Chapter 5: The Father's Blessing
The rain had stopped by Tuesday, but the city still felt waterlogged. Steam rose from the potholes. The air hung thick and sweet with rot and jasmine. Rahul drove with the windows down because the AC in his old Swift had given up months ago, and the breeze against his face felt like something close to courage.
He hadn't told Ashwitha where he was going.
She'd been asleep when he left—curled on his bed in one of his t-shirts, her hair spread across his pillow like ink on paper. He'd stood in the doorway for a long time, watching her breathe, watching the morning light catch the curve of her shoulder. Then he'd pulled on his jeans, grabbed his keys, and walked out before he could talk himself out of it.
The drive to Worli took forty minutes. Traffic was its usual nightmare—buses belching black smoke, auto-rickshaws weaving like drunk wasps, a wedding procession blocking two lanes with a brass band that couldn't carry a tune.
Rahul didn't honk. He didn't curse. He just drove.
The neighbourhood changed as he got closer. The glass towers of Lower Parel gave way to older buildings, their paint blistered and peeling, their balconies crowded with drying clothes and potted tulsi. The streets narrowed. The scent of the sea mixed with the scent of garbage. A goat stood on the median, chewing something that looked like a newspaper.
He parked two streets away because he didn't want the car to be seen.
Ashwitha's father's house was exactly as she'd described it. A crumbling bungalow wedged between a tailor's shop and a godown, its pink walls stained grey with mildew, its gate hanging crooked on one hinge. The garden—if you could call it that—was a tangle of dead bougainvillea and broken pots. A single mango tree leaned over the roof like a tired old man.
Rahul stood at the gate for a full minute.
He could turn around. He could drive back to Andheri, crawl into bed beside Ashwitha, pretend this impulse had never existed. She'd never know. She'd never have to know.
But that was the thing about love. It made you do stupid, reckless, necessary things.
He pushed the gate open. It screamed against the concrete.
The veranda was dark, shaded by a rusted awning that had once been green. A ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, its blades clicking with each rotation. And there, in a plastic chair that had seen better decades, sat Ashwitha's father.
He was smaller than Rahul remembered. The last time they'd met—at Vikram's funeral, at Arjun's—he'd been a bull of a man, broad-shouldered, loud, the kind of father who filled a room. Now he looked shrunken. His white shirt hung loose on him. His cheeks were hollow. His eyes, when they lifted to meet Rahul's, were red-rimmed and raw.
A bottle of Old Monk sat on the floor beside his chair. It was half-empty. Or half-full, depending on your philosophy.
"Mr. Shetty," Rahul said.
The old man didn't respond. Just stared. The fan clicked. Somewhere inside the house, a clock ticked.
"I know you didn't invite me," Rahul continued. "I know I'm not welcome here. But I needed to see you."
Silence.
Rahul stepped onto the veranda. The floorboards groaned under his weight. He didn't sit. He didn't ask for a chair. He just stood there, hands at his sides, and let the old man look at him.
"You've got nerve," Ashwitha's father finally said. His voice was gravel and whiskey. "I'll give you that."
"I've been told."
"Told by who? My daughter?" The old man's lip curled. "The daughter who ran out on her own engagement like a common—"
He stopped. Pressed his lips together. Reached for the bottle.
Rahul didn't flinch.
"I'm not here to defend her," he said. "She doesn't need defending. She made a choice, and she made it for herself, and I respect her for it."
"Respect." The old man laughed—a dry, hollow sound. "You respect her. You respect a woman who shamed her family in front of fifty guests. You respect a woman who—"
"I love her."
The words landed like stones in still water.
Ashwitha's father went very quiet. His hand, halfway to the bottle, stopped in mid-air. The fan kept clicking. The clock kept ticking. And somewhere in the distance, a train horn wailed.
"I've loved her for five years," Rahul said. "Since the day Vikram brought her home. I loved her at their wedding. I loved her when she was pregnant with Arjun. I loved her every single day, and I never said a word, because she was my uncle's wife, and I was—I was supposed to be better than that."
His voice cracked. He didn't care.
