Recap: As Raahi, Seher and Zaara are waiting for Swiggy to deliver their breakfast from Cafe Suzette, Mr Jaspal Singh Guru arrives with a Foodhall hamper.

Mr Guru appeared to realise that he had said something not as charming as he had hoped, but quite alarming to the young lady in front of him.

“I only mean,” he hastened to explain, “that I am a huge huge fan of Raahi Pandit’s.” With a good-natured laugh he added, “Why, if there was a film of her’s running in the theatres, my friends and I would go every day after college to watch it. We grew from boys to men in Regal Cinema because of her!”

Seher nearly balked at his cringe-inducing choice of words. The idea of this large man and his friends watching her mother every evening in the cinemas did nothing to warm Seher to him, nor open the door any wider in welcome.

“Please,” Jaspal Singh Guru desperately proffered the hamper of goodies, “A little gift to welcome you to our building.”

By now, both Raahi and Zaara, who had overheard the entire conversation, thanks to Mr Guru’s booming voice, strode to the threshold. Raahi saw that the hamper was awkwardly outstretched in the arms of the man, with Seher’s eyes narrowed at him in suspicion. To save the poor man any more embarrassment, Raahi stepped forward to accept it. “Uh thank you, Mr Guru,” Raahi said, “this is very kind of you.”

Meanwhile, Mr Guru who seemed as overwhelmed as any man who’s pin-up model has jumped off the poster of his wall to speak with him, responded with a very articulate “Uhrhunm?”

Seher smiled, forgiving him the bad taste of his introduction. He wasn’t lewd, Seher decided, just a little star-struck.

“Would you like to come in for some breakfast Mr Guru?” she asked, gently.

“Yes, uhm, yes,” Mr Guru relented, finding that he was able to talk, so long as he didn’t look directly at the woman who starred in most of his dreams. And then, striding into the house, he grew more confident, as he looked around him, absorbing the place. “How do you like the house? I designed it myself!”

“You designed this?” Zaara narrowed her eyes at him. Raahi shot her a look to be quiet.

“Yes,” said Mr Guru, nearly puffing out his chest as he leaned against one of the columns. “I used to be a builder who’d construct the structure, make lots of money and leave the interiors to the JJ School lot. But then, on my 50th birthday, the artist in me woke up and decided to start speaking.” Attempting a nervous glance at Raahi, he added, “That awakening of the artist is something else, isn’t it?”

“Uh yes. I suppose,” Raahi responded with a smile.

Mr Guru looked very gratified at having found a similarity between the two of them. In that vein, he continued, “I just had to start designing things. Creating them.”

“Like these arches,” Zaara looked up in distaste at the construction above his head.

“Yes!”

“And that chandelier,” she said, with a wrinkling of her nose.

“Isn’t it lovely?”

“If you like a low ceiling made lowest,” she muttered

“Urhmm?” Mr Guru laughed, puzzled.

“My daughter is an absolute nut for art and design,” Raahi trilled before they could offend their guest, who was the owner of the building.

“She studied it in Milan one semester. Maybe we can persuade you to give her an internship Mr Guru,” Raahi laughed again, hoping the tinkling sound and her hand on Mr Guru’s shoulder would do the trick. It did. He glowed like the sun had risen again, just for him.

“Of course, of course. Here’s my business card,” He turned to Zaara self-importantly, “Beta you’re welcome to come to my office anytime you like. I’ll be glad to teach you all that I know about artistry in architecture....”

“I think I hear the Swiggy man at the door,” Seher said quickly, “Zaara, why don’t you go get it.”

Her younger sister paused for a moment, biting back a harsh and poetic humbling of the boorish man before them. But then,exercising great restraint, she rose, muttered something about needing to get a maid, and left to answer the door.

Both Raahi and Seher breathed a sigh of relief.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Raahi asked, her voice like warm honey. Seher seemed surprised. Her mother reserved that tone for Maahir and the Hermés salesmen.

And like a bee to a flower, Mr Guru leaned in slightly, unable to help himself. “I’d uh...love..” Then he rose suddenly, nervous. “My wife must be expecting me. We have our yoga class now.”

He joined his podgy hands in a namaste, to emphasise the point, and turned on his heel, already striding to the door, as though to get as far away from Raahi as possible.

“Oh how nice,” Raahi managed, trying not to glance at Seher, for fear of bursting into laughter at the thought of Jaspal Singh Guru in a surya namaskar. “Perhaps another time then.”

