Two Losers Find Love || Chapter 01

CHAPTER 1- One Boiling Frog (and Her Father)

'We are going for dinner at the Saha’s tomorrow.'

The lid of the pot rattled against its rim, the milk inside simmering. Divya waited. It wasn't time yet. Her father continued but she didn't know what he was talking about anymore. She didn't want to look away and create a mess on the stove.

She could hear him push himself off the chair and drag himself to the bedroom, barefooted, babbling on. Something about her brother and the cost of college. His walker was against the wall. 

The simmering had become more violent. 

Her mind wandered into her list, his test reports, the follow up appointments, deadlines at work, getting the air conditioner in her father's room serviced before the heat became too uncomfortable–there were many wonderful things to keep busy with.

'Are you listening to me?'

'What?'

The milk spilled out onto the stove.

'Damnit,' she turned it off and got to her spice box, grinding two cloves of green cardamom and letting it steep in the milk. A little turmeric and seven strands of saffron. The saffron was almost over. Could she budget it this close to payday? She had to. She didn't want to deal with having her father's nightly routine messed up. And more importantly, how it reflected on her.

One more thing to the list.

There was wiping the stove down too, unless she wanted gnats to greet her in the morning. She could put it right away while she waited for the milk to cool.

That little thought–the urge to make every second useful for the sake of others, and in turn never knowing relaxation, reminded Divya of her mother.

Divya’s mother never liked milk but it just made sense to make a portion for herself since it would ensure the packet was finished. And Papa wanted fresh milk everyday.

Did she at least get to escape the list in her dreams?

Divya threw out the saffron milk tea she set aside for herself. She used to drink iced chamomile tea before she moved in to take care of her.

Most of the time, her responsibilities helped to not let grief sink its claws into her. Other times it felt like growing familiar with all the places her mother lost herself in while she was alive.

Would the same fate find her?

The garland on Mumma's portrait needed to be changed. Both of them knew. And both of them knew 3 days ago was the 22nd of April. Both of them recognised they couldn't overcome their desire to not acknowledge the day. So the garland wasn't changed and no one stepped up since.

Gaurav found his glass of milk by his side when he was done writing. It was just quarter to nine, he could have a walk after drinking this. It would help the uneasiness building in his stomach. It was impossible to eat what he used to. The food felt dead and heavy now. It was too much too. Mr Batra had a similar problem last March, maybe he could spare him some advice. 

‘Divya, tell Aruna to reduce the food she cooks for us.’

‘Why papa?’

‘I should reduce,’ his back wouldn’t bend down enough to help his hands reach behind his heel, ‘it will go to waste.’ It wasn’t this strenuous, usually.

‘I see no reason why you should have to eat less, you are on metformin and insulin.’

‘If a man can’t eat, he can’t eat.’ 

He pursed his lips to quiet his panting, Dvya was on the couch, writing in her journal. His cane was against the wall by the shoe rack. It remained there when Divya heard the lock turn. She could see the traces of mud by the shoe rack left behind by his walking shoes.

She wanted to leave it for Aruna to handle tomorrow morning but the thought of her father stepping into it barefooted and dragging it to the bathroom irritated her enough to do it herself. They needed a mat by the door that wasn’t for appearances but would actually collect mud, if everyone remembered to use it. 

When she returned to her journal, she found his glass on his writing table. It was only natural she cleaned it before it started to smell. So she did. The journal remained on the couch and her pen slipped between the cushions of the couch.

The spell of rain earlier in the day had made the air stuffier as temperatures picked up again. It was odd that there was no relief from the heat in the night. The wet mud and the tiles seemed to be trickling heat into his shoes. This was unfamiliar. It made sense he didn’t see his friends after dinner. More than just the weather had changed, after all.

Mr Saxena who lived three floors below him, had to get both his knees replaced on both sides a week earlier and was still recovering, and Mr Mishra had died. The benches were only a reminder of what had changed now rather than the routine they had built for themselves. 

Gaurav felt like the odd one out, among his friends. He had outlived his wife. It didn’t make sense, why she ended up leaving before him when it was his body that had rotted away in decades of labour. Maybe he still hadn't accepted the random cruelty of life despite all this time.

Thinking about this isn’t a good idea.

He found himself on one of the benches by the pergola in the garden. With these summer gusts, even the crickets and cicadas wouldn’t chirp. So there was only silence, and the unsaid invitation of inconvenient thoughts that came with it.

