Recap: On the way to their own apartment in the middle of the night, Seher tells Raahi and Zaara that Saahil would probably not stand up for her.

The Pandits’ first breakfast in their new home was a silent affair as each tried to forget the unpleasant events of the preceding evening, like they were blinking away a bad dream. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much of a breakfast either. As the girls waited in silence for Cafe Suzette to deliver their toast and eggs that morning, Raahi inwardly berated herself for not having thought to stock the refrigerator of their new home the week before. But then, how was she to have known that her nut-job of a step-son was going to oust them from the house in the middle of the night?

Fortunately, Seher had produced sachets of Nescafe and creamer from the travel kit of her suitcase and made them three cups of hotel-room coffee, which the Pandits sipped gratefully, enjoying the warmth of their familiar flower-patterned mugs in their hands as they assiduously ignored the rumble of their stomachs.

There was no way any of them was going to rip open the packet of Mint Oreos Seher had plonked down as an accompaniment to the beverages. It seemed wrong, somehow, to gobble down the biscuits that had obviously been bought for Saahil, or by Saahil at some point. Raahi still couldn’t believe that the boy she had thought so dependable and charming, hadn’t even bothered to call the next morning to check on Seher. As the earliest riser of them all, Saahil had to have been up and about by now and informed of all the sordid facts of the evening before. Then why wasn’t he here, sharing their bare breakfast with them? Didn’t he care?

Seher, unable to bear her mother’s concerned gaze upon her any longer, put her mug down.

“He texted,” she said flatly. “He was very polite. I haven’t replied yet.”

But far from reassuring Raahi, this series of cool statements dropped like ice in already cold water, only worried her further. She was dying to ask a proper question about how her daughter was feeling but it was clear from the determined tilt of Seher’s chin that she wouldn’t be volunteering any real information.

Zaara, thinking the subject closed, reached for the packet of Oreos, but at one look from her mother, her hand fell instead to the sachet of brown sugar, which the young girl in her desperate hunger, ripped open and poured into her mouth like it was a packet of pop-rocks. If Seher wasn’t so determined not to betray any emotion at all that morning, she would have laughed.

But she didn’t want to laugh. She didn’t want to acknowledge the Oreos as anything but a stack of meaningless chocolate biscuits. There was no obvious, unbearable lack in their new drawing room. It was perfect, in fact, she thought, as she let her eyes stray away from her concerned family and float around the white-walled room around them. Her mother had done a lovely job in the last two weeks, of making this compact, concrete box of an apartment as spacious and inviting as possible.

It had been a shock to them, when they had first arrived in Bombay, to discover that the penthouse they thought they had bought at a bargain price, was more of a bargain size than they had imagined. While the square footage was as promised, the interior of the house had been terribly planned with unnecessary columns and arches (that hadn’t been displayed in the brochures) cramping the available space and making the whole house much smaller and less airy than it was advertised to be.

But with no energy left to fight the real estate agents with, Raahi had decided to make the best of a bad situation by building space into the poky apartment with white walls, minimal furniture and lots of flourishing plants.

“The pressed lavender on the walls is a lovely touch mum,” Seher said, injecting as much warmth into her voice as possible to make up for her earlier abruptness. “It looks a little like an indoor zen garden.”

"Thank you beta,” Raahi said. But her eyes dropped to the Oreos again.

“Zaara, what do you think of the place?” Seher asked swiftly. Raahi’s mouth pressed back into it’s plump pout, taking the hint.

“Mum’s done a great job with what she had,” Zaara allowed. “But I can’t believe this room has only one light source. And it’s that.”

Zaara looked up in distaste at the gaudy, crystal and gilt chandelier dangling from the low ceiling and ruining the clean elegance of the room.

“I tried to get rid of it,” Raahi also narrowed her eyes at the eyesore. “But the electrician said it will involve an entire rewiring. And I don’t think we have the budget for that right now.”

“No, we don’t,” Seher confirmed. “Not until I get a teaching job and there’s one steady income coming in at least.”

Zaara sighed and tried not to let her memory flit back to their beloved home in Mayfair, which had been lovingly put together by mother and daughters over their 20 years in London.

Somehow, living in Aparna’s house had allowed her to imagine that they were simply on holiday in Bombay. But now, sitting in an apartment that was a quarter of the size of their home, brought the reality of their situation too sharply to her attention and filled her with an ache that both Seher and Raahi were mature enough to ignore.

“Our Dior candelabra would fit in perfectly with this room” Zaara said, suddenly. “Did we bring it back with us?”

Raahi sighed.

“It was four kilos Zaara. We didn’t.”

“But it was gold.”

“Bronze plated,” Seher pointed out.

“And it held the candles between the wings of gold butterflies.”

“Clearly a necessity,” Seher smiled.

“It was vintage, an heirloom piece,” Zaara insisted, irritated at not being taken seriously.

“More like a thrift-store piece. You and mum found it at the Marché in St. Ouen.”

“We won it from that awful lady who hissed at me for eating roasted chestnuts in the shop. Which, by the way, is totally allowed at the Marché. It was a moment of triumph.”

“For the shopkeeper, perhaps. You overpaid.”

“We did not. Ma tell her...”

“Girls give it a rest. It was just a candelabra, Zaara sweetheart. We’ll get all sorts of new lighting in a few weeks when I have some money saved.”

At this, Zaara slumped in complete defeat and Seher bit back a smile.

“I can be frugal,” Raahi said, shooting them both a superior glance.

“Yes,” Zaara sighed. “Just like you were at Foodhall last week.”

“Excuse me. Ms Brie,” Raahi said, with a huff. “It was your idea to visit the wine-and-cheese section that got the ball rolling.”

“That is true,” Zaara conceded the point with a wistful look at their bare table. “It’s a shame we didn’t get to keep any of that cheese. Especially since Seher broke her savings account for it…”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Seher that caused Zaara to shut up.

Raahi held her breath, worried that the daughter who had been brave this entire time may break under this last straw and burst into tears at the unfairness of it all.

But Seher burst, instead, into laughter.

To the surprise of her family, she shook with great gales of mirth.

“I did. I broke my savings account for cheese,” she laughed. “And we didn’t even get to eat it!”

And then, it was hard for their straightforward minds too, to not see the humour in it. Soon the three Pandits were laughing robustly at themselves and the irony of the universe.

And somehow, having each other to laugh with in a home that, although small, was definitely theirs, took the sting out of their situation, and washed away all the unpleasantness of the previous night.

“You know what he texted me?” Seher said suddenly, amidst peals of laughter. She took out her phone and read Saahil’s last message, deepening her voice for effect.

“‘Yo. How are you holding up?’”

And that set the three of them off again. They laughed and laughed, until the doorbell rang.

“That must be the Swiggy guy,” Seher said, wiping her eyes and rising to answer the door.

“Bless him,” Zaara added, laughing. “The only man we can depend on.”

“Shush,” Raahi said, but she was wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, and spluttering again.

Seher shook her head, still chuckling and opened the door. But there, she did not find a delivery man bearing a brown paper bag of toast, eggs and blessed coffee. Instead there was a large and red-cheeked man, holding a large and ribboned hamper of what looked like gourmet cheese, fruits and freshly baked breads. Funnily enough, from Foodhall.

“Jaspal Singh Guru,” his jovial voice reverberated through their home as he lifted the blue basket in offering.

“I’m in love with your mother.”

The mirth vanished from Seher’s face at the same moment as the laughter in the living room fell silent.

(To be continued)

This is the 16th episode of Riva Razdan’s serialised novel Nonsense and Respectability, published every Sunday

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