The Night We Met

By Krupa Panchmatiya Kuruvilla

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664152168

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Copyright © 2021 by Krupa Panchmatiya Kuruvilla.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 01/14/2021

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Finale

PREFACE

Romance is an integral element in all my novels, and what fun is love without a little drama?

The Night We Met is based entirely in India (unlike my first book, You Never Know) and has all the elements of a typical family drama. Growing up in India, I am no stranger to the love and complications that family dynamics bring. When I started writing this book, I was still working full-time, but COVID changed things, and then I had to quit my job and stay home to care for my children. Writing this book was my break, my me time. I enjoyed this process thoroughly, and I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it!

To the best children I could have asked for: my daughter Gia and son Shray, without whom this book would have actually been completed 2 years earlier. They make me continually strive to be a better mother and a better person overall.

To my husband, Pranay, who has never read a novel in his entire life, but whose undying encouragement and constructive criticism are essential to my very being.

To my parents and my in laws, who are always pushing me to reach for the stars.

To my friend Neha, who listened to every rant of mine from the beginning to the end of writing this book.

I love you all immensely and would not have done this without your love and support.

CHAPTER 1

Her car came to a screeching halt in the last parking spot available right by the entrance. Lot #1, reserved exclusively for employees of the hospital, was filling up quickly. It was a quarter past 9, and the lot was already packed with cars; she was lucky to have found a vacant spot. She recklessly flung open her door and almost hit the old man getting out of his car in the adjacent handicapped spot.

Watch it! he yelled, pointing his cane angrily at her. His badge swung around as he shook his hand violently, and she could read the word radiology on it. Maybe he was a technician or something. She really shouldn’t piss off an employee, but as long as he didn’t work in the rehab department, she was good. She did not have time to make eye contact or for any kind of human interaction.

Sorry! she yelled without so much as looking behind at him and picked up her pace. She was halfway to the main door when she remembered something and stopped dead in her tracks. Zipping open her bag carelessly, she scrambled for something in it, ran back to her car, and slapped the parking permit on the windshield. As she made her way back to the hospital, the old man was still struggling up the ramp to the entrance with his cane. She reached the door before he did, stole a quick glance at him, and mentally calculated how long he would take to catch up to her. She sighed deeply and held it open for him. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . She counted the seconds in her head and tapped her foot impatiently. He noticed her impatience and grunted but did not make any effort to hurry. Couldn’t even if he wanted to. Finally he was through the door, and she snuck past him to beat him to the front desk.

Kiara, for Dr. Sen, please. Seventh floor, rehab.

The woman at the front desk called for Dr. Sen on the overhead pager and motioned for Kiara to have a seat, with a plastic smile pasted on her face.

Kiara tapped her fingers impatiently on the desk while she waited and absentmindedly scrolled through her phone. The receptionist looked at her and gave her a brief smile, and then, after a while, looked at her again and felt compelled to say, You can take a seat. She will be out as soon as she is available.

Yeah, I know, Kiara replied curtly. She was not going to take a seat. She was not going to waste even a second of her time while she was there. She was in flight mode and ready to sprint.

Others in the waiting area sneaked glances at her and spoke in hushed whispers. She could sense that but did not seem to care. The old man with the cane walked past her, stopped just long enough to glare, and then went through the double glass doors.

After what felt like an eternity but was only about four minutes, a bespectacled short, chubby lady emerged through the glass double doors and looked straight at her. She had short hair that framed her round face, and she held a clipboard in her hands. She looked like she meant business, made brief eye contact with Kiara, and motioned for her to go in with her, before turning around to walk away. Kiara dashed toward her, and the receptionist started to say, Dr. Sen will see you now, you may . . . never mind. She whispered the last two words under her breath because Kiara had disappeared inside without so much as a thank-you or a nod of acknowledgment.

Inside, she walked with hurried steps, but Dr. Sen’s steps were measured, walking at a normal pace. Kiara had to stop for her to catch up, multiple times; and when she had to do it again just before they boarded the elevator, she finally lost her patience.

Ritu, can you walk any slower? Had a heavy breakfast again? She jabbed her sides in jest, but Dr. Sen kept a straight face. Kiara furrowed her eyebrows and muttered under her breath while she waited for the elevator to arrive, Somebody has lost their sense of humor.

