It was already three o'clock. Rishi sat at the dining table, waiting for the Writer. Why he was waiting, this question echoed in Rishi's own mind. He had no answer. He had cooked the meal, but how well? Only the Writer's eyes could reveal that now. The Writer hadn't come downstairs yet. Perhaps the painkillers had put him into a deep sleep.
Just then, Rishi heard footsteps. He sighed in relief, it was the Writer. Only he knew what those two hours in the kitchen had felt like. Every moment, Rishi felt as if someone was watching him, observing his every move. As soon as the Writer entered the hall, his steps halted. Seeing Rishi there, and the food on the dining table, it was as if he'd been jolted. Dressed in a black stone-studded shirt, he looked like a mysterious warrior from a dark fantasy series. Rishi kept staring. How could someone be so captivating? Just yesterday, he'd been injured by glass. But somehow, the pain had only enhanced his aura.
"Uh… I… I made some food. You were asleep, so…" Rishi didn't even know why his voice was getting stuck in his throat. The Writer quickly headed to the kitchen. He inspected everything carefully. The kitchen was clean, though not as spotless as he kept it. There was a faint burnt smell. Perhaps Rishi had burned the food. The Writer's face hardened. He came back out. Rishi began plating the food for the Writer.
The Writer sat down at his place. But he hadn't spoken a word yet. Rishi had made dal, raita, and rice. The Writer looked at his plate. In that imported crockery, the simple meal seemed to mock the elegance of the dishes. He looked at Rishi angrily.
"I can't cook non-veg. It was in the fridge, but I don't touch it. So please eat this for now." Rishi couldn't understand why it mattered to him whether the Writer ate or not. The Writer stared down at his plate. He scooped up a spoonful of rice and dal and put it in his mouth. The dal had a burnt taste. But he had no other option. He closed his eyes for a moment, then ate as if he were swallowing something utterly unpleasant. He took a spoonful of raita. The spoon lingered in his mouth for a few seconds. It felt like a carnivorous animal had been fed grass. His face twisted. He looked up at Rishi, who was watching him like a child standing with his homework notebook in front of a teacher. Rishi hadn't eaten yet.
"Stop staring. I'm eating just to fill my stomach," the Writer said. Rishi exhaled quietly.
"Why should I care whether you eat or not? Stay hungry for all I care." The Writer clenched the spoon between his teeth, quickly finished his meal, and went back to the kitchen. Rishi was someone who ate with love. He continued eating calmly.
Meanwhile, the Writer emptied his plate and went to throw the leftover dal into the dustbin, only to find burnt dal already there. He realized this was Rishi's second attempt, and both had failed. His grip tightened around the bowl. But then he calmed himself and walked out. Rishi was just getting up.
"Leave this place, Rishi. You won't find anything here. Staying here will only bring you pain."
"No!! I'll stay right here. You were the one who brought me here in the first place, weren't you?"
"That was for a different reason. I don't think you're capable of doing what I brought you here for. Bringing you here was the biggest mistake of my life."
"Then pay for that mistake. Because I won't leave until I uncover the whole truth."
"Even if you find out the truth, you won't be able to do anything. What you're living right now is also part of an illusion. The day that illusion breaks, you'll regret it."
"Before the illusion breaks, I need to know the truth. Otherwise, the regret will be even greater."
"You're making a mistake."
"The mistake has already been made. Now I have to correct it."
"That's not in your hands."
"Nothing is in anyone's hands without action, Mr. Writer."
"Life doesn't run on dialogues, Rishi Thakur."
"I'm not trying to make my life a blockbuster."
The Writer turned toward him. His eyes were filled with rage.
"Show me your red eyes all you want, but I'll say just one thing: get used to me. Because you won't be rid of me until I know the whole truth. Or until there's breath in my body."
"The day death stands before you, your tongue will tremble saying these words."
"I believe that without righteous action, a person's life is already dead."
The Writer exhaled a suppressed breath.
"Then stay alive. But stay miles away from my things."
"That's not possible. I'm here to disrupt your things. I told you, get used to tolerating me."
"Don't you think you're being extremely rude?"
"Hmm! That's what I've learned. Be rude, or people take advantage of you."
"Then you better get used to staying away from my things, because I'll only let you know what's appropriate about me."
"Try me," Rishi said through clenched teeth.
The Writer's jaw tightened too. He stormed off swiftly.
The evening sun had turned crimson. Behind the red pines, in the garden, the Writer was digging. The garden was overflowing with fruits and vegetables. There wasn't a single thing the Writer hadn't grown, everything from produce to herbs. But how did he manage all this alone? That was a mystery. Everything was perfect. The house, spotless, well-organized, every item placed with precision. Surrounding the house were vast gardens. In the middle of such a dense forest, it felt like a world unknown to anyone.
Standing on the balcony, Rishi was lost in thought. He was observing the Writer's every move. The Writer was drenched in sweat. His black embroidered shirt was now stained with soil. Rishi was puzzled, how could someone ruin such fine clothes? Who gardens in a shirt and trousers?
The Writer placed the shovel aside and sat on the bench at the edge of the garden. He pulled out a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, placed it between his lips, and leaned his head back, exhaling smoke.
Rishi, who was watching him intently, felt that if there was anyone he hated most in this world, it was the Writer. Yet, every time he saw him, everything else seemed to fade away. His eyes scanned the Writer from head to toe, finally resting on his chest, where the top three buttons were undone.
The Writer seemed to forget the entire world as he let the cigarette smoke drift into the dense forest, vanishing into the air. Rishi took a deep breath and stepped back inside.
The Writer lifted his head, and his gaze landed on the same balcony where Rishi had stood moments ago.
"Rishi Thakur! The purpose for which I brought you here, I don't think you're worthy of it. You touched a place I had to use all my strength to fix. I hope you don't do it again. I don't want to take your life like I did with the others. Everything has a price, Rishi. And this Writer knows how to collect that price."
The Writer's eyes shifted to the other side, where many lives lay buried. Whose lives? Only the Writer knew.