Shobha Varna looked almost exactly like Ruban remembered her, round and rubicund; the only indication of the passage of time, the little tufts of greying hair around her temples. She hugged him like a mother reunited with her long-lost child – smiling through the tears that ran down her blotchy cheeks. And if Ruban was honest with himself, he knew that she was the closest thing to a mother that he had ever known. Her husband stood beside her, looking just as pleased, if a tad less likely to burst into tears. For that, Ruban would be eternally grateful.
“My child!” Shobha exclaimed, her fingers gripping Ruban’s arms hard enough to bruise. “My poor, dear child. It’s been so long. Over eight years I haven’t seen you. No phone calls, not even so much as a letter. Did you not miss me at all?” At this, her voice broke all over again.
Ruban closed his eyes, though whether it was out of guilt or sorrow he didn’t really know. He had missed her, missed them all. And he knew it was unfair of him to have cut off all contact with his hometown after he left for Ragah. Shobha had loved him like her own child, had baked him more cakes and told him more bed-time stories than he could count. He had no excuse for what he had done, except for the fact that it had been too painful.
For the first few years, even the thought of Surai had brought with it memories of that fateful day, memories of everything he had had, and everything he had lost. He couldn’t imagine going back there just to see the charred remnants of his old life. It had been easier, so much easier to pretend like that part of his life had never existed. Like it had all been a dream he could forget. It had been a selfish thing to do, a cruel thing. He knew that now. But he had been eighteen and far too busy coping with the destruction of his own world to spare a thought for anybody else’s.
“Ah, so it is the Kinoh boy,” said a gruff voice from the door and Ruban turned around to see the grizzled Mr. Gagan, standing at the doorway with a jute sack slung over his shoulder, his bright grin showing crooked teeth. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadna seen it for m’self. What brings you this way, my lad?”
“Indeed,” said a woman’s voice behind him. Apparently, word of his arrival had gotten around rather quickly. Ruban squinted to see who was talking just as Rumika’s chubby face appeared over Gagan’s shoulder. Rumi was the wife of Mr. Varna’s younger brother and the most enthusiastic (if not the most accurate) gossip Ruban had ever had the good fortune to meet. “The only place we get to see you these days is on TV. Really, it’s all anyone in this town is talking about anymore, ever since the SifCo video went viral. You’re staying for the Fair, aren’t you?”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Shobha laughed, wiping tears from her face even as she ushered him into the house. “It’s true, Ruban. You’re a celebrity now; at least in this town. And the Fair’s next week. You have to stay. I remember how much you loved it as a child.”
“Really, my boy, we couldn’t have been prouder,” said Mr. Varna, clapping Ruban on the back with fatherly affection. “To see you fight those monstrous creatures to keep everyone safe. I mean we knew, of course. There was the Parliament attack last year. But nobody here had actually ever seen anything like it. I could barely believe my eyes, even though they kept playing that clip for a week straight, at least.”
Somewhere behind Mr. Varna, a woman squealed. Feeling rather overwhelmed, Ruban turned around to see who it was. It was Sazia, one of the Varnas’ neighbours. Following her gaze to see what had her so excited, Ruban realised that she was staring straight at Ashwin, who appeared to be trying to hide himself behind the doorframe, rather unsuccessfully. “Oh my God!” breathed Sazia, and Ruban thought vaguely that she might be hyperventilating. Not that he had a chance to do anything about it before she all but pounced on the Zainian, dragging him from the doorway and further into the drawing room. Her face was flushed and her eyes shone with a light that made Ruban slightly twitchy. “It’s you. It’s really you! You’re the one who was on TV, right? With Casia Washi before Emancipation Day, and then again after that video came out. See, I told you,” she said, turning gleefully to look at Rumi. “It wasn’t the lighting. He really is as pretty as he looked on TV.”
Tilting her head, Rumi squinted at Ashwin, her gaze assessing. “Hmm, I suppose I might have been mistaken after all.” As Rumi looked him over appraisingly, Ruban could for once be sure that the Zainian’s baffled expression was not an act. The exquisite absurdity of the situation made him want to laugh, and he bit his lip to keep himself from doing just that. After all, you weren’t supposed to laugh at foreign dignitaries getting mauled by your former neighbours.
“Knock it off, ladies,” said Mr. Gagan, the unlikely hero riding to Ashwin’s rescue. “Let the poor boy take a breather. They’ve travelled quite a distance, I’d wager. Give ‘em a drink and let ‘em relax for a while. There’ll be plenty of time to talk later.”
“Ah yes. Ruban, you must stay for lunch,” Shobha said, beaming at him. “I’ll make your favourite curry.”
“Yes, yes,” Sazia agreed eagerly, her eyes gleaming with a predatory light. “We’ve got so much to talk about. You must tell us all about what’s happening in the capital. You’re almost always in the papers these days. Life must be very exciting for you over there.”
“Indeed, you must indulge us old people with some stories from the big city, my boy,” agreed Rumi, nodding. “Lord knows nothing exciting ever happens around here.”