Inside the elevator, she pressed 7, the topmost level where the rehab gym was located. Dr. Sen was quiet and had a blank affect, but Kiara was smiling and could not stop talking now. I don’t know why they had to have the gym on the top floor. I mean, isn’t it better for them to have easy access to it on the ground floor? I get that the view is great, but for the patients, why would anybody want to—

He does not want to see you. Dr. Sen said those words quickly and harshly, without making any eye contact.

What? Kiara stopped short and looked surprised, a look of disbelief on her face. She pretended as though she hadn’t heard those words from Ritu.

He does not want to see you, Dr. Sen repeated, this time in a hushed tone and some sympathy in her voice, but still not making eye contact.

They reached the seventh floor, got out without a word, and then stood facing each other. Kiara was jittery, but less from excitement and more out of anxiety now.

What? She fiddled with the strap of her bag.

Dr. Sen, a.k.a. Ritu, sighed, not wanting to repeat those words. But she had no choice. He said he does not want to see you.

What are you saying? I . . . I . . . don’t understand . . . it must be a mistake . . . he has to . . . I mean . . .

I’m so sorry. She put her hand on Kiara’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. She turned away and was starting to walk into the department when Kiara’s loud voice stopped her.

What does this mean? Are you saying I should leave? She almost yelled that out, standing there helpless, her bag strung over her shoulder.

Listen—Dr. Sen walked towards her and stopped close enough so nobody would hear them—I couldn’t have this conversation downstairs because I didn’t want to create a scene. Keep your voice down.

Okay, okay, sorry, she whispered and tried to make amends. Her shoulders had sagged with disappointment, and she was readjusting the bag now.

I told him you were coming in, just like you had told me to, and he said he did not want to see you.

He . . . he used those words? Kiara’s voice was meek and full of sadness now.

Dr. Ritambhara Sen, physical therapist and the director of rehabilitation at J. R. Hospital, nodded with extreme difficulty. She hated seeing her younger sister like this. She could not stand to see her usually upbeat and happy sister so upset, but she had no choice in this matter. She rubbed Kiara’s arm to comfort her, but Kiara looked shaken. She thought maybe she could offer her some consolation and looked around to make sure nobody was within earshot, then said, Maybe you can sneak in a quick peek through the second window by the water fountain. He should be at the parallel bars, doing his exercises. But don’t let anyone see you.

Kiara refused to accept that. She shook her head firmly. She was not going to take charity, especially if he had made it abundantly clear that she wasn’t wanted around there.

Okay, it’s your choice . . . Listen, I have to go now. Call me if you need anything. And with that, Dr. Ritambhara Sen disappeared into her office.

Kiara stared after her and then took one look at that second window she had just been told about. She hesitated for less than a second, shook her head, and retraced her steps back to the elevator.

Her stubborn nature would not let her leave the hospital, so she took a seat in the waiting room; she wanted to be around and available, just in case he would change his mind and ask for her. All the common sense and every cell in her body told her it would not happen, but she wanted to hope against all hope. She felt tears welling up in her eyes, so she quickly made her way into a stairwell around the hallway and went down two flights of stairs then exited onto the fifth floor and sat in a waiting lounge, not knowing where she was, which was perfect because she didn’t want to be around anyone she knew. Oddly, she found herself thinking about the old man from earlier. Maybe she felt guilty for being such an ass to him, and now that karma had done its bit, she wanted to find him and apologize. A part of her was thankful that he wasn’t around, though. She didn’t think she could deal with more humiliation. She felt her throat tighten, from all the emotion she was holding back in. Hot tears threatened to spill out of her eyes, but she maintained her composure, grabbed her hair and tied it into a frumpy bun, and sighed deeply.

She stretched her legs out, and her eyes wandered to her bag, which she had carelessly tossed nearby. The Reese’s Peanut Butter pack that she had taken a detour to buy this morning from the store, causing her to be late to the hospital, was threatening to fall out. She shoved it inside, saving it for another day or time, then thought against it and yanked the pack out of her bag. Carefully peeling back the wrapper, she tossed one in her mouth, then another, then another. When her mouth was stuffed with three peanut butter cups and she realized the hopelessness of her situation, the resolve broke, and tears streamed down her face. She chewed in between sobs and carelessly wiped the tears with the back of her hands.

