Chapter 4: Night in the Cowshed

I got along well with Arjun, even seeing him off personally when he left our bungalow.

He was reluctant to part, and we promised to meet again.

I gladly agreed.

Then I asked the househelp, "Has that Kabir boy been sent to the cowshed?"

He confirmed it, and I smiled. "Don’t give him dinner. Prepare a late-night snack; I’ll deliver it myself tonight."

Late at night, I carried a tiffin box to find Kabir.

Kabir was chewing grass in boredom. When he saw me, he stood up quickly, but his eyes were wary.

I pretended not to notice and smiled. "Kabir, are you all right?"

He turned away stubbornly. "You already know, Didi. What’s the point asking?"

Just then, his stomach growled.

I handed him the tiffin. "Actually, I have a favour to ask."

He turned, mocking, "Even you need favours?"

I sighed. "That fledgling was returned to the nest, but maybe it smells of humans now—it’s crying from hunger. The mother bird circled a few times but won’t come back."

I said, "Kabir, any ideas?"

He fell silent. I shook my head. "Its voice is already weak. I’m afraid it won’t make it through the night."

I pushed the tiffin toward him. "Never mind, Kabir, eat. I’ll go ask the others in the cowshed."

The househelp whispered, "Didi, please eat before you go. You’ve been busy all night and haven’t eaten a bite."

Kabir asked, "Why aren’t you eating?"

I smiled. "I wanted to invite you, but it’s too late now. I’ll go hungry with you."

Seeing his hesitation, I smiled again. "Are you inviting me to eat together?"

He awkwardly handed me the food. "You eat, then."

I settled cross-legged on the haystack beside him, eating from the same dabba with my spoon.

He was stunned, but soon joined in without further politeness.

The earthy smell of gobar and the distant clang of a bell from the temple drifted in as we ate. There wasn’t much food, but sharing it made it taste special. Kabir kept glancing at me, but I just ate, perfectly at ease.

After eating, he wiped his mouth. "I’ll go check on the bird for you."

I smiled. "No rush. Have you seen my black Marwari horse?"

Kabir’s eyes lit up. "That horse is yours?"

I nodded. "Speaking of horses, your mother, Mrs. Singh, is famous for judging them."

He laughed. "Yes, my mother loves horses. I only know a little, but I can tell your horse will be a fine steed."

After some idle chat, Kabir let down his guard and took me as a confidant.

In the morning mist, I rode with him in the park, his laughter waking the sleeping birds.

When we parted, I handed him the Marwari’s reins. "Take care of it for me. A man should have ambitions beyond the city—take it to see the world."

Kabir was stunned as I turned and left, still staring at me in a daze.

The cowshed, with its earthy smells and sleepy cows, felt like a world apart from the echoing marble halls of our bungalow. As we shared the meal, I watched Kabir’s guard crumble—he wiped his nose with the back of his hand and grinned sheepishly. The night air was filled with the humming of crickets, and the moonlight cast our shadows long and thin on the straw. That night, a bond was formed, not of power or rivalry, but of silent understanding.