'It's not safe, deary. And it's also against the rules.'

Avish smiled at his Mom, even as his foot pulled the brake. 'Rules are meant to be broken, right?'

He had been practicing this for quite some time, now. Driving. This was the countryside, so no patrols and little on-road vehicles made it easy to learn. Of course, it was illegal. He was underage. But he had to learn one day or the other, right? And it acted as a consummate distraction from all the suffering he was going through.

Especially to keep his mind off of what Bhoo had said. There's a storm coming.

Like, what the hell, man?

And he wouldn't even explain what he meant by that. Just: brace yourself. From what, you fucking idiot? Avish hadn't called upon Bhoo after that, concluding he was a useless pawn. He won't help him with anything, literally. Avish had never before been this pissed at anyone.

So yes, driving acted a distraction. It wasn't felony if no one knew about it, right?

Besides, he had nothing else to do all day long. No friends there at the new school, which sucked, by the way. Kids there were still behaving like he was a freak, an outsider, and with good reason, too. Since he mostly just kept to himself, fiddling with stuff, unresponsive to teachers. Not scoring in exams, so unlike his older self.

You, my friend, are still stuck up on the past, which is never a good thing for anyone, let alone a fifteen-year-old.

What did he know? What did that bastard know of pain?

Pain was when your erstwhile friends called you and you couldn't even pick up, knowing that if you did, there would be a flood of memories and a flood of tears and . . . Pain, huh? Pain was when you had to delete the contacts of those former friends, erase your playful banter with them from your mind. Knowing that if these were retained, they'd never let go and . . . Pain, eh? Bastard comes to talk of past and pain. What does he know?

Just thinking of Bhoo made Avish clench his fists, and he couldn't not think of him. It was a reflex. Anything happened, and somehow it would relate to Bhoo. He'd see a random person standing outside his school gates and get reminded of Bhoo. He'd see a kid, smiling and savoring an ice-cream, and he'd be reminded. He'd see a fly, a random, goddamn fly, and think of the time Bhoo had caught one with his throat.

Hell, one day he saw this child, in class four, five, maybe, cornered by a bunch of seventh/eight-graders, and he'd think of the Boogies. And he'd miss them. Actually miss the Boogies. At least they had been able to see him. Here, he was invisible. He didn't exist.

The child's eyes had pleaded to him; save me, had said those eyes. Rescue me, please stranger. Tightening his jaw Avish had passed the child. It's for your own good, kiddo. Don't let me give you hope. Don't let anyone. That's just how life is.

There was a girl in his class, a very pretty girl indeed. And whenever Avish looked at her, his brain went on a senseless chant of one word: Radha. Radha. Radha . . .

The similarity was too much. The same almond-colored hair, the same doe eyes, the same sleek torso. It was almost tormenting, how alike they were. She was even popular, like Radha had been. Like Radha was. Even so, the girl was nothing like Radha at all. Her attitude spoke loud and clear, at least to Avish: I'm not interested in conversing with discarded looking freaks like you, Mister.

Yet does the stupid heart ever condone with the sensible heart? Radha, Radha, Radha . . . each hammer against his chest boomed.

At home - grandma's home, he still wasn't used to living in it, never would be - he held his phone in his hands, long and steady, ready to dial Radha. But what would he say? Hey, listen. I'm lonely, I'm miserable, I have zero friends, so will you please talk to me?

There were times when the call would come from the other side, too - from Radha and Roy and Deep and most frequently from Divyam - and joy would deluge his heart. But he never picked up. Bhoo's words always stopped him.

(still stuck up on the past)

And it wasn't like the guy was wrong. There was no point in clutching on. He had to exonerate, he had to let go.

Gosh, he had never been a holding-on type of chap. What can a few months do to people?

As for his mother, she was ostensibly worse than ever. She hadn't gotten over Mom-Senior's death, and likely never would. Bibi's portrait had been added right next to her husband's in the aisle, and Shweta would often sit there, in that recliner on which her mother had died. 'You both enjoying up there?' she'd say, and go on about a ramble, talking shit about how when she'd been little, they'd taken care of her and of that one time she had fallen off the swing and Dad had caught her with those army-reflexes of his and when they had all gone together to that stadium and toddler Shweta had thrown up on a fellow viewer and this and that and that and this.

Antra was back, meanwhile. From her village. She was still sore from her mistress's death. Bibi had done much for her, given her support in times of adversity, both emotional and financial. 'Ee can' imageen wha' ya two-o must feel laeek,' Antra said. 'Aa-ee wasn' even familee and steel feel so . . aa-ee am jus' sorry fah ya loss.'

'Shut up, dimbulb,' Shweta replied. 'You were as much of a family to her as we were. More so, if anything.'

And Antra ended up weeping. She was still a damsel, beautiful as beautiful goes, but even Avish could see she had lost a good chunk of her radiance and euphoria owing to Bibi's demise.

Well, haven't we all.

Shweta was just constantly worried about Avish. She wasn't able to give half as much attention to that boy as she should, but she couldn't even strive to. She could never be a mother like Bibi.