In all that mess, she was surprised her mind even registered the fact and felt thankful for applying waterproof eyeliner that morning. She heard some footsteps on the stairs behind her and tried hard to compose herself. When she looked up, she saw the old man staring at her while making his way out the glass door to her right with measured steps. One look at her, and he hobbled toward her with a purpose. She looked up and around and read the sign above that said Fifth floor - Radiology.

Great. Just great, she thought.

He went and took a seat next to her. She wiped her tears sloppily with her sleeves again and took a deep breath to deal with the crappy situation that was handed to her. He still had the grumpy expression on his face—his face hadn’t even softened a little bit. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, anticipating what she was going to hear next: Today’s generation has no respect for the elderly. You have to learn to be more patient, etc., etc. And as she braced herself for it, she felt herself speak first. Please, not today.

Both were surprised by the pleading tone. His wrinkled face finally seemed to relax, and she saw a calmer side to him. He was beginning to open his mouth to say something but then decided against it and, instead, lifted his hand and patted her head awkwardly, which hung low and between her hands. She looked up, surprised, and managed to smile a small smile for him, feeling thankful that at least someone cared for her at that moment. He walked away, leaving her alone with her misery.

*   *   *

She let the front door to her house shut loudly and stormed into the kitchen hungrily. She had not had any breakfast that morning because of the butterflies in her stomach in anticipation of the hospital visit. Everything had gone miserably south, and now she was depressed, which always made her hungry. Some people lose their appetite when they are sad; Kiara Kapoor was not one of those. She was a typical Punjabi who loved her food. She threw her bag onto the kitchen counter, letting its contents spill; and while she buttered one of the aloo parathas lying in a neat heap on the table, she heard the heavy footsteps of her mother behind her. It was unmistakable—the padded plopping sound of her fur-lined slippers on the hardwood floor, the sound of the bunch of keys she wore around her dupatta (there must have been at least fifteen of them—the main door; the safe; the four rooms in the house; five bathrooms; the pantry, yes, she had one for that as well; and closets in the master bedroom), and the smell of spices that emanated from anybody cooking a lot of Indian food and staying indoors all day.

"Where have you been? The maid hasn’t come in today, so I am running all the laundry in the washing machine by myself. You know how tiring that is? Mr. Verma called three times, he is waiting for you to give him a slot for their pre-wedding photo session. Only three weeks until his son’s wedding. You know they are very particular people. Move them up your calendar, beta [dear]. That’s the least you can do for our neighbors."

She nudged Kiara till she managed to say something in between mouthfuls.

Makkhan kam hai [The butter is less].

Oh ho, just put some. That nurse is late today. Don’t people wear a watch nowadays? Or they don’t feel they need to because everything is on your digital phones? Abhi has been waiting for her since so long. The gardener came in today and showed me some new roses. I told him to plant them by the swing in the back lawn, but if you don’t like that, we could move it towards the fountain area . . . And you know what? Your father is planning on calling his brother and family from Mumbai to spend some time with us, and they agreed without even thinking twice. Will you say something, Ki?

Smartphones, Kiara replied in between bites.

What?

Smartphones, not digital phones, she said and walked away, leaving Mrs. Kapoor standing alone in the huge 800-square-foot kitchen of Kapoor House.

*   *   *

At dinner, everyone was oddly silent. Vanraj Kapoor, head of the household, ate while browsing through the newspaper, occasionally adjusting his glasses and squinting to get a better view.

Why is the lighting so dim? Don’t we have enough bulbs over the dining table?

You are going blind. I told Hari to change the old ones, and he’s put new ones in last week. I’ve told you so many times to go get your eyes checked. You might need new glasses. But no, nobody wants to listen to me in this house—why would they? Everyone is more educated than I am, everyone has a fancy college degree, and I am from this small town in Punjab. We were not fancy like Delhi is today, but you know what we had in those days—

Hari! Mr. Kapoor interrupted and called out to the house help. That was the only way Mrs. Lajwanti Kapoor (lovingly called Lajjo by her dear ones) would shut up—if someone interrupted her, else most of the time, she was like a high-speed train with its brakes cut off.

Hari, the house help, arrived from the kitchen, and he and Mr. Kapoor started discussing the lighting around the dining area.

Kiara played with the food on her plate; she had ruined her appetite by snacking all day. She was not over what had happened this morning at the hospital. She poked her rice and curry with the fork and absentmindedly twirled it around in the plate. Abhishek, her older brother, eyed her with a very passive look; she couldn’t really figure out what and why, but she didn’t have the energy to deal with that.

