DASHARTH

Pariah. My blood has been in banishment from my distant family. Protraction of that heritage is the part that we diversify.

My mother was deserted by her family when she got pregnant with me; her family disparaged her as she was a taint on the name of a respectable family. Respectable. Her first brother, who married out of his religion and her second brother, whose wife is in jail. Blemish, she was in a house of corruption, and her crimes were alleged to be grave.

My father, from cradle to here, lived hidden away in an obscure place with his mother because she couldn’t accept the family’s descendant she was bearing. There was a notion of their lives and the turns it took, but not the journey we rely on when we establish the love they have succumbed after all the astray, but we focus on the ending of their journey.

They were pariahs of their households, but they owned a home that had more light than many burnt roofs.

Deviant. In all forms, I am resolute to live a life of exile in a big city.

My sister Kehr is not my real sister; she is my mother’s first husband’s adopted daughter. The relation is implausible, but the further our bond stands, the closer we reside in each other’s lives. She has configured me into the man I have become today. There is her hitherto, and then the dusk of morning.

My friends always found it bothersome. Dasharth always runs early because he needs to pick up his sister from her class. Dasharth can’t attend late-night parties because he needs to babysit his sister at home. Dashrath isn’t popular with women because he is too invested in his sister's life, which makes others feel neglected. That’s why Dashrath never had any relationship longer than one month.

That is Dasharth for school friends, that is Dasharth for college life. Deviant, yet less miserable than any conformist.

There is a bulwark I was shaped under, there are layers I was moulded with, whether it was to see my autistic sister trying to make the room for herself in the pretend—normal world or to watch her be declined over her illness and handle her panic attacks. I was multifaceted when I watched my mother yearn for her old family, and I was segmented when I saw my father making room for himself in his father’s world.

The Dharan’s Worlds.

Drugs, local murders to international murders, clubs and bars, hotel chains to restraint chains, a grocery vendor to the street hawkers, from a business outlet in a corner of the city to the film industry. It’s a well aware surname. A title of trepidation. Apprehension and horror to cast in eyes.

My father was the son of the third Dharan brother, and I was the grandson of Kshitij Dharan.

Dasharth Swaraj Dharan.

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My Mercedes-Benz GLE pulled in front of my parents’ duplex apartment building. I entered my father’s workforce when I was twenty-two after I completed my education with an MBA. At twenty-four, I am leading the Dharan world forward towards intellect.

My sister stepped out of the side of the car, her eyes tracking the iPad, reading the contract of her new business deal. She is autistic, but dyslexia was never part of her issue.

I am working in business, and yet I have to chauffeur her around because she doesn’t feel safe with a driver, and her tantrums are unmanageable in 5 business days. “A ‘thank you’ won’t hurt, will it?” Before she runs herself into the closed elevator, I recall her. She took a halt, her eyes zeroed on the closed elevator, and then those orbs conveyed their comprehension when they rested over me. “Thank you!” She sweetly spoke. “But shouldn’t you come with me? I am sure Mom has made lunch and is waiting for you.” She asked me, and the elevator opened before her. Instead of taking a step inside, she stood in front of the elevator sensor and kept waving, stopping it and waiting for me.

I retracted my feet from the car and followed her, “What do you think she has cooked?” I asked her, and she, unfazed by my question, returned her focus to the iPad. “Kehr!” I shouted in her ear, and she closed her eyes in a state of freeze. Took a few minutes, I stepped out of the elevator and chuckled before I clicked the door shut button and immediately stepped out, leaving her inside and closing the elevator. By the time realisation hit her, the elevator was closed and she was going down.

These little pranks are fine with her; for years, her average life functioning is almost as normal as anyone else's. It’s the tiny complex things that can send her into a spiral of anxiety.

“Dasharth! You are not a kid anymore! Why do you tease her?” Mom said that she was dusting grandmother’s best pottery vases on a corner shelf.

The deprived feet walked up to her. I wrapped my hand around her neck from behind and intently kissed her cheek, “Because what else are brothers for? I am serving my purpose!” I spoke on her cheek, and she was scolding me and trying to get out of the hug.

I heard my father’s footstep, coming out from his gym/library/home office, the elevator opened, and Kehr walked out, furious. “Dad! He locked me in the elevator!”

