Elegantly, Jahnavi walked in her sober, well-fit kameez-patiala, showing her identity card to the airport guard. He was mesmerized by the politeness, which was not normal, through shifts, through years. She held Ekalavya, her six-year old son tightly by his backpack, and managed the numerous chains on her bag, in an attempt to put in the card. The guard helped walk in the son, and before he looked back, Jahnavi was gone.
Just like one of the swirls of her patiala. The guard was harassed and everyone got busy in looking for Jahnavi. And looked for measures to handle a very haphazard, utterly motherless Ekalavya. No CCTV footage could feature anyone making a rush, or bumping into anyone to gather any kind of attention. Meanwhile, a decision was made to Ekalavya's incessant, "Daddy, Bombay. Daddy, Bombay." Since his 'Daddy' could not be contacted, he would be retained, and if any kind of inquiry came in then his missed flight would be unquestionably refunded.
Two hours had passed. There was no clue as to what would be the next plan of action on the part of the authorities, except that it was to be kept as media-away as possible. In a busy Department of IT, at a more or less slack session, JM was busy correcting scripts. "Did the creche agree, J? To keep Eku?" concerned colleagues were asking her. Distractedly, she chirped, "Yes. One finally agreed to keep him even after my hours are over at college." She pulled out her mobile phone, and punched in some numbers. "Call him and find out if he is fine."
"Ah, giving hubby a chance today?"
"Yes. Ex. He must be of some use, no?" Jahnavi returned to her scripts.
A huge bomb-blast at the airport got everybody glued to their phones and TVs. When Jahnavi got bored of her marriage, she could get rid of her husband, but with the son, she had no option. Whether it was love, or a mere biological bond, she still could not understand. She needed to do something, about doing away with such feelings of disgust. It was while coding one of the programs that she came across an extremist group's plan of blowing up a part of the Delhi Airport.
Incognito, she volunteered. Earlier in the morning, she told Ekalavya that they were going to meet Daddy. As soon as the she had punched in the number, the militant from the other end activated the carefully planted bomb inside the bun in his tiffin-box. She was offered $20,00,000 to do so. She settled for $10,00,00 and feigning a loss, went ahead living the life she wanted.
Removed from academics, she took a loan to start-up an Indian-bun industry, having sowed her savings at a Swiss account. The first indulgence she made was to buy the tickets at the Royal Box of the Wimbledon Finals.
With no memory of either her husband, her plot, or Ekalavya.
Motherhood is fucking over-rated she told herself as she paid for the ticket.
Just like one of the swirls of her patiala. The guard was harassed and everyone got busy in looking for Jahnavi. And looked for measures to handle a very haphazard, utterly motherless Ekalavya. No CCTV footage could feature anyone making a rush, or bumping into anyone to gather any kind of attention. Meanwhile, a decision was made to Ekalavya's incessant, "Daddy, Bombay. Daddy, Bombay." Since his 'Daddy' could not be contacted, he would be retained, and if any kind of inquiry came in then his missed flight would be unquestionably refunded.
Two hours had passed. There was no clue as to what would be the next plan of action on the part of the authorities, except that it was to be kept as media-away as possible. In a busy Department of IT, at a more or less slack session, JM was busy correcting scripts. "Did the creche agree, J? To keep Eku?" concerned colleagues were asking her. Distractedly, she chirped, "Yes. One finally agreed to keep him even after my hours are over at college." She pulled out her mobile phone, and punched in some numbers. "Call him and find out if he is fine."
"Ah, giving hubby a chance today?"
"Yes. Ex. He must be of some use, no?" Jahnavi returned to her scripts.
A huge bomb-blast at the airport got everybody glued to their phones and TVs. When Jahnavi got bored of her marriage, she could get rid of her husband, but with the son, she had no option. Whether it was love, or a mere biological bond, she still could not understand. She needed to do something, about doing away with such feelings of disgust. It was while coding one of the programs that she came across an extremist group's plan of blowing up a part of the Delhi Airport.
Incognito, she volunteered. Earlier in the morning, she told Ekalavya that they were going to meet Daddy. As soon as the she had punched in the number, the militant from the other end activated the carefully planted bomb inside the bun in his tiffin-box. She was offered $20,00,000 to do so. She settled for $10,00,00 and feigning a loss, went ahead living the life she wanted.
Removed from academics, she took a loan to start-up an Indian-bun industry, having sowed her savings at a Swiss account. The first indulgence she made was to buy the tickets at the Royal Box of the Wimbledon Finals.
With no memory of either her husband, her plot, or Ekalavya.
Motherhood is fucking over-rated she told herself as she paid for the ticket.
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