Chapter Forty-Two: Count of Every Bottle

Breathing with relief, she put her phone down, tears still streaming down her face. She had just finished talking with Mumma Kohli, and it felt like she was five years old again, running away on a rocky road and scraping her knees. Instead of comforting her, her mother scolded her for running on the rocky road. But isn't that what makes you an Indian child? She wouldn't lie—it felt so good. The stoic demeanour she had maintained melted away when she saw her mother on the other end of the screen. When Mumma Kohli saw her face, her hands flew to her mouth, and instead of crying, she scolded her first, saying, "You're going to get some beating when you come home." That was all it took, and both of them broke down. How could they not? Three years without seeing or hearing each other would surely do that, especially when the fault was someone else's and the suffering was theirs.

The conversation had been brief but laden with emotion. They had both suffered, but now, hearing her mother's familiar scolding, it was like a balm to her wounded soul.

She remembered the countless nights she had cried herself to sleep, longing for the comforting presence of her family. The isolation had been unbearable at times, but pride and circumstances had kept her from reaching out. Now, all those barriers seemed trivial. The only thing that mattered was that they were talking again.

She glanced around her room, the walls echoing with the silence that had been her companion for so long. It was time to go home. The thought of returning to her mother's embrace, even if it came with a few scoldings, filled her with warmth and anticipation. She knew the journey back wouldn't be easy; there would be explanations and bridges to rebuild. But she was ready.

Standing up after the call, she moved toward the treasure locker in her room. Every time she made a new batch of wine, she would keep the first bottle for herself, letting it sit for a month in case she needed to drown her sorrows. If she didn't need it after a month, she would sell it to the locals. Despite the temptation, she had never touched those bottles; her anger and sense of betrayal had always been enough to maintain her stoic demeanour. But now, after the call with her mother, that stoicism had faded away.

She opened the locker and brought out her favourite lychee-flavored wine. Uncorking it, she took a deep breath before gulping down half the bottle in one go. She needed to revive the anger and betrayal to keep herself composed, but little did she know, it would only bring her old self back.

As the warmth of the wine spread through her body, memories began to flood back—memories of a time when she was full of life and hope, before the misunderstandings and separation. She could feel the layers of bitterness and resentment peeling away, revealing the person she used to be. The laughter, the dreams, the love for her family—all those feelings she had buried deep inside started to resurface.

The wine had done its job, but not in the way she had intended. Instead of reinforcing her walls, it was breaking them down, making her realize how much she had missed and how ready she was to embrace her past. She sat down, the bottle still in hand, and allowed herself to feel everything—the pain, the regret, but also the love and the hope for a better future.

She knew now that returning home wasn't just about facing her family; it was about reclaiming herself, the person she had lost in the years of anger and isolation. The call with her mother had been the first step, and now, with the taste of lychee wine on her lips, she felt ready to take the next steps toward healing and reconciliation.

She shook her head, trying to dispel the confusing emotions. No, only her niece, sister-in-law, and mother deserved to see Nehmat's old self again—not her brother and ex-lover. They were the reason for all her pain. How could she let them back into her heart after everything they had done? Her drunk mind, still capable of some rational thought, decided she needed fresh air to clear her head.

Stumbling slightly, she moved out of her room, looking left and right to see if anyone was awake. She didn't want anyone to see her like this. Swaying, she made her way to the stairs that led to the terrace. Her hands gripped the railing tightly, making sure she didn't fall like Humpty Dumpty. If she did, the whole house would wake up, and she'd be so embarrassed that she'd have to leave the country again. Has it ever been mentioned that the world's largest winemaker has little tolerance for alcohol? It seems almost ironic, doesn't it? Yet here she stands, on her stairs, grappling with the effects of a half bottle. It's a curious juxtaposition—the connoisseur of wine, known for her expertise, finding herself in a state of inebriation. But perhaps it's precisely because of her deep understanding of wine that she knows its power all too well. It's a reminder that even the most knowledgeable among us can still succumb to its allure.