I unhooked my arms around mom’s shoulder, and when Kehr ran towards me to punch me, I started to use mom as my barrier, “Kehr, your mom will get hurt!” Dad said from the corner, “We will punish him, don’t do anything!” He assured her, but she kept crying. She was way older than me, almost in her 30s, but her autism had left her somewhere at the age of twelve.

She can function in some things like a genius, for example, doing coding, scientific research, and maths. And some things are too complicated for her, like remote buttons, shoe laces and understanding other people’s emotional expression. The halt from the little monster came with a pout, and she asked for an excuse, going to change for lunch.

I left mom first before I too diverted my attention to the lunch. “Varan-bhat,” I sat on the chair. Dad followed behind and sat in the head chair.

“Where are you going after lunch?” He asked me, and I took bhat from the bowl.

“I am going to Lakeside Hotel, we have an event today in the evening, and I will be there to ensure everything goes well.” He nodded, asking me to pass him a pickle. Mom joined after washing her hands. Dharan runs in everything illegal, but my father hasn’t inducted me into that side of his business yet. I manage the hotels run by Dharan, the restaurant, and occasionally oversee the clubs and bars.

He continued, “Okay, because Svojasvan tau-ji was asking for you, I assume he wants to meet you soon.” Mom looked at Dad, who passed her the equally concerning eyes.

Svojasvan Dharan was the man behind everything, the maker of this universe. He was the eldest Dharan brother; he doesn’t live in India, as it's not safe for him. “I see, that’s good. Maybe he wants me to join the force!” I broke my parents' eye contact. “If you can manage to be out of it, be out of it.” Both mom and dad said the same thing at the same time. I laughed and nodded.

“Sure,”

My intentions don’t vary from my parents. I have no intention to be a murderer or a drug dealer.

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The lunch seemed impossibly long after Kehr had returned and wouldn’t stop nagging. Dad finally gave up and punished me by making me sit in the living room with no phone, iPad or laptop, just staring at the elevator door for one hour. Kehr teased me in between, but I know if I had rebelled, Dad would have over it and left, Kehr would be shattered and unmanageable.

The consequences are childish and dire for teasing her, but it is always 100 times more fun.

Dasharth is nothing if not his family. To know me is to know my family.

When I had exited the building, I had heard my mother talk to my aunt in Chandravanipur. Zehra Mami is a kind soul; she never mistreated my mother for her socially reckoned Malfeasance. I convict my mother of nothing. But I love the idea of visiting Rajasthan frequently.

Some reasons are platonic, some reasons are carnal amorous.

The drive next to Mumbai’s famous lovers’ spot. The couple sitting on the rocky shore of the marines reminds me of my adventure in Rajasthan. Erroneously doing so when I had accidentally spoken to a claimed woman at a Diwali Party.

It's a destructive idea to reminisce about her almost every day.

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Lakeside Hotel was one of Mumbai’s famous hotels; it was a five-star hotel with a five-star rating and 3rd rank holder among Mumbai’s top hotels. I manage it, and among all Dharan-owned hotels, I mostly visit this one. When I stopped across the hotel Manager in the lobby, he greeted me, his hand intertwined, a slow jerky bow and directed me to my office.

“There are three prestigious weddings today, and we have Fashion Week opening in our biggest ballroom.” I had gathered this remotely,

“Banquets are assorted? Decoration? The Caterer, the culinary contractor and the event chef?” Interrogation in place, instead of walking in the hallway that leads towards my office. I rushed through the corridors of banquets, ballrooms and party halls. The pace constricted at the open banquet with flower arrangements, round table settings and a mandap for a filmstar’s wedding.

The other room was the ballroom, our largest setting, which was redesigned completely to serve the purpose of the fashion show of the year. The runway was in the centre with a modern white stage and lights that glamoured the overall dull lighting of the room. Both sides, parallel seating arrangements, allowing every guest to look at the models when they walk out. The entire room was decorated with several white flowers, and the ceiling was redone to suit the flooring arrangements.

“Set a fountain in the entrance, divert two carpets that leads to either side of the rows,” I ordered on what was missing in the arrangement, in the adjoining hall with the ball room was dining arrangements, I visited and met the event chef, I shook his hand, a regular for our parties who listed me the planned meal for the dinner. I thanked him and went to the culinary contractor who was arranging the fancy china dishes for the table.