He couldn’t call anyone even if he wanted to. The stuffy heat would make Mr Bal’s breathlessness worse. Mr Upadhay wasn’t around to call, his son had dropped him off at an old age home. He hated how his son didn’t see that Anand could manage himself and didn’t need to be treated like a pesky toddler. Sure he was a bit senile now but that shouldn’t have erased all the worth he had accumulated in all these years of his life. His wife had died first, just like him. And he knew all the conversations Divya had with her brother when she would lock herself inside her room. 

The pompous sounds of a wedding procession outside spilled into the stillness. Another oddity to add to everything else. 

He couldn’t care less for what was unfolding in front of him, he cared about how it reminded him of the glory of his time under the spotlight. He remembered how excited he had been to ride atop a mare. And how quickly it wore off. It really hurt his back and his hips to be upright on the saddle after about half an hour. And the embroidered sherwani became unrelentingly itchy in the dry winter air.

Gaurav watched the horse, her eyes covered with ornate blinds, did they itch? He watched how the little boy with a stick controlled her every move and how often she locked her knees to stand still when the crowd stopped to dance. That would certainly hurt her over time, with the weight of a full grown man and his many adornments on her body. Once she was too broken down to mint money, she would be left to rot in utter irrelevance and they’d call it kindness. 

And he couldn’t even see her eyes. 

‘You didn’t put the odomos before going out.’ 

‘You think mosquitoes are flying in this heat?’ Thankfully, his shoes came off before Divya reached him.

‘What’s so hard about being safe?’

‘What’s the point?’ 

He had walked off, leaving his shoes behind. She picked it up and slapped the mud off them. In the midst of the piling tasks with his return, she couldn’t gather her thoughts to give him an answer.

While he was washing his feet and changing his clothes, she rolled the rickety cooler to the window. The water inside was almost over and the vetiver curtains were dry. So that needed to be refilled and she added some ice along with it. 

While he was out, most of her time had gone into looking for that pen. At some point, she gave up because she remembered she had to pay her phone bill and the wifi was acting up, interrupting her payment. And then she had returned to the kitchen to check if she had left anything undone. 

There was no time to be philosophical. 

Gaurav returned to his room, all cool and breezy. When his head hit the pillow, he remembered he had to pay the wifi bill in three days. Maybe he could tell Divya to remind him. Her job would give her a concession too, if she remembered to change her address before the end of the month. She would save money if she continued staying with him. It was a sensible choice.

He thought about the mare and how her eyes were hidden under ornate blinds. Maybe they shared his fatigue and his fear.

Divya lay wide awake. She knew the wifi bill had to be paid in three days. And she had to call people to repair the air conditioner in her father’s room before the heat became humid. But she forgot to turn her air conditioner on before getting to bed so she could have a cold room to sleep in and it was too uncomfortable to lay in bed, with fresh sweat and the smell of the kitchen sticking to her skin, waiting for the room to cool down enough before she could turn it off.

The Sahas had come to her mother’s funeral, without their daughter, Divya started to agonise herself over the invitation. Their darling Avni was busy with her internship, they said, reminding them about how strenuous it is to be a doctor, and oh how hardworking their smart girl is. Oh wait, it wasn’t Avni anymore, it was Dr Avni now. Her absence was a good thing, entertaining her would have meant coming face to face with another dead end; a reminder of how she could be less disappointing. 

A better trophy. Someone who wouldn’t be nervous about budgeting saffron for her father.

‘Fuck this.’

She took the keys and stormed out. The summer winds were relentless and arid, the heat sticking around like an oven. This was just absolutely absurd. 

Thankfully, the fancy convenience store was not too far. Her father believed it was too wasteful to go to that one when the local kirana store had everything he wanted. The store was spacious, had sterile white lights and constant air conditioning. 

‘Hello, do you have chamomile tea?’

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Author’s Note- I offer no apologies for any language error made in this story. All errors, if any, were made purposely, obviously. Thank you for your patience. 

In true writer fashion, the title of the story is temporary, essentially encapsulating the plot.

Also, a protagonist with a dead mother in a drama story, groundbreaking.

If you liked this chapter or wish to share your critique, please feel free to do so. And If you wish to support me, please visit the linktree at @nonbotworddump on instagram. Thank you!

The next chapter will be up before 30-05-2026.