The way Amma's eyebrows shot up the moment she saw Siri get off my bike… I knew right then—this evening was going to end badly for me.
Indu was subtler. She stepped out onto the porch with a steaming tumbler of coffee, gave us a once-over, smirked like she knew everything, and walked back inside like it wasn't her business—but she'd be taking mental notes for later.
Amma? Amma was the storm waiting behind a calm sea. She didn't even blink for the first few seconds. Just stood there on the porch like a statue—arms folded tightly across her chest, her lips pressed into a line thinner than thread.
Siri, sensing the tension, gave me a small nod and whispered, "Thanks, Bhargav," before quickly walking away toward her gate. No eye contact. No lingering goodbye. Just a silent retreat.
And I stood there like an idiot with my helmet still in hand, already bracing for the eruption I knew was coming.
"You won't go to the store when your own mother asks you…" Amma started slowly, voice calm but with that dangerous softness that meant she was boiling. "…but you'll fly across the entire town to help her?"
"Amma, listen—" I tried, but I didn't even get a full sentence out.
"She's your enemy, Bhargav!" Amma snapped, louder now. "The same girl who fought with you for months over nothing. You couldn't go two days without yelling at each other! And today, you drop everything to ride around like her personal chauffeur?"
"Her scooter broke down. That's all. I was nearby."
Amma scoffed like I'd told her the moon was made of dosa batter. "Nearby?" she repeated mockingly. "You were lying on the couch like a lazy cat until she called! Suddenly, you're filled with energy and purpose!"
I sighed, trying to keep my tone even. "It wasn't a big deal, Amma. She asked, I helped. That's it."
"And she didn't have anyone else in the entire world to call? Only you?" Amma's voice was pure sarcasm now.
I didn't answer. Because what could I say? The truth was—I didn't even think. I just answered her call.
Her voice had sounded small. Hollow. Like she needed someone—not just a ride. And that someone, somehow, was me.
Amma stared at me a second longer before turning sharply and walking inside.
I followed quietly, slipping off my shoes, my mind buzzing with a dozen things I couldn't say out loud.
As I entered my room, something clicked in my brain.
Her scooty.
Siri hadn't even glanced at it once we reached her house. She hadn't mumbled anything about getting it fixed tomorrow or asking her dad to call the mechanic. She'd just walked inside like her legs carried bricks instead of bones. And I—idiot that I was—still had the keys in my pocket.
I stared at them for a full minute, then stood, grabbed my wallet and phone, and slipped out of the house without telling anyone.
---
The night had begun to cool, and the streets were nearly empty. I reached the office parking lot and found her scooty right where we'd left it—leaning slightly to one side, abandoned under a dim, flickering streetlamp.
Dragging it to the mechanic's shop a couple of streets away wasn't easy, especially with the uneven footpath and my stiff shoulders, but I didn't stop. My brain was too noisy, anyway.
The mechanic, a man in his forties with oil-stained fingers and sleepy eyes, looked up as I approached.
"Late visit, boss," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "What happened?"
I explained quickly. He nodded and began checking the engine.
"Battery's weak. Loose wire too. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty," he said, squatting beside the scooty with a small wrench in his hand.
I nodded and leaned against the side of the shutter, staring at the night sky.
It was quiet.
No buzzing traffic. No angry mothers. No complicated questions.
Just me, the mechanic's occasional grunts, and the distant bark of a street dog.
I checked my phone. No messages. Siri hadn't texted. Neither had Amma. The silence from both sides was almost poetic.
When the scooty was ready, I paid the man, thanked him, and rode back to her place. Her lane was darker now, the street lamps casting pale yellow puddles of light on the cracked road.
I parked her scooty near the gate, turned the key gently, and dusted off the seat like a fool. Then I bent down, slid the key carefully through the slit in her gate window, and whispered, "You'll need this tomorrow."
I didn't expect her to hear it. It wasn't meant for her ears, anyway.
---
By the time I got back home, it was past 10.
The moment I stepped into the dining room, Amma's eyes locked onto me like radar.
"Where were you?" she demanded.
I didn't even flinch. "I went to get Siri's scooty fixed."
The silence that followed was immediate and deafening.
Indu, mid-bite, paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth. Dad looked up from his plate with a blink of surprise. Amma, however, didn't say a word for a full five seconds.
Then she scoffed and looked away, muttering something under her breath.
"At least you thought of that," Dad said finally. It was barely audible, but it was enough to shift the air in the room.
I sat down in my usual place and reached for the ladle.
Clang.
The steel plate Amma was holding hit the table hard, loud enough to make everyone jump. She turned to the kitchen silently, grabbed a second plate—mine—and with a swift flick of her wrist, tossed it across the table. It spun once before crashing onto the floor with a crash.
"Annapurna!" Dad shouted, standing up.
Indu's mouth dropped open.
But Amma just stood there, her chin raised and her eyes blazing.
"There's no dinner for him," she said flatly.
She didn't wait for a reply. She stormed off to her room and slammed the door shut behind her.
---
Ten minutes later, my door creaked open.
Indu stepped in with a tray of food balanced on one hand—rice, sambar, a boiled egg, and a small bowl of curd. She closed the door behind her with her foot and sat on the bed, cross-legged like she used to when we were kids.
"She's still mad?" I asked, not lifting my eyes from the ceiling.
"She's Amma. She'll shout, go quiet, sleep, then act like nothing happened by breakfast," Indu replied, rolling her eyes.
I sat up slowly, reaching for the food. "Thanks."
"You didn't even hesitate when she called. Mom told me," Indu said.
I sighed. "Siri was crying on the terrace a few nights ago, Indu. Not loud, not dramatic. Just… quietly breaking down. And I hated it. I hated how it made me feel like I was seeing it all too late. I don't want to keep fighting her just to prove a point."
Indu looked at me, softening. "That's new coming from you."
I nodded. "A lot of things are new lately. But something's changed. In both of us. I'm tired of carrying grudges. She needed help. I helped. That's it."
Indu stared at me for a while, then finally smiled. "You've grown up a little."
"Don't let Amma hear that. She might throw another plate."
We both laughed—softly, carefully. Like we were afraid to break the fragile quiet that had settled between us.
Indu stood, picked up the empty tray, and headed to the door.
"Sleep. Tomorrow will be better," she said gently.
I nodded, lying back again.
But as the door clicked shut behind her, I couldn't help but wonder—
Would tomorrow really be better?
Or was this just the start of more things I couldn't undo?
Later that night, I couldn't sleep.
I tossed. Turned. Punched my pillow into different shapes. Closed my eyes and tried counting backwards from a hundred. Nothing worked.
My mind refused to settle.
It wasn't guilt that kept me awake. Or regret. It was her.
Siri.
Not because I expected a thank you for earlier. Not because I imagined she'd smile at me tomorrow or hold my hand like nothing ever went wrong. No… it was something else.
I was worried.
Siri had always said that the terrace made her feel safe. It was her sanctuary when the world suffocated her—a sky full of stars that didn't judge, a breeze that whispered peace.
But tonight, the silence outside felt wrong. Heavy. Like even the wind knew something had shattered.
So, I got up. Quietly.
Tiptoed past Amma's room, careful not to wake her up. Slipped through the corridor, past the half-shut kitchen door, and out into the night.
The breeze was cooler than usual, brushing against my skin like a quiet reminder of everything I didn't know how to fix. I climbed the small side wall, the one that connected our houses, and pulled myself up to the terrace we'd unofficially shared since childhood.
And there she was.
Sitting cross-legged, lost in the night sky.
To be continued...