Chapter 8: A Weekend at Home (4)

Around midday, there was a soft knock at the door. Chameli, who had been dusting the shelves in the living room, paused and glanced toward the sound. The knock came again, gentle but insistent. She set down the cloth she was holding and walked to the door, smoothing her hair and wiping her hands on her skirt.

When she opened the door, she found Mrs. Mehta standing in the hallway, her silver-streaked hair tied neatly in a bun and her sari draped with the precision of someone who took pride in her appearance. In her hands was a small steel plate covered with a cloth, from which the faint aroma of ghee and sugar wafted into the air.

"Chameli, beta," Mrs. Mehta said with a warm smile, her voice carrying the soft lilt of someone who had lived in Mumbai her entire life. "I made too many laddoos this morning. You know how it is—once I start cooking, I can't stop. I thought you and your father might like some."

Chameli's face lit up, though she felt a pang of guilt at the kindness. "Thank you, Aunty. You didn't have to," she said, stepping aside to let Mrs. Mehta in. The older woman waved her hand dismissively as she entered, her bangles jingling softly with the movement.

"Nonsense," Mrs. Mehta said, placing the plate on the small dining table. "It's no trouble at all. Besides, I know how much your father loves my laddoos. Where is he, by the way? Out working again?"

Chameli nodded, her smile faltering slightly. "Yes, Aunty. He's been busy with… business."

Mrs. Mehta's sharp eyes softened, and she reached out to pat Chameli's cheek. "Such a hardworking man, your father. But you—" she paused, her gaze lingering on Chameli's face, "—you're the one holding everything together, aren't you? I see it, beta. You're strong, just like your mother."

The mention of her mother made Chameli's chest tighten. She looked down, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. "I try, Aunty. But sometimes it feels like it's not enough."

Mrs. Mehta sighed, her expression a mix of sympathy and quiet resolve. "Life is not easy, Chameli. But remember, even the strongest storms don't last forever. You just have to keep going, one step at a time."

She glanced around the apartment, her eyes taking in the neatly arranged furniture and the faint scent of incense in the air. "You've done a good job keeping this place clean. Your mother would be proud."

Chameli felt a lump rise in her throat, but she forced a smile. "Thank you, Aunty. That means a lot."

Mrs. Mehta gave her a knowing look, as if she could see right through the brave face Chameli was trying to maintain. "If you ever need anything—anything at all—you come to me, understand? Don't hesitate. Sometimes, all we need is someone to lean on."

Chameli nodded, though she knew she would never take Mrs. Mehta up on the offer. It wasn't pride—it was the fear of burdening someone else with problems that felt too big to share. "I will, Aunty. Thank you."

Mrs. Mehta patted her cheek once more before turning to leave. "Take care of yourself, beta. And don't forget to eat those laddoos before they get stale."

As the door closed behind her, Chameli stood there for a moment, the plate of sweets in her hands. The kindness of neighbors like Mrs. Mehta was a small comfort, but it also served as a reminder of how fragile their situation was. She placed the plate on the table and stared at it, the golden laddoos glistening under the light. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine a life where such gestures weren't born out of pity but out of simple joy. Then she shook her head, pushing the thought away, and returned to her chores.