Chapter 5: A Weekend at Home (1)

The weekend arrived, and with it came a rare moment of quiet in the Deshmukh household. Chameli woke up late, the sunlight streaming through the thin curtains of her small bedroom. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to lie still, savoring the peace before the weight of her reality settled back in. It was Saturday, and her father had left early to "manage his business," a phrase that had become increasingly vague over the past few months.

She stretched and sat up, glancing around her room. It was modest, with a single bed, a wooden desk cluttered with schoolbooks, and a small shelf filled with trinkets she had collected over the years—a seashell from a childhood trip to the beach, a faded photograph of her mother, and a tiny clay elephant she had bought from a street vendor.

******

Chameli padded to the kitchen, her bare feet brushing against the cool tile floor. The apartment was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic outside. The faint scent of last night's incense still lingered in the air, mingling with the stale aroma of old spices and dust. She rubbed her eyes, still heavy with sleep, and opened the fridge. The light flickered weakly, revealing its nearly empty shelves—a few wilted vegetables, a half-empty bottle of milk, and a container of leftover dal from two nights ago. She sighed, running a hand through her tangled hair, and decided to make herself a simple breakfast of toast and chai.

She reached for the bread, its plastic wrapper crinkling as she pulled out two slices. The toaster sat on the counter, its surface dull and speckled with crumbs from countless mornings. As she placed the bread inside, she glanced at the stack of unpaid bills on the table. They seemed to multiply every day, a constant reminder of the precariousness of their situation. She resisted the urge to flip through them, knowing it would only make her feel more helpless. Instead, she focused on the rhythmic sound of the boiling water and the comforting aroma of chai leaves steeping in the pot.

The kettle whistled softly, and she poured the hot water into a small saucepan, adding a handful of chai leaves, a crushed cardamom pod, and a spoonful of sugar. The familiar ritual calmed her, the act of making chai grounding her in the present moment. She stirred the mixture slowly, watching as the water turned a deep amber color. The scent of cardamom filled the kitchen, wrapping around her like a warm embrace. She poured the chai into a cup, the steam rising in delicate swirls, and took a cautious sip. The warmth spread through her, easing the tension in her shoulders.

As she waited for the toast to pop up, she leaned against the counter, her gaze drifting to the window. The morning light filtered through the thin curtains, casting soft patterns on the floor. Outside, the city was already bustling—vendors setting up their stalls, children running to school, and the occasional honk of a rickshaw breaking the monotony. She wondered what it would be like to have a normal morning, to wake up without the weight of unpaid bills and her father's silent despair pressing down on her. But those thoughts were dangerous, a slippery slope into self-pity, and she quickly pushed them aside.

The toaster dinged, and she jumped slightly, startled out of her reverie. She grabbed the toast, the edges slightly charred, and spread a thin layer of butter on top. The butter melted almost instantly, soaking into the warm bread. She took a bite, savoring the simple pleasure of the crispy texture and the rich, buttery flavor. It wasn't much, but it was enough to quiet the growling in her stomach.

As she ate, she glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost 9 a.m., and her father had left hours ago, as he always did on weekends. "Business," he had said, though she knew better. She wondered where he was, what he was doing, and whether he was any closer to finding a way out of the mess they were in. The thought made her chest tighten, and she took another sip of chai, trying to push the worry away.

When she finished her breakfast, she washed the dishes by hand, the warm water soothing against her skin. She scrubbed the cup and plate carefully, her movements slow and deliberate. It was a small act of control in a world that felt increasingly chaotic. As she set the dishes on the drying rack, she took a deep breath, steeling herself.