He finally broke his silence and asked in his booming voice.

Where were you this morning?

Kiara did not make eye contact, continued to play with the food on her plate, and replied matter-of-factly, I had gone to the hospital.

Silence followed. Mr. Kapoor looked away from his newspaper, stalled all conversation with Hari, and looked over slyly. Mrs. Kapoor stared at Kiara, not hiding her anticipation to know what followed, but there was no more talk.

Luckily for Kiara, Lajjo’s phone rang, and she took one look, cringed, and answered in her fake sweet voice, Hello, Rani! . . . Yes, he told me . . . don’t worry, all the arrangements will be done before time . . . you know how I am . . . No, no, don’t worry, I’ve got everything handled. You just bring the whole family and come . . . Okay, we will see you then. Bye! Mrs. Kapoor hung up in disgust. Look how shameless. She will not even offer to help. Hari, discuss the lighting later. Go give me an inventory of all the food in the pantry, please. She shooed him away with her hands.

Hari immediately obliged, and Mr. Kapoor looked at her and shook his head before turning his attention back to the newspaper.

Mom, she did offer to help. I could hear her loud voice through the phone, Kiara spoke up. She loved challenging her mom; it made for good entertainment. She also knew how to rile her up, and although she loved her mom dearly, at this point, she would do anything to shift the focus away from herself.

Ki, you don’t know your aunt. She is very—

It’s decided, then. Mr. Kapoor’s voice boomed across the entire table, and everyone sat up to look at him. An ex-army officer, he commanded respect; and people looked up to him for his personality and demeanor. He stood up from his chair, his six-foot-three-inch frame towering over everybody and his deep baritone ensuring that nobody spoke when he did. Raj and his family will be here the month after next. Pari’s wedding ceremony will take place at home two weeks after they arrive. I want nothing to be left until the last minute, and there should be no room for complaints. Understood? Get them everything they need. And, Kiara—he looked at her pointedly—you are not missing this one. He looked at Lajjo and Kiara, and they nodded mutely, watching him retire to his den for his evening drink before he went to bed.

Mrs. Kapoor turned her attention to Kiara, who feared that would happen, so she immediately buried her nose in her phone. She tried to look at her daughter from over the phone, but Kiara dodged her gaze, enjoying irritating her mom.

Suna tune? Engagement toh miss kar di [Did you hear? You missed the engagement].

Yes, Ma, I am right here. Of course I heard. She rolled her eyes.

"Ki, will you please call Mr. Verma and schedule that photo session? I met him when I went for my walk this evening, and he reminded me again. Don’t do this, beta. They have been such good neighbors . . ."

Aaaaah! Yes, yes, I will do it. Now, I’m not hungry. I am going to bed. Good night, love you. She kissed her mom and walked out toward her room. All she felt like at this moment was a hot shower followed by some Netflix.

Abhi finished his dinner and cleared his throat, looking at his mom with an expression that he demanded some explanations.

Mrs. Kapoor sighed and spoke in hushed tones so nobody would hear her. What do you want to know?

Are you okay with this, Mom? Seriously?

I don’t know what I am okay with, but I know that she didn’t meet him.

Then what had she gone to the hospital for?

She had gone to see him, but they did not meet, Ritu told me.

What do you mean?

He refused to see her.

There was some silence. Abhi looked confused, but he quickly changed his look to a nonchalant one.

Mrs. Kapoor leaned across the table and placed her hand on his.

Abhi, she started in a very gentle tone, "how long are you going to hold on to this anger? It has almost been eighteen months now. Don’t you think . . . ?

Are you being serious, Mom? So what if it has been eighteen months? Does that change my situation? Does it change anything for me?

Abhi . . .

Stop. I will not have this conversation again. Nobody seems to understand! He banged his hand on the table, the noise echoing around the room.

Abhi—she now looked at him with a stern expression—everyone has understood your situation and been supportive since day one. You have got to learn to let go now.

How do you expect me to let go, Ma? He was livid.

Mrs. Kapoor stood up and pushed her chair inside, without making eye contact with her thirty-year-old son. She started walking away, then paused and turned around to give him her reply.

Because that’s the only way you will ever learn to live again.