"When the accident happened—when I pulled her out of that car—I told myself it was instinct. I told myself I grabbed her because she was closest, because I couldn't reach Vikram, because I couldn't reach Arjun. But that was a lie. I grabbed her because I couldn't imagine a world without her in it. I chose her. I've been choosing her every day since."
The old man's eyes were wet. He blinked rapidly, like he was trying to clear smoke.
"You think I don't know?" he whispered. "You think I didn't see the way you looked at her? At the wedding? At every family function? I saw. I saw, and I said nothing, because what was I supposed to say? That my son-in-law's nephew was in love with my daughter? That my daughter—"
He stopped. His shoulders shook.
"That my daughter looked at you the same way?"
Rahul's heart stopped.
"I'm not blind," the old man said. "I'm not stupid. I knew. I knew before the accident. I knew before Vikram died. And I prayed—God, I prayed—that nothing would ever come of it. That you'd both bury it. That you'd be decent."
He laughed again. It was a terrible sound.
"But you're not decent, are you? Neither of you. You're just—you're just human."
Rahul said nothing. There was nothing to say.
The old man took a long drink from the bottle. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Stared at the mango tree like it held answers.
"The gossip has been brutal," he said quietly. "You wouldn't believe the things people have said. About her. About me. About my wife. They say I raised a whore. They say my wife is a failed mother. They say our family is cursed." He shook his head. "I've been in this house for three days. I haven't gone to work. I haven't eaten. I've just sat here, drinking, waiting for the shame to kill me."
"It won't," Rahul said.
"No. It won't." The old man looked at him. Really looked. "Because you're here."
Rahul nodded.
"You're here, in my house, uninvited, with your heart in your hands, asking for nothing and offering everything. You're here because you love her. You're here because you chose her. And I—" His voice broke. "I would rather have a son-in-law who runs into fire than one who runs from scandal. I would rather have a man who fights for my daughter than one who needs her to be small."
He stood up. Slowly. His knees popped. His hands trembled. But he stood.
Rahul held his breath.
The old man extended his hand. Not for a handshake. He gripped Rahul's wrist—hard, hard enough to bruise—and pulled him close.
"Don't let her regret it," he said. "Don't let her regret the night she ran. Don't let her wake up one morning and wonder if she made a mistake. Do you hear me?"
"I hear you."
"Because if you hurt her—if you break her heart—I will find you. I don't care how old I am. I don't care how drunk I am. I will find you, and I will break every bone in your body."
Rahul almost smiled. "That seems fair."
"It's not fair. None of this is fair." The old man released his wrist. Stepped back. Wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm. "She's my only child, you know. After her mother—after we lost the others—she's all I have. And I called her a whore."
"You were angry."
"I was scared." He shook his head. "I was scared of what people would say. I was scared of being alone. I was scared of losing the last person in this world who gives a damn about me. And I pushed her away. I pushed her right into your arms."
"She was already in my arms," Rahul said. "She's been there for a year. I just didn't know how to hold her."
The old man stared at him. Then, slowly, a smile crept across his face. It was a broken thing, cracked and crooked, but it was real.
"You're a fool," he said. "A lovestruck fool."
"Yes, sir."
"Don't call me sir. You're going to be my son-in-law. Call me something else."
Rahul considered. "Uncle?"
"God, no. That's worse." He waved a hand. "We'll figure it out later. For now—sit. Have a drink with me."
Rahul sat. The plastic chair creaked beneath him. He took the bottle when it was offered, took a sip that burned all the way down, and passed it back.
They sat in silence for a while. The fan clicked. The mango tree rustled in the breeze. And somewhere inside the house, a door opened and closed.
"Her mother's asleep," the old man said. "She's been sedated since the engagement. The doctor had to—she was hysterical. She thought Ashwitha would come back. She thought if we just waited—"
"She won't come back," Rahul said. "Not to that. Not to a life she didn't choose."
"I know." The old man sighed. "I know. And I'll talk to her. I'll make her understand. It won't be easy—she's stubborn, my wife. She once held a grudge against the neighbour for ten years because he cut down a tree that blocked our view."
"She'll come around."
"Maybe." He took another drink. "And if she doesn't?"
Rahul thought about Ashwitha. About the way she'd looked at him in the dim light of his apartment. About the way she'd said I'm sure. About the way her body had fit against his like they'd been carved from the same stone.