“Actually I...,” Mr Guru slowed down as they reached the door where Zaara was paying Cafe Suzette’s delivery man. Mr Guru decided to direct his gaze at Seher as he spoke.

“I had actually come by to invite you all to dinner this Friday. My wife and I are the only other family in the building and we’d love to get to know our new neighbours.”

Seher and Zaara automatically put on the polite smile of refusal Raahi had taught them for situations such as these.

But Raahi herself was beaming, with a very different smile.

“We would be delighted Mr Guru.”

Seher, stunned, tried not to let it show. With an awkward laugh, she tried to match her mother’s level of ‘delight’.

“I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make it, Mr Guru,” Zaara said stiffly. “Thank you very much, though.”

“Nonsense. She’ll be there,” Raahi said with determined brightness. With a keen look at her daughter she added, “Don’t worry Zaara beta, you can take one night off from your grad school applications to get to know our new neighbours.”

“Wonderful, wonderful,” Mr Guru seemed eager to get away from them, as he practically rushed out of the door. “I’ll tell my wife to make some delicious mutton biryani. I read in Filmfare that’s erh....” he chanced an abashed look at Raahi, “Your favourite.”

“I’m vegan,” Zaara grumbled and turned to go into the kitchen.

“Really?” Seher grabbed her paper bag, “Then I guess this smoked salmon is all mine.” Zaara turned and snatched it back immediately.

“Your wife’s mutton biryani sounds like a treat Mr Guru,” Raahi said with a gracious smile. “We’ll look forward to it.”

Mr Guru stopped at the elevator doors and looked at Raahi for a long, near-reverent moment. Then he exhaled, and with a grin of gratified happiness, nodded at his great good fortune and went into the lift.

Raahi, amused, shut the door and turned to her daughters. “What a sweet man.”

“Please,” Zaara huffed, “‘Ten to one he’s got a picture of you in that barely-there Shakuntala get-up in his room.”

Raahi looked appalled. “I’m going to write off your crassness due to hunger this time.”

“It was nice of him to bring us a welcome basket,” Seher said evenly, “But I have to say I’m surprised you accepted the invitation.”

Raahi pulled her phone out then and showed them Jaspal Singh Guru’s signature on the deeds of their new home. Seher’s eyes widened in understanding.

“So he’s the owner of the building.”

Raahi nodded. “Best to remain in his good graces.”

“Why?” Zaara demanded. “We own our home, don’t we?”

“Yes, but he built the building,” Seher explained.

“Not well,” Zaara snorted.

“The structure is sound.” Raahi said with a shrug. “It’s just his taste for architecture that isn’t. And anyway that’s besides the point”

“What is the point then?”

“The point is that there are a million little things that we could need his help with in a new house, sweetheart,” Raahi said patiently. “If the electricity cuts out, or there’s a shortage of water, or we just need someone in the area to help us find good staff and reliable grocers. I haven’t lived in India in a long time. I don’t know how things work here anymore.”

“We can figure it out on our own mum. You managed a house in London for Christ’s sake. A much bigger one than this. And you did it without letting the odd neighbours cosy up to you.”

“Things were different then,” Raahi said with a sigh. “Your father took care of the little problems with the house. Or he paid someone to take care of them. What did you think? That I set up the Wi-Fi myself?”

But to Zaara, ‘then’, was only two months ago. ‘Then’, wasn’t a different life. And she hated being reminded of it. And Mr Guru and his presumptuous manner with her mother, his uncouth person, his gormless behaviour was a human reminder of everything that they had left behind. Of the refined company they no longer had access to.

Zaara put a sliver of salmon on her toast and rose to leave the table.

“What is your problem?” Raahi asked, confused.

“I didn’t realise dad dying turned us into performing monkeys for the general public. I’d like to have my breakfast in peace if I’m going to be having dinner on display.”

And toast in hand, she ran up the stairs to her room. The door was shut with a definitive thud. (Zaara considered herself much too sophisticated to slam it.)

Raahi stared at the daughter who remained, utterly dismayed.

“I should never have let her major in theatre.”

“It wouldn’t be too different if she majored in physics.” Seher smiled. “She is your daughter.”

(To be continued)

Riva Razdan is a New York University graduate and currently working as a screenwriter and author based in Mumbai. Her debut novel Arzu was published by Hachette India in 2021