*   *   *

Kiara stared at the ceiling of her room, lying in the lush silks of her bed. It was 1:00 a.m., but her large brown eyes were wide open. Sleep evaded her. She tried watching TV, reading a book, texting her friends, but nothing was helping to put her to sleep. Her fingers fiddled with a thread that had come loose on her pillow cover, and she stayed fixated on that for a while. Finally, she decided to stop fighting insomnia, walked to her huge walk-in closet, and started sifting through her clothes. Purging always helped clear her mind; it made her think more rationally. She tossed out a few old tees that she had used and overused but had held on to for emotional reasons. She thought she might regret this later, but at that moment, she felt liberated, like at least something in her life was under her control and was going right.

After about thirty minutes, she lay surrounded by piles of all types of clothes that she’d decided to donate. Tees, dresses, lehengas (indian dresses)—everything except jeans. Kiara Kapoor would never part with her jeans. She lived in them, and if she could, she would wear them all the time. She wasn’t tired, but she stopped because she was staring at this particular yellow dress in her hands. She did not know what to do with it, whether or not to part with it. It had so many memories, so many feelings attached to it; it made her smile and made her miserable both at once. She didn’t know what thought it was exactly that crossed her mind last, but at some point after 2:00 a.m., her eyes filled with tears, and she lay helpless in the middle of the pile of clothes, only to wake up in that same position in the morning with a terrible ache in her neck.

CHAPTER 2

Beta, thoda aur smile karo na… photo le rahi hai [Son, smile a little more please. She’s taking a picture]!

Mrs. Amarjyot Verma nudged her son, then adjusted her gold silk saree, which matched perfectly with her heavy gold jewelry in the scorching Delhi summer, while giving her family instructions on how to pose.

Her husband, Mr. Rajeshwar Verma, cluelessly stood at attention, squinting through his horn-rimmed glasses as the sun shone bright and hot.

Aur aap! Camere ki taraf dekho! Is dhoop mein bilkul andhe ho gaye ho kya [And you! Look at the camera! Have you become completely blind in this heat]?

He quickly readjusted his gaze to look at Kiara and her camera, but he still wasn’t on point.

Kiara sighed. She waited for Mrs. Verma to finish shouting out her directions before she even tried to reposition that family of 3. There was no interrupting that woman. She rested her elbow on her tripod and browsed through her messages on the phone. Siddharth Verma gave her a pleading look which only made her smile and stall for a bit longer. She couldn’t help but notice how handsome he looked. Tall, well built, fair, clean-shaven, dressed in a crisp white shirt and with his hair gelled back smoothly with not one out of place.

It was only the beginning of April, and the heat was unbearable. She wondered how this family had decided to have a full-blown Indian wedding in the midst of the hot summer.

When Mrs. Verma’s yammering wouldn’t stop, Kiara finally took pity on the men of the family and went up to them wordlessly, adjusting them all—their angles, their faces—and then giving them a silent thumbs-up after examining her work. She started walking away but then thought again, walked over to Mrs. Verma, and said, Auntie, necklace, motioning her to take it off.

Amarjyot looked shell-shocked, as though someone had suggested she sell her soul to the devil, and placed her hand on it possessively.

Kiara was persistent, Auntie, kuch zyada hi shiny hai. Bechare uncle toh dikhenge hi nahi [It’s too shiny Poor uncle is getting overshadowed by it].

Uski suno, woh photographer hai [Listen to her, she is the photographer], Mr. Verma said.

Amarjyot hmphed at her husband, then reluctantly took it off. Satisfied, Kiara walked back to her camera to get a few shots. Mrs. Verma smiled so broadly the shine of her recently whitened teeth could have probably been seen by people living all the way in Kashmir. Mr. Verma smiled his typical content smile, and Siddharth, excited at the prospect of being married but not having this photo shoot in place of his daily gym session, gave a plastic smile.

They posed in the lawn, in their patio, and in the decorated driveway.

Outdoor shots done, Auntie! Kiara clapped her hands to signal the finale, and Amarjyot gave a giddy giggle full of joy in response. Mr. Verma looked relieved and started loosening his tie while Siddharth walked up to Kiara.

Hey, thanks for doing this, he said nonchalantly while putting his hands in his pant pockets, very clearly just wanting to make some conversation for the heck of it.

Kiara, who was busy packing up her stuff, made brief eye contact while zipping up her bag and replied, Yeah, no big deal.

"Ki, pictures kab milenge [When will