“Our father disowned us.”

“Disowned? Why?”

“Because he didn’t approve of our career choices.”

“Career choice as a drug dealer?” Shivendra raised his eyebrows.

One of the brothers looked angry at the sarcasm, but the other chuckled and restrained him by holding his arm, “This wasn’t a choice Mr. Vyas. This was rebellion. We wanted to get into movie-making. But that wasn’t an appropriate enough choice for him.”

“That was it?”

“For us? Yes.”

“For him?”

“I don’t know. He had been a puppet in the hands of his parents all his life. He expected us to do the same.”

“How so?”

“Are you going to print all of this?”

“You don’t want us to?”

“Actually… Go ahead… Please print it. He should be exposed for the insensitive, coward he is.”

“Tell me.”

“Before his parents he could never open his mouth. He married our mother for a fat dowry, because his parents wanted that. He had her abort our sister because his parents did not want a girl child…”

“And who are we to say that those weren’t his own wishes, which he explained away with the idea of being the obedient son,” the belligerent brother added.

“True!” said the first one, “We were too young to understand then… But our mother was so disturbed by that forced abortion that…” His voice trailed.

“She lost her mind,” his brother added, “He never took her to a doctor or psychiatrist, of course. The crime would have come out in open.”

“Where is she now?” Mou asked.

“In a mental asylum. It’s too late for her to reveal anything and keeping her at home was being difficult for him.”

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“No. Don’t be sorry,” the first brother said sadly, “Be thankful that you don’t have such a man for a father.”

“Who looked after you in your childhood, given you mother’s… condition?” Shivendra continued the conversation.

“Nobody!”

There was a pause, as even a seasoned reporter like Shivendra struggled to maintain a façade of objectivity.

“But you were the sons. He must have been concerned about you?”

“Yeah. He was. He would keep threatening us once in a while that we must perform in school as per his expectations; otherwise he would disown us, until the day he did act on his threat, because we won’t do engineering or MBA.”

“Wouldn’t agreeing to him have been better than this?”

He looked thoughtful, “Probably. Or there would have been better ways of rebelling too. Problem was that there was no one to help and support us then. This wasn’t a conscious life-long choice. We were just looking for a quick way of making some money so that we could act on our dreams… But once you are in…” his voice drowned again.

Mou looked at her papers. These twenty-two year olds had already made the worst of their lives. And not despite, but because of their father. Their biological father. The papers did not have their father’s name. She could not help asking.

“What is his name? Your father’s?”

“Will you do me a favor?” asked the more mature of the two brothers.

“What is it?”

“I will tell you his name, his address. Would you interview him and ask him if he ever thinks that letting go of his parental ego would have been better than this.”

Mou looked at Shivendra. Was an interview with the father on the cards? Would he talk?

“We, of course, would like to interview him if he is willing to talk. What is his name?”

“Ahwaan Sharma. His address is….”

Mou’s mind went blank for a moment. She wrote down the address with some difficulty.

“Mou. I have to leave for Delhi for a week. But we can’t wait that long to do the father’s interview. Do you think you can do it? I can ask someone to accompany you…” Shivendra told her when they were back in the office.

She thought for a moment and then replied, “I’d do it. But do you think he would talk?”

“Chances are thin. You can’t probably even get into his house, if you tell him why you want to talk. And assuming you get in on some pretext, you might still be thrown out. So, be careful. Don’t go too aggressive. We can do the story without him too.”

“Okay.”

—

“Please contact our PR department,” was the response Mou got when she tried to reach Ahwaan for an interview.

“It isn’t about the company,” she reasoned.

“According to company policies, executives are not supposed to talk to the press in personal capacity.”

While an interview was not happening, she still wanted to meet him once. She decided to take the brute-force approach. She found him walking out of his house where she had been waiting for him for several hours.

“Mr. Sharma?”

“Yes,” he turned to her and looked startled for a moment. Mou knew that she looked a lot like her mother. His startling on seeing her and the unaware silent staring that followed confirmed to her that she had found the right man.

“My name is Mou Thakur,” she started explaining and handed her business card.

“You have been badgering me with request for interviews,” he recognized the name, “And don’t want to come through the PR department.” He had gotten his bearings back.

“I’m afraid you wouldn’t want me to tell your PR department what I wanted to talk to you about.”

His composure vanished again. Was it really her? Piyali’s daughter? Mou Thakur? His name was Mukundo Thakur… Did she want to talk about… “It’s about your sons,” she said. Ahwaan felt like he was caught between a mountain and a hard rock. This wasn’t particularly better than what he had been worried about.

“What sons?” he tried to not let his anxiety show, “I don’t have any sons.”

“Twenty-two years old… That’s all they have seen of the life and the world. They could have had everything, but they are lodged in a jail and their life is a dead-end.”

“I have disowned them. I have no sons,” he maintained his stance.

“Hmm… You are quite an expert at disowning and abandoning people, aren’t you? And ordering abortions for that matter.”

“Who are you?”

“Proud daughter of my parents.”

“What is your mother’s name?”

She chuckled sarcastically, “How funny! That a patriarch like you should ask for my mother’s name, and not my father’s. Anyway. The interview was a lost cause. But your disowned sons wanted to ask you something, and me too. That’s why I tried so hard to meet you. Would letting them pursue their dreams not have been better than this? And if your conscience, for once, knocks at your heart, there might still be something you could do for them. Arthur Road Jail is the address. Good bye, Mr. Sharma.”

“Wait Mou,” he stopped her anxiously, “Do you know me?” He could not gather courage to ask her directly yet.

She took out a photograph from her purse.

—

To be continued