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Samarth woke up to the sweet lilts of Radha-Krishna Namavali.

The bed was strange, the light strange, the windows strange.

But the happy, chirpy noises downstairs were his and Radha-Krishna Namavali was definitely his to start a morning.

He rubbed his eyes and sat up straight, scratching the back of his head.

“He sleeps so late…”

“ You woke up early.”

“Still…” a pause. “Can I go and wake him?”

“No.”

“Just check?”

“No.”

“A peep?”

“No.”

Samarth smiled, checking the time. He had slept later than he did in Nawanagar.

Probably because after years, there remained nothing in life that he wanted and didn’t have.

Ava’s house cocooned him, his daughter slept in its safety, Ava was marginally at peace in her room.

Even if he hadn’t gotten to share their rooms, he had still known that he shared their home. Because only family shared a home.

His door handle rattled and he fell back on the bed, eyes closed. The door creaked open and his little daughter said in a loud voice — “He is still sleeping.”

“Brahmi!” Ava whispered-screamed.

“He sleeps like me, see?”

Did she sleep spread like a star? Because he had stretched out haphazardly at the rattle of the door. Samarth now wanted badly to see her sleep. Footsteps came closer to him, tiny ones. He felt the presence of her tiny head over his, her breath. And he lunged.

“Aaaaaah!” She squealed as he grabbed her and tickled her sides. Her little giggles were precious. So precious. He laughed, rolling her in bed with him and tickling her like there was no end.

“Sam!” She laughed, trying to push her fingers under his chin.

He wasn’t ticklish. But that was a secret for another time.

“Papa!” She squealed, trying to tickle back.

Samarth stopped, panting, holding her on his chest as she kept wiggling her fingers under his chin. She sat up on his chest and poked.

“Papa, get tickled!” She commanded. He laughed, slave to her command. He caught Ava in the periphery of his vision, in her lounge clothes, hair up in a bun, AirPods on.

“Are you on a call so early in the morning?”

“I have a call with Tokyo in five minutes. The towels and toiletries are stocked in the bathroom, I haven’t made breakfast yet…”

“Go, I’ll take care of it.”

“Are you sure?” She glanced from him to Brahmi who was still trying to find his ticklish spot.

“Yes. Go,” he smiled, pushing his hands behind his head.

She stepped back and closed the door. Tired, Brahmi finally gave up and her head fell in the crook of his shoulder.

He eyed her giggly face go soft, happy, her breaths go slow.

And Samarth wrapped his arms around her, patting her back.

Two taps then one. Stroking it. Two taps, then one.

“Gopika geet charitay vanshidhari…” she sang along to the house’s background score in small bursts. He sang along quietly, patting her to the beats of the tune. Two taps, then one.

————————————————————

The table was laid with a spread, the kitchen cleaned after the mess Brahmi and him had unleashed unboxing the breakfast he had ordered. They sat on the table waiting, chins on their hands, eyes on Ava’s bedroom door.

“Does she always talk so much?” Samarth asked his daughter.

“A lot,” she widened her eyes, nodding solemnly. He snorted.

“You must get really fed up, no?”

“Don’t ask.”

“You don’t talk much though.”

She shook her head. Samarth reached down and pecked the top of her head.

“You know what? It’s almost 10. You want to start eating? I’ll wait for Mama.”

She picked up a piece of white dhokla and bit into it — “This tastes like idli.”

“It’s made from idli flour. I guess…”

“And it’s your favouritest.”

“How do you know?”

“You told me on our picnic, remember?”

Samarth was amazed.

“Yes,” he opened his mouth and she fed him the rest of her dhokla. “It’s my favouritest. You know what else is my favouritest?”

“What?”

“A little,” he pushed his face closer to her, “cute,” he went in bursts, “ non-talkative , horse-rider,” he growled in her neck, making her laugh and wrap her arms around his head. He kissed her cheek and pulled back.

“I love you for coming back, Sam.”

His face softened. She had alternated between Sam and Papa ever since last night, as if confused, still leaving the old momentum. He loved it.

“I am sorry for not coming back sooner.”

Her chin rested on her palm again — “What were you doing in South America?”

“Hmm,” he crossed his arms on the table and laid his chin on them, bringing himself below her eye level. “I was playing polo in South America and many other continents. I was tending to the horses. I opened a polo school in Nawanagar. I was working with my father.”

“You have a father?” Her eyes widened.

Samarth’s voice softened. If only she knew…

“Yes,” he cleared his throat. “I have a father and a mother, and a younger brother.”

“Are they like you?”

“Like me?”

“Fun?”

“I am fun?”

She nodded.

“They are even better than me.”

