It was the smell that woke Kavya first. Not the usual scent of jasmine oil or cumin seeds, but the sharp, clean tang of shaving foam. She opened her eyes to find her father, Suresh, standing before the bathroom mirror in her late mother’s old cotton robe, a strip of white foam on his chin.
Kavya’s heart clenched. She slipped into the kitchen. The sight stopped her breath. Her father, a retired army colonel who had once commanded a hundred men, was sitting on a low wooden stool, peeling potatoes. The peels fell in a perfect, unbroken spiral into a bowl of water. His reading glasses were perched on his nose. On the counter, next to the spice box, lay a small, dog-eared notebook. She peeked at it. baap being a wife
“Your mom’s back?” Ritu asked, reaching for a samosa. It was the smell that woke Kavya first
“Your mother always said I overwatered them,” he’d said without looking up. “She was right.” Kavya’s heart clenched
He was quiet for a long time. Then he spoke, his voice barely a whisper. “When your mother leaves a room, I still feel her. The way she tilted the fan just so. The way she knew the milk was about to boil three seconds before it did. I thought I was the strong one, Kavya. The protector. The provider.” He laughed, a dry, hollow sound. “I was a guest in my own home. She was the host, the gardener, the cook, the accountant, the nurse, the peacemaker. And I just… sat in my chair.”
He pulled the shawl tighter around his shoulders. “So yes. For now, your baap is being a wife. And honestly?” A small, wry smile cracked his face. “It is the hardest, most important thing I have ever failed at.”