"Then we'll manage," he said. "We'll build our own family. We'll make our own traditions. We'll be okay."
The old man looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded.
"You know how I know you mean it?" he asked.
"How?"
"Because you didn't ask for my blessing. You didn't beg. You didn't try to convince me. You just told me the truth and let me decide. That's how I know."
He reached out and gripped Rahul's wrist again. Lighter this time. Almost gentle.
"You have it," he said. "My blessing. For whatever it's worth. I'm just an old man with a broken heart and a house that's falling down. But you have it."
Rahul's throat tightened.
"Thank you," he said.
"Don't thank me. Thank her. She's the one who ran." The old man smiled again. "You should go. She'll be waking up soon. And she'll be worried."
Rahul stood. His legs felt unsteady. The world felt different—lighter, somehow. Like something heavy had been lifted from his chest.
He turned to leave. Then stopped.
"One more thing," he said.
"What?"
"Arjun's birthday. It's next month."
The old man's face crumpled. Just for a second. Then he pulled it back together.
"I know," he whispered. "He would have been six."
"We're going to celebrate it. Ashwitha and me. We're going to do something—something small. A cake. A candle. Just us. But we're going to remember him."
The old man nodded. His eyes were wet again.
"He loved you, you know," he said. "Arjun. He loved his Rahul uncle. He used to say you were the coolest person he knew."
Rahul's chest ached.
"He was the coolest person I knew," he said. "I'll see you next month. We'll do it together."
He walked out through the crooked gate and didn't look back. The sun was climbing higher now, burning off the last of the morning haze. The streets were waking up—vendors setting up their stalls, children heading to school, a woman in a bright orange sari arguing with a rickshaw driver about the fare.
Rahul got in his car and sat for a moment with his hands on the wheel.
He thought about Ashwitha. About the way she'd looked at him when he'd said I love you. About the way she'd breathed his name like it was the only word she knew.
He thought about his uncle. About Arjun. About the car, the fire, the split-second choice.
He thought about the old man on the veranda, weeping into his whiskey, and the grip of his hand—hard enough to bruise, soft enough to bless.
Then he started the engine and drove home.
Ashwitha was awake when he walked in. She was sitting on the floor in his t-shirt, drinking chai from a steel tumbler, her hair a wild mess around her face. She looked up when the door opened.
"Where were you?" she asked.
He knelt down beside her. Took the tumbler from her hands. Set it on the floor.
"Your father," he said. "I went to see your father."
Her face went pale. Then red. Then something in between.
"You—what? Why? Rahul, what did he—"
"He gave us his blessing."
She stared at him. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"He what?"
"He gave us his blessing. He said he would rather have a son-in-law who runs into fire than one who runs from scandal."
Her eyes filled. She blinked rapidly, trying to stop it, but a tear escaped anyway, tracing a slow path down her cheek.
"You went to see my father," she whispered. "Without telling me. To ask for his blessing."
"Not to ask. To give my word."
She laughed—a wet, broken sound. Then she threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder.
"You idiot," she mumbled against his skin. "You beautiful, reckless idiot."
He held her. Tight. The morning light poured through the window, covering them both in gold.
"His wrist grip is insane," he said. "I think I have a bruise."
She laughed again. Kissed his neck. His jaw. His mouth.
"I love you," she said. "I love you so much it scares me."
"Good," he said. "Then we're even."
She pulled back. Looked at him. That crooked, brilliant smile spreading across her face like sunrise.
"What happens now?" she asked.
He thought about it. Really thought about it. The gossip. The whispers. The family dinners that would never be the same. The friends who'd turn away. The life they'd have to build from scratch, brick by brick, in a world that didn't want them to have it.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But we'll figure it out."
She nodded. Leaned her forehead against his.
"Together," she said.
"Together."
Outside, the city went about its business, indifferent and loud and beautiful. Inside apartment 402, the chai grew cold on the floor. The fan clicked overhead. The phone buzzed with missed calls from relatives neither of them would answer.
And somewhere across town, in a crumbling pink bungalow in Worli, an old man sat on his veranda and finished his whiskey. Then he stood up, walked inside, and began to clean.