(better than I will ever be you said at the funeral you are a bitch a complete bitch)

'I wish it were me instead of you guys up there,' she'd say to the portraits of her parents. 'Nothing for me here anyways. I'm a good for nothing widow. And a stain in the name of a mother on top of that. Anyhow . . . you remember the time when I was four and spilled tea over your dress, Momma?'

Slowly, but surely, she presumed she was going insane. This is how it starts, isn't it? Well, she supposed, being insane must be better than being a pitiful lone woman.

'I don't know, honey,' she presently said, concern laced into her tone. 'It all seems pretty . . .'

'You trust me, right?' Avish looked straight into her tired eyes. 'I'll go really slow. Besides, there's no traffic in the countryside here. I've been practicing for some time now.'

Shweta nodded meekly, and her son stepped on it.

He drove safe, tenaciously.

'Uh-huh,' Shweta scolded. 'Both hands on the steering.'

('Just sit back and relax, Mom.')

'Slower, honey, you're going too fast.'

('Come on, Mom, if we go any slower than this we might as well go on foot.')

'You drive okay.'

('Told you, Mom. I got this.')

'Watch out, deary!'

('Mom, if you keep doing this every time another vehicle shows up, I'm gonna crash into something.')

('Oops, sorry, honey.')

'Hey, deary, look out!'

('Mom!' Avish was positively vexed by now.)

Apparently, driving was his cup of tea; he was a pretty quick learner, and an efficient one at that. This was fun, to feel the accelerator beneath his foot, to know that at least something in his life could work under his control.

Shweta looked at her son on the driver's seat, eyes struggling to remain happy. That kid. He was never one to show his fragility, not even to his mother. She wondered if he had gotten that from her, since she herself kept quiet for so many years, bearing the torture concocted upon her.

No. Your silence was your weakness; his is his strength.

The expeditious pace of time took her by surprise at moments like this. From a kid afraid of bed-bugs to a solid young man telling his mother not to worry.

Just yesterday, she'd been talking to Mom-Senior. To her portrait, at least.

'It's like . . . he's a mirror-image of his father when I first met him. But he's nothing like him other than looks . . . I hope. He is a brilliant young gentleman and I am grateful to have him as my son. I wish you could say the same about your daughter.'

Antra often caught her talking to the portraits. Shweta didn't take kindly for the looks she would give her, like "you're going mad, miss, gather your marbles".

Shweta asks you: Am I going crazy?

Shweta answers you: Without a doubt.

She closed her eyes presently and rested her pulsating head against the seat. She trusted her son.

Avish sneaked a glance at her. No matter how many dark-circles under her eyes, no matter how many growing creases on her skin, his mother was still beautiful. She always had been.

(you, my friend, are still stuck up on the past)

'Shut up,' Avish muttered, hands tensing on the wheel. He glanced over at his mother, but apparently she hadn't heard him. Or was ignoring it. Every teen must talk to themselves, raging hormones, pretty normal thing to do, isn't -

(which is never a good thing for anyone)

'Shut the hell up,' he whispered, so that Mom wouldn't hear.

She appeared to be very relaxed. Good thing. She rarely ever caught a break, blaming herself for everything and all.

Avish perspired profusely. Slowly, slowly but steadily, Bhoo was creeping into his brain again. As he did on numerous occasions.

(let alone a fifteen-year-old child)

'Not now,' he chanted. 'Not now, not now, please not now.'

But his brain was on as much of a ride as they were. The man in black had infiltrated it, and was not there to leave.

'Please, man, chill, void, curly white smoke-'

Shweta wasn't noticing him. Her eyes were still shut, she was slumped comfortably.

His hands clasped the steering wheel tightly, sweat greasing the contact. At this rate he'd crash into something, but his muscles were frozen and he couldn't apply the brakes.

'-rising up to your chest as you inhale and-'

(brave yourself)

What had Bhoo meant?

Does it matter what he meant? Just fucking drive, man.

No, Bhoo never said anything without meaning. So. What. Had. He. Meant.

'-turning into pure stark energy as you exhale.'

He was messing with you. That's all he ever does.

No. That had never been the case.

(there's a storm coming)

What storm? What's going to happen?

'Just shut up . . .'

(it's good that he saw her go)

Saw whom go?

Grandma. You lost her didn't you? You saw her go.

(but he is still not prepared, is he)

Prepared for what, dammit?!

'Don't overthink it, void your brain, void it . . . yes . . .'

His feet were shaking. His chest was wheezing. His face was red. He felt like puking.

Just like that sick driver who had almost killed his mother back then. The taste of bile ascended his pipe, and he was absurdly certain he would puke. Just like that driver had, on Dhruv's shoes.

(the death of your grandma was something you had to see avish)

Fuck why?

(it was something you needed to see in order to brace for the not-so-humble future)

Why, what happens in my future? What did that bastard mean? WHY CAN HE NEVER BE STRAIGHTFORWARD GODDAMMIT?!

'Don't overthink it.'

He closed his eyes for a moment, a bare moment, even as his foot on the accelerator shuddered and his grip on the steering slipped.

Neither mother nor son heard the launch of the unmistakable thunderous drone of a large vehicle approaching.

It's here, ladies and gentlemen.
The storm.