“No,” she rubbed her eye. “You are the best.”

He kissed said eye — “Thank you. You are the only one who has said that to me.”

“I know these secrets.”

“I know now. You know secrets even I didn’t know myself.”

“Will they come here too?”

“Who?”

“Your mother, father and brother?”

“Or we can go to them. Would you like to? Some day?”

She shrugged.

He frowned — “Why? You love meeting people, talking to them, giving them high-fives,” he held his hand up. She clapped it.

“Mmm?” He nudged.

“Will they like me like you like me?”

“Of course they will!”

“If they don’t, then you will also not like me?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“It’s like that, no? If your Mama doesn’t like somebody then there is something wrong so then you also don’t like them, no?”

“You’re right. If your Mama or Papa doesn’t like somebody then there is a chance they are not good people. But this case is an exception.”

“Expection?”

“ Exception . It means that in this case, whoever likes you or doesn’t like you doesn’t matter to me. I will always like you.”

Brahmi’s morose, solemn face lit up. What was this prize that he kept winning over and over again? Was having a child this special? That you became a winner every moment of your life? In every smile, every tear turning into a giggle, in every faithful hold of their palm over your chest?

“I will always like you too, Sam.”

“And you do not worry about my Papa, Mummy or brother not liking you. They are going to love you. You know, my Papa is a scientist?”

“He has a lab and wears a white coat?”

“No,” he chuckled. “But he goes to forests and mountains and even polar regions to do research. My Mummy is a philosopher.”

“What is that?”

“It’s… like somebody who thinks about life and universe and writes long books.”

“Like a writer?”

“Yes, like that.”

“And your brother?”

“He is… in college. Studying.”

“In like, which standard?”

“He is in… umm, 12th standard.”

Her mouth opened in another oval O. This would be his favouritest expression of hers.

“So big?” She gasped.

“Yes. Very big.”

“So if I meet them what will I call them? I call Nanaji and Naniji already so I can’t call them that. Grandpère and Grandmère?”

“You can call them that. Or you can call them what I called my grandparents.”

“What?”

“Dada Sarkar and Dadi Sarkar. And Sharan, my brother… Umm, Sharan Kaka, if he allows.”

She giggled.

“Do you have their photos?”

“I do,” he reached for his phone and pulled out the few snaps in his album.

He wasn’t one to use it much, except to save portraits here and there from their family group.

He pulled one from last Diwali, clicked in the Durbar Hall, with them dressed in their finery.

It was an official portrait and he sat on the throne with them positioned around him.

Samarth skipped that for a simpler one, one from his last polo match. He showed it to her.

“Your Papa looks just like you!” She gasped.

Samarth smirked. “Doesn’t he?”

“Old you.”

He snorted. He hoped she didn’t say it to his father.

“Oh my gawwwwd!” Ava came barrelling out of her bedroom. “You guys haven’t eaten yet?”

“We were waiting for you,” he took his phone back from Brahmi and stood to his feet. Ava frowned. Samarth walked to her chair at the head of the table and pulled it for her.

“Who made all this?” She sat down, immediately reaching for the food and plating it for Brahmi. “Eat quietly, no complaining,” she warned in advance. Samarth observed proudly how his daughter picked up a white dhokla and bit into it. Then sat down himself — “My chef sent it over.”

“I thought you would cook,” she reached for a bowl of masala sprouts. He snorted.

“Even after all these years I am hopeless at cooking.”

“And spotless in cleaning,” she glanced at her impeccable kitchen.

“I have my uses. You won’t ever have to complain about a dirty house.”

“Are you giving me a feature list?” She flicked her hair behind her shoulder. “Don’t bother. I have tested it once and regretted.”

Samarth leaned in close, stilling her — “The model is 100% insult-proof now and comes with an inbuilt b-u-l-l-s-h-i-t metre…”

“Bullshit metre?” Brahmi asked. His eyes widened.

“She knows how to spell,” Ava grinned.

“I…” he stuttered. “I meant… bullpen. Bullpen.”

“You don’t know how to spell, Papa. It’s b-u-l-l-p-e-n.”

Ava laughed.

“Uh… yes. My bad,” he glared at Ava from the corner of his eye. Her mirth multiplied. And the table, his family’s table, was all that he had never expected he would ever have but dreamed of with every fibre of his being once upon a time.

————————————————————

He was showered and messing around in the hall, waiting for the girls to emerge after their showers so that he could quickly pop out and get his bag from his hotel.

He was on his exploration of their family photos mounted on a wall when his little jockey came bounding towards him, her hair flying behind her.

He caught her and threw her up in the air, eliciting more giggles.