Luckily, she made it to the terrace. Swinging the door open, she squinted as the lights were already on. For a moment, she was disoriented by the brightness. As her eyes adjusted, she saw the familiar setting of the terrace. The night air was cool, and it helped clear her foggy mind. She took a deep breath, feeling the slight chill sober her up bit by bit.

A few steps ahead, as she made her way towards the swing on the terrace, she spotted him sitting there, casually taking swigs of wine and rocking back and forth. She couldn't help but groan inwardly. Did he have to be everywhere? Determined not to let his presence deter her, she moved forward. After all, it was her house, and his mere presence wouldn't stop her from going anywhere.

With a pout, she settled herself on the other end of the swing, pointedly ignoring him. However, her actions didn't go unnoticed; his gaze turned in her direction. She pretended not to notice, focusing instead on her own drink. Despite her resolve, her drunk mind seemed to have forgotten that she wasn't supposed to be drinking anymore.

As she took another sip, she glanced around the terrace, noticing that all the lights were on. With a sigh, she spoke up, her voice tinged with irritation, "Switch all of them off, except the swing. You gotta pay money for it." It was a small act of defiance, a way to assert her control over the situation, even in her slightly intoxicated state.

As they swung forward, he managed to switch off the lights with his leg, the switches conveniently located on the wall. With each swing, his bottle came into view for Nehmat. Narrowing her eyes, she read the label and asked sharply, "Did you pay for it?"

Shubman glanced down at the bottle, then back at her, shaking his head. Nehmat huffed, "Nothing comes free here."

Shubman opened his mouth to explain how Evelyn had let him have it, but Nehmat cut him off with a stern voice, "That would be 150 CHF."

Shubman's eyebrows furrowed, and he pouted. "I'll give you the money right now, but I don't have my phone on me."

Nehmat crossed her arms, her expression unyielding. "That's not my problem," she replied. "You know the rules."

Shubman sighed, looking around the terrace as if hoping to find an ally in the empty space. "Can't you just put it on my tab?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

Nehmat's eyes narrowed further. "Either pay up or put the bottle down."

Shubman groaned, reluctantly setting the bottle on the small table beside the swing. "Fine, I'll get the money in the morning."

Nehmat nodded, satisfied. "Good. And don't think you can get away with it again."

For a moment, they sat in silence, the gentle rocking of the swing the only sound between them. Nehmat took another sip from her own bottle, feeling a mix of irritation and satisfaction. Despite the tension, there was something oddly comforting about the familiar confrontation.

"Why are you always like this?" Shubman finally muttered, breaking the silence.

She ignored him, staring out into the night, her mind racing. The alcohol was making it hard to maintain her usual defenses, and she felt her emotions bubbling closer to the surface. She wasn't ready to deal with him, not now.

Shubman sighed, sensing her reluctance. "You know, it's been three years. Can't we just talk?"

Shubman shifted uncomfortably, taking another look at Nehmat. "I miss the old you, Nehmat. The one who didn't shut me out."

Her words cut through her like a knife. She clenched her jaw, willing herself to stay composed. "The old me is gone," she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He looked at her, his expression softening. "I don't believe that. She's still there, somewhere. I just want to make things right."

Nehmat shook her head, anger stinging her eyes. "You can't just waltz back into my life and expect everything to be okay. It's not that simple."

Anger surged within him, frustration boiling over at her resistance. "Why not?" he snapped, his voice laced with bitterness. "I'm trying here, Nehmat. Can't you see that? Can't you see how much I regret what happened?"

Her gaze hardened her resolve firm. "Regret isn't enough," she countered, her voice trembling with emotion. "You hurt me, Gill. You broke my trust, and I can't just forget that."

He clenched his fists, struggling to contain his rising anger. "I know," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "But I'm not the same person I was back then. I've changed, Nehmat. Can't you give me a chance to prove it?"

She looked at him, her eyes searching his for any hint of sincerity. For a moment, she wavered, torn between her lingering pain and the flicker of hope within her heart. But then she remembered all the promises he had broken, all the lies he had told, and her resolve hardened once more.