A quick understanding and a few detail enhancements, I retracted my feet to check the specifics of the other wedding.

This ranged from the entire late afternoon until finally everything was ready; only then did I allow myself to sit back down at the desk and focus on the particulars of the hotels.

^^^^^^^^

My fixated gaze on the computer. I replied to the last email before I marked the ‘x’ and returned to the home screen; it was already eight o'clock. I clicked on the camera icon, going through five hundred camera screens of the hotel, sliding from one 16 vision to the next. Until I reached to the sixth screen, halting, focusing on the ballroom corridor camera. I double-tapped and zoomed in, dissipating that I am not mistaken. It is Abhyananta Jasvantya Rajput.

My feet sized, my shoulders taller as I made my way to the corridor of the ballroom. They turned around the corner, and my deprived eyes caught the magnificent sight. She was standing by the door overlooking the banquet of wedding banquet.

Her brother wasn’t in sight, nor her fiancé. Two men were standing further on the opposite wall to her. They seemed to be escorts. I fumbled a thought about whether I should approach her.

She had never looked comfortable around me, not at any time we have met each other.

The gaze stimulated in my core initiated my steps towards her before my rational judgments won over me. I approached her frozen steps by the banquet’s French doors. She heard my approach and twisted towards me.

She streamlined exquisitely shifted her black eyes towards me, the somatic moment by her petite and slim body, not a gram above an ideal weight scale they may have in pretentious royalty, the artful and polished head nod with the knife-like sharp jaw and the graceful, well-crafted formality smile by a full heart, lips. “Hello, Mr Dharan!” She spoke, her hands entwined in a greeting, namaste. I wish she were not ancient like this. I insisted on her slender and chic fingers, pushing my hand out. The guards approached the moment I was closer.

There was a draw of the hitch because she pulled her hands my way, I groped her palm in mine, intentionally tight and kissed on her fingers, lingering. “You are looking beautiful, Ms Rajput.” She evidently dropped her hand from mine, sheathing her fingers in a handkerchief, scrubbing.

“Thank you. You are here for the wedding?” She asked me, I initiated a step closer to her, surveying the wedding, and uncomfortably, she took a step back. I know I disturb her regal poise, that’s my intention.

I gushed, “It's Dharan’s Hotels! I own this place,”

Her formal eyes beamed, “Oh! The hotel is very nice, the rooms and views are spectacular.” She formatted a protocol. “Even the room—”

“Yeah, yeah!” I cut her because I don’t want the conventional lie, “You are here for the wedding?” I intoned.

She shrugged, “No, the fashion week!”

Right, “Oh, let me guide you!” I gestured,

She hissed, “Oh no! It's okay, you must be busy with work, I will be fine.” Her small attempt to get rid of me. I did not clarify, and she walked inside the fashion week, passing by the seat rows to find her tagged one.

She was a fashion designer; there were many high-standard women, but none met the elegance she exerted from her aura. That serene charisma and radiance overshadowed all the women in the room. She found her seat, sitting, she was dressed in a silk saree with engraved silk print in a simpler crème shade matching her skin tone, and a heavily designed shrug half over the shoulder and half under somewhere in her saree’s pallu, held in place with the belt.

I followed her towards the seat. She sat down, “That’s very kind of you to escort me till here, thank you,” She said, one leg stacked with another. Her purse was on her lap. She gave me a farewell smile, but I sat beside her vacant chair, last in the row. “I presume this seat is tagged and taken,” She shrieked, her eyes faltered towards her guards.

“It's fine, they won't mind,” I said with my charming beam. A curt nod, she focused on the stage, the show about to start.

A man approached my seat, but before he could speak a word, the manager held him back and directed him towards a different seat after my glare.

She focused herself on the stage, “Your brother did not accompany you?” I questioned, initiating a conversation.

She shone her glimmer towards me, “He has a business deal to tend,” I nodded. Sheen the ring on her finger, I lowered myself in the seat more comfortably because I am not leaving here anytime soon.

A thunderous music hammered the room as the models started to walk. I looked at the first one, dressed in a dhoti set with a corset. Never a match to, my eyes integrated with the woman next to me, focused.

