This was the last time. Last of the last times.
Sanskar allowed himself a little punishing promise as his exhale left him in swirls of mist. The winter night stood in expectation. At times broken like a bubble from a snippet of laughter or a scrap of Christmas carol flitting in, the silence as he preferred it hung around him like a thick cloud of smoke.
The street was brilliantly lit, decked up in expectation of holiday shoppers, and most importantly their juvenile companions. The coffee shop to his right had stags made of cotton pasted on their windows, a Christmas tree made of stacked books twinkled under wreaths of fairy lights from the book shop next door.
If he wanted to he could pin the blame on Kabir as was the norm. The guy had to go and get himself married to a Hungarian girl for God's sake, and now he, the poor unsuspecting god father of two devils had to buy custom made Christmas gifts.
He hated winter.
He hated crowds.
He hated having opinions of sales persons dumped on him like buckets of ice.
He was only tolerating it all because of Kabir and perhaps because it is his last night in Budapest; his home for a decade. He was due on Spain for the next week and then, it would start. At the thought some frost must have crossed his eyes that the sales assistant shifted rather uncomfortably, her chatter rattling to an abrupt close as she eyed him a little intimidated. Thankful for the reprieve his ears had gotten Sanskar motioned the girl to continue with heaping leather bound volumes of fairytales on the counter. His thoughts were already elsewhere.
He wouldn't call it going home, not in the real sense. What would you call going back to people who you had once considered the roots of your existence in hopes of uprooting them? He was certain it cannot be called a reunion. On the other hand there was no anticipation or curiosity, he knew everything there was to know about them - from the prices in the share market to the last prescription Mr. Durga Prasad Maheshwari had gotten from his doctor.
The sales assistant regarded him for a moment, rightly reading his disinterest. The young woman perceptively pushed away the volumes she had been showcasing and instead took out a key.
"This way sir," she said, leading him towards the locked glass center piece of their children's section. "This is a new arrival - exclusively handmade and sealed by the maker himself. Even we don't know the end of this adventure story."
The cover was fine, glossy and colorful. There was the appeal of the unknown. Sanskar regarded the book. It might do the job.
"Is it about a prince?" A new voice asked as soon as he decided to close the deal. He had to look down - way down at that - to see the top of it's owner's head. The boy could have been five, perhaps a little older, his wool jumper - red and reaching below his knees, almost a dress on him, probably twice as old. Something nagged at him as he eyes the frayed piece of clothing, not something that a customer who could afford a hand made designer book would wear, but somehow hauntingly familiar with its blue lines running along the neck and sleeves.
Suddenly he was stuck with an image that he could have done without - an image of a younger brother he had sworn not to recall as long as he lived.
"Well, is it?" The boy was insistent with his questioning, his nose scrunched up in concentration. "And are there dragons?"
The salesgirl laughed, good humoured.
"Why - sir, I think so! Maybe also a couple of knights."
"Sir?" The boy turned on him now and Sanskar found himself suddenly at the centre of his charm - a difficult position to be in without giving in to whatever that bright eyed boy desired. "Are you going to buy that?"
Curious, he folded himself so that he came to the boy's eye level.
"What if I am?"
"Oof," said the boy dramatically brushing back the fringe of hair that covered his forehead. As if he was readying himself to a tiresome task ahead. "Then I'd have to persuade you wouldn't I?"
"Sunny!" Someone called, both the man and child turned towards the voice - tuned - Sanskar to his old nickname and the boy apparently to the voice of his mother. He hadn't been ready for that bout of nostalgia. Sanskar has been certain that he had ridden himself of all the baggage that bound him to the sinking ship of Maheshwaries but then as he was realizing now - one familiar address could pull the plug under him.
The woman - that woman who is pushing towards them through the crowded shoppers, had a folder dedicated to her sitting on his private shelf. There was no mistaking of that dark brown hair, or those large, espresso eyes. The young woman walking towards them was Swara Bose Maheshwari - that much pitied yet closeted from general public - young widow of the Maheshwari family. The tug on his jacket brought his thoughts crashing to a halt as his gaze returned to regard the boy - now in a new light. That brown hair which he casually dismissed seems oddly familiar now and there was no mistaking of those bright eyes. This 'Sunny' - he tried to convince himself that it did not matter that Lucky somehow ended up calling his son by Sanskar's old nickname - Sunny had to be Shantanu Lakshya Maheshwari.
Sanskar looked at the boy with a new found realization and his heart started to pick up. He had to get away from here or everything will be lost.
The lady was closer now, he could see the light reflected by her glasses. She wore glasses a fact his ditective seemed to have missed - just like a picture of Shantanu - sunny - he mentally corrected himself. The omission almost cost him six years of hard work.
"I want that book," Sunny blinks up at him making a face that he seemed to think looked adorable. Instead it made him look so much like that bratty brother of his that Sanskar had to gulp. "Please - sir?"
"Sunny!" The call was closer now - so was the caller. The boy did not wait for him to answer, but instead ran to his mother and hugged her legs. The action brought the lady to a crashing halt, and she had to offer a smiling apology to the passerby she had knocked into. Both the mother and son knelt to gather the books they caused the other woman to drop.
Sanskar breathed through his mouth. This Swara Bose Maheshwari cannot rain on his parade. He clutched the mobile in his hand in a crushing hold as he willed himself to calmness and turned to the saleswoman.
"He can have it," he told her and then to his own surprise added, "you can charge my card." Just as the words left his mouth Sanskar knew he committed a mistake - he should not have established a link to trace back to him - but the girl had already jumped to the occasion and he had cut himself. Lakshya it seemed was still his weakness. Sanskar sighed and picked up two random books from the heap of leather bound volumes.
"And these too, I'm in a bit of a hurry..."
The worth of the deal made sure the saleswoman was quick. But the damage he made remained. Sanakar caught - the way you pick native conversation in the bubble of foreign tongue - the boy's excited rapport with his mother.
"Ma - hum ne woh photo wali uncle ko dhaka..."
His heart sank.
"Kaunsi photo?"
"Woh hai na dinning hall mein ...woh badiiii wali photo jiss main dadu hai ...papa hai ..."
In his hand his mobile began to ring.
"Kabir mujhe jaana honga," Sanskar bit into the mobile without waiting for Kabir who he knew was calling to find out why he was running late to the exclusively family Christmas party.
Kabir seemed a little taken aback by his switch to the native tongue and asks immediately.
"Kya Hua- Sunny?"
The question draws his eyes to the know blurred figures of that Ma and other Sunny.
"If I don't go tonight - it won't matter anymore. Mujhe aaj hi jaana honga. Aaj hi..."
***