"I can't," she said firmly, her voice steady despite the turmoil raging within her. "Not now, maybe not ever."

His anger surged, hotter and fiercer than ever before. How dare she reject him again? After all he had done, after all he had promised to change? He felt a flash of resentment towards her, towards the unfairness of it all. Didn't she see how much he was trying? How hard it was for him to admit his faults, to beg for forgiveness?

"I can't believe you," he spat out, his voice trembling with frustration. "After everything I've done to make things right, you still won't give me a chance? You're just going to throw it all away?"

Nehmat met his gaze head-on, her expression unwavering. "I'm not throwing anything away," she retorted, her voice steady despite the storm brewing within her. "I'm protecting myself. I can't keep letting you hurt me, Gill. I have to put myself first for once."

His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms as he fought to contain the rage boiling inside him. "You're being selfish," he accused, his tone laced with bitterness. "You're letting your own hurt blind you to the fact that I'm trying to change, that I'm not the same person I used to be."

Nehmat shook her head, her resolve unwavering. "I wish I could believe you," she admitted, her voice tinged with sadness. "But actions speak louder than words, Gill. And yours have spoken volumes."

Nehmat remained undeterred as Shubman picked her up by the arm, her gaze steady and unyielding. He pulled her closer, his hand moving to cradle the back of her neck as he murmured against her lips, "Before I do anything, I want to let you know I am divorced."

Nehmat smirked in response, her demeanour unfazed. "Then happy freedom to you," she quipped, her words laced with a hint of sarcasm.

"So, you won't mind if I kiss you?" Shubman asked, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

Nehmat's smirk widened, her confidence unshaken. "I won't mind," she replied coolly, "but boy, I won't even feel anything too if you're trying to prove something."

Her words seemed to trigger something in Shubman, a surge of frustration and desire coursing through him. Without another word, he leaned in and pressed his lips against hers, a mixture of longing and defiance in the kiss

As their intoxicated selves surrendered to the kiss, it was as if a whirlwind of sensations enveloped them. Nehmat, who had initially claimed she wouldn't feel anything, found herself pleasantly surprised as butterflies fluttered in her stomach, reminiscent of the first time she had seen the 6'1 Punjabi munda bowing to the crowd at her stand.

Sensing Nehmat's response, Shubman pulled her even closer, his embrace becoming more fervent. He dipped his face down, deepening the kiss with a newfound intensity. For a moment, it felt as though time had stopped, and all that existed was the electric connection between them.

Their lips moved in a desperate dance, fueled by desire and the intoxicating effects of alcohol. Each touch ignited a fire within them, a passion that seemed to consume everything in its path.

He deepened the kiss with newfound intensity, their lips moving in a desperate dance fueled by desire and the lingering taste of lychee wine.

As their tongues intertwined, they could taste the sweet tang of lychee flavouring each other's lips, a reminder of the indulgence they had shared earlier. The sensation was dizzying, sending waves of pleasure coursing through them, but also leaving them breathless and wanting more.

Their breathing grew ragged as they parted, both of them caught in the aftermath of their impulsive actions. Shubman's eyes remained closed, lost in the moment, while Nehmat looked at him with a mixture of desire and determination. She couldn't let him win, couldn't let herself be swept away by emotions she had long buried.

Taking a deep breath to regain her composure, Nehmat muttered softly, her voice barely above a whisper, "That three bottles of wine would be 54888 rupees."

Shubman's eyes flew open at her words. Did she really not feel anything? He searched her face for any sign of emotion, but her expression remained impassive, giving nothing away. Was she truly unaffected by their kiss, or was she simply trying to maintain her composure in the face of their undeniable chemistry?

As Nehmat stepped away from his grasp, he watched her closely, trying to discern any hint of her true feelings. But her expression remained unreadable, her demeanour composed and collected.

"Pay me by morning," she stated firmly, her voice cutting through the tension. "I need to have a count of every bottle."