Hitansh stood looking at the rundown house. He might be foolish and sentimental, but for him, this would always be home. The peeling paint, the exposed bricks couldn't detract from the rush of warmth that filled his insides. It was like sipping a hot, comforting cup of tea in the morning, a relaxing drink to unwind in the evening. The tree in the backyard where they had fought and made up, stood dried up now. He and Ishani. For a moment, he was tempted to walk away. Surely, he couldn't risk it all over again. Risk feeling again...
Read an Excerpt from Our Right Time
The clouds were just turning silver at the edges as the sun prepared to sink towards the horizon when he drove up to the house in the rental car.
He might be foolish and sentimental – hell, was there any doubt about it – but for him, this would always be Home. The exposed bricks, the peeling paint, the general air of a rundown place…none of the facts could detract from the rush of warmth that filled his insides as he stood looking at it. It was like sipping a hot, comforting cup of tea in the morning, a relaxing drink to unwind in the evening.
Viewed objectively, it seemed a bad proposition. Hitansh began to walk around it, his black leather boots making crunching sounds over gravel yet, easily covering the muddy areas of the neglected yard. Extensive work would be needed. It looked like the previous owners had just let it go.
But there were spots of beauty – the filigree latticework on the parapet, the neatly laid arches over the windows, the red brick exterior. He would retain all those features. The parapet coping needed repair. He made a mental note of it. Pity the cassia tree in the backyard had dried up. He would plant another. When they had a disagreement, she would make a chain of the bright, yellow flowers and present it to him. They had their ways of making up, mostly silly ones.
They. He and Ishani.
She’d used to make flowery ornaments out of those flowers too. It had been all too easy for her to come here. From where he stood in the backyard, he could see the edge of Mr. Bose's property, marked by the thick spreading branches of a banyan tree. He ought to have seen also the edge of the upper storey balcony, but now that view was gone. The skyline had altered because of some construction the other neighbors got done. He’d used to cut through the barren ground, now quite overgrown, that lay between the houses and vault over Mr. Bose’s boundary wall when he would be in a hurry to meet her. She usually scolded him the owners of the yard would catch him for trespassing. He had laughed it off. He didn’t care. A few minutes were mostly all he had to spare between getting the kids lunch and then going off to his evening job, so he had to make the best of them while meeting her.
Even back then he’d known in his mind that he wouldn’t marry her, not with the kids in tow, so to speak, but he had indulged himself, discarded the looming thoughts of future and lived for the moment when he was with her.
About the Author:
Summerita Rhayne writes contemporary and historical romance with lots of emotional conflict. She first got published in 2013 and has won contests with prestigious publishers such as Harlequin and Harper Collins India. She has found, if the inspiration is strong enough, the story characters will find a way to make the writer pen them down, even when writing time is in short supply.
At heart, she's a family person and also loves her teaching profession. She loves to bury her nose in classics especially Jane Austen novels, though she’s currently picking up courage to read Beowulf. She’s not good at it, but loves to play chess.
At heart, she's a family person and also loves her teaching profession. She loves to bury her nose in classics especially Jane Austen novels, though she’s currently picking up courage to read Beowulf. She’s not good at it, but loves to play chess.
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