"Sorry about the candles, a lot of power cuts happening this week, even here."

"I don't mind, it's good actually."

"I was hoping you'd think it's romantic, given that the rest of the house is a mess." Perhaps it was the dim lighting, but his smile appeared more hopeful than his words as he poured her drink.

"It doesn't give me a headache," she muttered. "That's the thing about lights, even the prettiest of them, they're cheeky. You can't live without them. And yet if you get too close, they'll blind you. Darkness? Well it doesn't cheat, it's cool and soothing, it's reliable."

"It's illegal to think like that in Diwali season." He settled on the sofa next to her before positioning her feet in his lap, picking up his own can of beer from the coffee table. "So you told Shikha?"

"How do you know?"

"Why else would you be here?"

"To confess my undying love for you?"

"If you were planning on doing that, you would've done it as soon as I opened the door. But you stepped inside and asked to talk. So in the worst-case scenario, you want to find comfort in your partner in crime so you can tell yourself you're not as bad as him. And in the best, you're confused but want to give him another chance."

"I can't do both?"

"Sure you can, but that's not love."

She realised the smile, that was still resting on his face, was one of self-pity and not hope. "Did you love Shikha when you married her?"

"I wish I did. She deserved the world and, well, she got us."

"Cheers to that." Madhu took a large sip of her wine. "So you married her to get back at me."

Neither of them had said it out loud before, but it had always been a fact. Well, not always. First a doubt, then an inclination and, when they finally found each other again, it became a fact. An axiom. No one needed to state it, it was simply true.

"Partly, but I was also hoping to move on from you."

"You would've succeeded if we'd both been better people." Her mind went to nudge her about two better people she knew. Two better people who had moved on because Nakul wasn't a petty bastard, wasn't someone who'd willingly tear apart someone's family.

Funny that the first time she'd had allowed herself to think of him was here, in Roshan's house.

"Was she angry?" asked the person in question, oblivious to her chain of thought.

"No, she was...Shikha. She was Shikha. She ordered me to be a good guest and pretended to be a good host herself. God knows what she must be doing right now."

"Her mother would come to stay with her tomorrow, so she won't be alone for long. We still have the same cook. He told me."

"Look at us, pretending as if we have any right to care about her."

His laugh was booming. It infected her too and soon they were a cackling mess. Diluting their bloodstreams with alcohol in an attempt to dilute their humanity, they were reduced to breathless gasps and teary eyes. Their only alternative would've been to cry. But that was a privilege neither of them was entitled to. Not when the Shikhas and the Nakuls and the Vidushis of this world were ahead in line. And so they laughed until they physically couldn't.

"I guess that's my answer then."

"What?"

"You're feeling better?"

"A bit."

"You found a person worse than you."

"Roshan—"

Picking up his can and her empty glass, he got to his feet. "Spend the night, I'll clear the guest room. It's not safe to drive at this hour and you're too drunk."

In the days that followed, Madhu felt herself to be more and more grateful for Roshan's perceptiveness. She'd genuinely been confused about her wishes and motives when she'd knocked on his door.

She would've arrived at the same decision anyway, he just saved her a lot of time. Time she would've wasted in the trap of chasing familiar comfort in him instead of making amends with the people who truly mattered.

Punditji's words from many moons ago echoed in her mind night and day, during work and in her fitful dreams interspacing sleepless nights.

Why is it that we're always so afraid to talk to the people we love?

It took her another week in Delhi to tie all the loose ends, and by the time she finally boarded the plane bound for Lucknow, it was the eve of Diwali.

She mostly slept through the half-hour-long flight only to zombie-walk her way through the unfamiliar airport until someone called her name.

It was the "trustworthy driver" from a "reliable cab service" her father had insisted on. He was appalled at the U-turns Madhu had taken with her decisions, but stuck to his words of leaving Bhabra completely up to her.

The watch struck nine when the cab parked before her dark house. The headlights illuminated the cowshed. She paid him, picked up the light carry on, and went inside.

Madhu had expected to find the place deserted. Still, it was upsetting to see it completely dull and empty on Choti Diwali. Dumping her bag on the porch, she checked the servant quarters to find it vacant too. Though she could hear her cows in the shed next to it, and a single diya flickering under the tulsi outside also confirmed that the house still had a caretaker in these last two weeks. Most likely Champa. Or Satish.