She was ironed to the stage, frozen still. One can assume she is a beautifully articulated Greek goddess statue. “That model is really beautiful, look!” She spoke after fifteen minutes. “Yes,” I bothered not to view and beheld my settled gaze.

The show came to a small break, her head jerked my way in fast momentum, “I am sorry, do I have something on my face?” She tapped her handkerchief on her cheek.

I shook my head, sat straighter, “Yes, beauty!” I cloaked and gave her a grin. She immobilised.

“They will most likely tell your brother every detail of who you are sitting with, talking with? Won’t they?” I asked her, pointing at the guards, when she didn’t usher someone in for a few minutes.

She turned her gaze to them and returned, “I am 96% sure, they will!”

“Why the 4%?” I probed, “Hope?” She chuckled for a split second, “I think you should not sit here, he might not like it. I can still see the scar from the last time of his objection,” She taunted me, and I laughed. “Yes,” I touched the scar on my cheekbone, fainted.

I grunted before I comfortably scooted back in the seat. She has a handkerchief, laced from sides; the material, I believe, is a combination of fabrics. Who uses one in this day and age?

She was breathing anxiously, her hands pressed against each other on her lap. I refocused my eyes on the empty stage. My thumb on my lips, thinking of a more direct way to approach her. “You want a champagne?” I asked her, she shook her head, “Thank you, but no.” I asked the waiter in the corner to give me two glasses. I held one and extended the other towards her.

“I—” She denunciated, but I took no excuse and handed her the glass, and in the moment the champagne fell on her lap and her crème saree. She took an abrupt stand, wiping the champagne.

“Excuse me!” She went towards the bathroom, and I followed right behind, singing my chains of apologies. She went inside the female washroom at the end of the corridor, and I stopped my footsteps by the door. So did her guards.

“Can you approach the desk and ask them for a bathroom kit? They have stain spray in it.” The guard scrutinised me, but walked towards the lobby desk. The other guard watched, she came by the door. “What? You want your clutch?” I false asked her, and her perplexed eyes waited. The other guard walked back for the clutch, and the moment he turned into the ballroom. I stepped inside the bathroom.

I held both her arms and took her towards the blindside of the washroom. “What are you doing?” She shrieked. I silenced her, clamped a hand over her mouth, her fearful eyes and an attempt to free died when matched by my gaze.

What am I doing?

Her hands were on mine, her ring’s shine casting my eyes. “Beeri!” The guard recalled,

“Tell them to wait a moment,” I requested of her, fixing her with my gaze, and eventually dropping my hand, keeping it on either side of her head on the wall. I gulped harshly, wondering what she would do?

She did not speak anything, only anxiously inhaled and exhaled, “Beeri!” He recalled again.

“One moment!” She gave me one moment.

My mind brims with a multitude of possibilities, each more enticing than the last, for this one moment.

An intense stare battle in between our eyes, and a silent conversation of words we both cannot hear or comprehend. She waited, and I cowered to return any immoral transgression.

I lowered my regard to her lips; she frowned, but faced me with no disagreement. I deliberately drew nearer, sweat streaming on our foreheads, ragged inhalation echoing in the silence. The hush scattered with the pulsating nerve and throbbing heartbeat.

My hand slid from the wall, seized her cheek, and she closed her eyes. I admired her before I barred mine, about to lean forward after this one intense heartbeat. I dropped closer to her breath, hitting my lips, my phone buzzed in a round ringing.

She pushed me back and ran out of the bathroom. I clipped my lips, rubbed my forehead in sanity before I picked the bathroom essentials and threw them on the full-length bathroom mirror by the bathroom lounge seats.

Two women walked inside, scared of me, and looked at the sign again. I excused myself and walked out of the female bathroom. I looked at the caller ID instead of flipping open the phone. I went to the back garden of the hotel. I picked, “Yes, Kehr?”

“When are you coming home?” She asked me, but I did not reply.

I gazed upon in the distance through the mirror of the main lobby, where the girl was perched against the stairwell door lounge area, her face covered in her hands.

“I am a horrible man, Kehr. I think I gravely hurt someone.”

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A thousand comments would do for this chapter because I can mention a 1000 things I am in love with for this one!

Awaiting your response!