ A familiar voice said. It took Ishaan no time to recognize it, but a few moments to find his own.

  ‘Baba,’ he breathed, the word rolling off his tongue like a dormant memory coming to life. ‘How …’ The word stuck in his throat. He wasn’t sure how he wanted to end the question. There were so many ways he could. Finally, he settled for, ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m good.’ His father sounded wheezy, low, almost sick. Instantly, a knot formed in his stomach. He hoped everything was fine. ‘Are you open now?’

  Ishaan wasn’t expecting that question. ‘Yes,’ he said, pulling himself together. Tossing the hand towel aside, he dragged the orders’ register closer and picked up a pen. ‘Yes, would you like to order something?’

  ‘I’m looking through your menu card,’ Mr Adhikari replied, adjusting his glasses on his nose and peering into the menu on his lap. ‘It’s a little tattered. I found it in your mother’s purse. She has a dozen of these. She carries all these other things, it’s another house in there.’

  Ishaan absorbed his words like a sponge, realizing with a pang that he had missed them. ‘I know,’ he said, gesturing to a customer who tried to say something to him to wait. ‘She brings a lot of items with her everywhere.’

  ‘Do you have anything special for today?’ Mr Adhikari asked after a pause.

  ‘Well, there are a host of dishes. Would you like something in sweet? Or a heavy, substantial meal, or just some light snack?’

  Mr Adhikari didn’t answer for a few seconds and every tick of the clock beat Ishaan’s heart faster. He felt like he was treading on eggshells. ‘Don’t hang up,’ he prayed while his father contemplated. ‘A light snack and something sweet will do for now.’

  ‘Okay.’ He tried to sound as professional as he could, feeling the need to show off some of his knowledge. ‘Would you like a risotto, cinnamon roll, brioche or something more filling, like lasagne?’

  ‘I don’t know what any of those are.’

  ‘Risotto is an Italian rice dish, cinnamon roll and brioche are sweet bread dishes. Lasagne comes from the family of pasta, so there are flavourful sauces and breadsticks with it.’

  Mr Adhikari listened attentively, then finally spoke, ‘Send anything you think I might like. The food you sent with your mother last month was good.’

  Ishaan paused. ‘Bread pudding?’

  ‘Right.’

  He scribbled it in his notepad, thinking back on the time. He had been lying awake at night, wondering if his father had tasted the dish, if he liked it. His mother had told him that he hadn’t tasted it. Maybe she didn’t know. Now, finally, he had his answer. ‘I’ll send that too.’

  ‘How much would it all be?’

  ‘Baba,’ Ishaan began, but was sharply cut off.

  ‘Don’t say no or I will take back my order.’

  Ishaan knocked off 70 per cent of the price and gave him a figure. Mr Adhikari paused for a second. ‘Is that the real price?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you managed to open a restaurant with such cheap prices?’

  Ishaan snorted, holding up the line of customers who waited to ask about the bookings. ‘You can say that.’

  ‘You must sell really well. How long will it take?’

  ‘Not more than half an hour.’

  ‘That quick?’

  ‘We’re known for it, Baba.’

  ‘Right…’ Mr. Adhikari trailed off and for a moment, they revelled in the silence, both unable or simply incompetent to continue the conversation. ‘Had Arihant been in my place’ Ishaan thought, ‘he wouldn’t have let a moment go by without a word.’

  ‘So, I’ll let you know how I like it.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I…’ Ishaan stopped, retraced. ‘My team will give you a follow-up call regarding your review.’

  ‘Alright, I’ll give them one.’

  He inhaled, his breath shaky, his throat tight. ‘I’ll see you in half an hour, Baba.’ Mr Adhikari didn’t say anything, holding his silence before he disconnected the phone. But Ishaan was sure he was heard, for his father was the one to open the door—wide, this time—when he took the food home.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  G

  etting the obvious out of the way. Thanks to my father, a thoughtful and honest beta reader who turns into a ninja promoter when the book comes out. My mother, the patient listener, the non-stop advisor and the woman who supports my every endeavour with a streak of practicality. Unlike the senior Adhikari couple, you’ve only backed my dreams and admittedly, without it, I wouldn’t have had the courage to pursue it.

  My sister, the wild one who always has my back and Avliyaa Creative Agency for their excellent execution of every idea that sprung from their creative heads. Special thanks to Surpiya Vinod, for her cover ideas and sketches.

  What are writers without a team of publishers backing them? Thanks to Ravinder Singh for putting so much faith in my work, time and again. For the first book, you guided me through the process. This time, you let me do my own without so much as a ‘why’ or an advice. Swati Daftaur, the commissioning editor of HarperCollins for all her work behind the scenes and also for being the first appreciator of the book. Preponing the book’s release by months was a pleasant news that brightened up my year. Thanks also to Prerna Gill, my editor with a touch of magic in her fingers, who combed through the manuscript and made it better. And the entire team of HarperCollins for their tireless efforts to see this through.

  There are also the ones who helped knock off a few hurdles on my way while birthing the book. Shivani Diwan, Anoushka Saha, Vidhya Patil, Mayur Jadhav, Meelan Topkar for providing some hard facts that only a professional could know. All your degrees are incredibly helpful to me.

  And finally, to you, the reader. You parted with your hard-earned money to buy this story, took the time out to read it and I am amazed and grateful. Whether you liked it or not, do write a review on any online platform of your choice. It helps to spread the word.

  I’ll be eagerly waiting to hear from you.

  About the Book

  The Adhikaris are a regular, happy family - or so they will have you believe. But at the dinner table, a silence hangs heavy over the three children, especially Arihant and Ishaan.

  Twenty-three-year-old Arihant possesses a secret talent and a shattered heart. He yearns for his muse and ex-girlfriend, only to surprise himself when they finally meet after a long and difficult
time apart. If only Ishaan could share some brotherly advice rather than sneak about, aloof and increasingly mysterious.

  Ishaan, twenty-eight, seems to have the job of his dreams - or, at least, his parents' dreams. But how long can he stay torn between two worlds? How long before someone finds out about his evenings: about the place he goes to and the woman he sees?

  Here is a story set in the calm before a storm - after which nothing will be the same for this seemingly happy household.

  About the Author

  Mitali Meelan is a dreamer, a soul-searcher, a wayfarer, an over-thinker and a writer who collects slivers of human madness to craft stories around them. During daytime, she works for Shemaroo Entertainment. She’s also the creator of Coffee and Ordinary Life and The Guest.

  Visit her website www.mitalimeelan.in or pester her on social media handles, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram @mitalimeelan.

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  First published in India by

  HarperCollins Publishers and Black Ink in 2018

  A-75, Sector 57, Noida, Uttar Pradesh 201301, India

  www.harpercollins.co.in

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  Copyright © Mitali Meelan 2018

  P-ISBN: 978-93-5302-382-9

  Epub Edition © October 2018 ISBN: 978-93-5302-383-6

  This is a work of fiction and all characters and incidents described in this book are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.