Or maybe, maybe Nakul.

She showed the servant quarters to the cab driver, who was hired to stay the night, in case she needed to go to Lucknow. Making sure he was settled with a bowl of Maggi for dinner, Madhu left the house.

Unlike the Old Thakur house, the rest of the village was buzzing with activity. She went unnoticed in the crowd of festive villagers who were busy lining the narrow bazaar street with glass bottles to launch fire rockets.

The reason behind their early celebrations became clear to her when Madhu's eyes found the top of the conical spire of the Ram-Sita temple.

It wasn't decorated with fairy-lights. But it was lit up, with shockingly bright tube-lights. The haphazard way they were perched on the roof would've attracted ridicule in Delhi. Yet here in Bhabra it signified progress.

I want to see the shock on their faces when this unholy waste is what ends up lighting their homes on Diwali.

Just like that, she knew he was still here.

The temple queue was long, and when she finally reached the murtis, her murtis, the Pundit who gave her the sweet offering had an unfamiliar face.

"Your name?" he asked her.

She told him her name, which he added in the mantra he chanted on her behalf.

"I'm sorry but do you know where's Pawan ji?"

Her question went unacknowledged as the line of devotees nudged her out of their way. Madhu figured he must be at the riverside and proceeded to their usual meeting spot.

Her breath caught in her throat when she saw the ghat. Ethereal would've been too weak of a word to describe it, but that was what came to mind. Each step leading into the river was lined with diyas. Calm waves reflected spots formed from their earthy yellow flames, looking more heavenly than a star-studded sky.

Madhu hadn't realised she'd been walking along the ghat until her shadow fell on someone kneeling on the top step, lining the second step with even more lamps.

"Nakoo?"

He was wearing the aid. She knew he heard her. But he froze anyway.

Madhu knelt beside him. "That generator is complete now huh? Right on time."

He placed the last lamp on the step. Slowly, as if testing her patience, as if she might disappear.

"Nakul I'm sorry."

"You're here."

"I am."

"Why?"

"I pulled out of the deal. Mr. Bansal had to buy gold this Dhanteras, he's not getting our land."

That was when he deemed her to be real, turning towards her.

Starved eyes feasted on his face, roving over each feature aglow and shadowed by the oil lamps around him. She wanted to cup his cheeks, to pull him in, and only barely stopped herself. If she thought the decorated ghat was breathtaking, then her lungs mocked her when she finally saw him, properly, after nearly two weeks. Or maybe it was her heart, she wasn't sure, something inside her chest.

"You mean your land," he said finally, reminding her she'd missed his voice too. She'd missed everything.

"No Nakoo," Madhu began, reaching out to hold both his hand in hers, almost crying in relief when he let her weave their fingers. "I mean the land which I'll lease out to you if you decide to move your factory here from Lucknow."

"Have you considered how disastrous that investment would be?"

"Yes. This is a crime-ridden, underdeveloped part of an undeveloped state of a developing country with a severe lack of technical skill. I'm aware. But I'll accept the odds if you promise to train your employees well. Which you'll have to do anywhere so why not here?"

"Why exactly are you doing this? I thought you would never forgive the people here."

"Bhabra deserves a second chance."

"Sometimes I think you love Bhabra more than I do"

"Don't worry, I love her only slightly more than I love you." She felt him squeeze her hand as his lips stretched into his beautiful, beautiful grin. A grin that she copied. "Besides, not all of it is my money. I'm organising a fundraising gala, on New Year's."

"For what?"

"Helping out the villages of Sakshinagar, including Bhabra of course. Also, to improve business at Jasm Inn"

"That's nice of you."

"I would need a guest of honour."

"I don't want to be the guest of honour."

"Didn't think you would, that's why I asked Sunanda."

"Then why are you telling me this?" he asked, confused.

"It'll be pretty sad if I show up without a date at my own gala."

"Now that will be a true honour." 

To the temple on the mountain top

We climbed. Forgot to pray!

But got home anyway.

~ Ruskin Bond