Page 20 of Okay Boss
Home.
The smell of frying onions hit her first. Then her mother, Asha’s voice: “Is that you, Divya? Wash your hands, food is almost ready.”
She slipped off her chappals at the door and stepped inside.
The warmth wrapped around her instantly.
Two and a half rooms that held her entire childhood. Living room that doubled as her father’s domain. Kitchen that was her mother’s kingdom. The tiny shared bathroom. The space that had once been the dining area but now served as her “room”, just enough for a bed, desk, and shelf of books. And her parents’ bedroom, the most private space in their modest territory.
Suresh Mathur, her father. His presence announced itself through rustling newspaper pages. Only his hands were visible behind The Times of India. His ritual hadn’t changed in the eleven years since his health forced early retirement from the bank. The paper served as his window to a world that had moved on without him, and his shield from a home that sometimes felt too small.
Aditya sprawled across the sofa, engineering textbooks scattered around him. At twenty-one, he still studied the way he had in school, messy, dramatic, somehow effective. He’d come home from his hostel for the weekend specifically to interrogate his sister about her glamorous new job.
The moment she entered, his head snapped up. Textbook abandoned.
“Finally! I’ve been waiting for hours.” He jumped up as if she’d returned from war. “So? What was he like today?”
Divya dropped her bag on the small side table. Leather hit plastic with a tired thud. “Let me breathe first.”
“You’re breathing.” He trailed behind her toward the kitchen. “Just tell me one thing. Was he wearing that blue jacket from the Dazzle shoot? Siddharth swears it was edited to look that good.”
Her head pounded. The weight of the day pressed against her temples. She’d spent fourteen hours being efficient and alert.
Home was supposed to mean she could stop.
“Your sister is not a gossip column,” her father said without lowering the newspaper. “She’s there to work.”
The pages shifted as he turned to the business section. That sound had filled every evening of her childhood. Rustle. Fold. Adjust glasses. Repeat.
“But Baba, she works with Vikram Khanna,” Aditya argued. “She must have something interesting to say.”
“I don’t.” Divya moved toward the kitchen. “I manage his schedule. I’m not hanging out with him.”
She stepped into the narrow space.
Small enough that two people had to negotiate carefully. Steam rose from the stove. Her mother stirred dal with one hand and, without looking up, touched Divya’s forehead with the other.
“Long day?” her mother asked quietly.
“Hmm.”
“Wash your hands. Food is ready. I made lauki.”
Divya nodded. Lauki again. Her supposed favorite. She had never corrected that myth.
“Adi, bring the plates,” her mother called.
“But Maa…”
“The plates.”
Aditya shuffled in, muttering, squeezing past them to reach the cabinet. Their shoulders brushed in the tight space.
For a moment, Divya felt the contrast sharply.
Vanity vans bigger than this entire kitchen. Studio floors where voices echoed. Hotel conference rooms with polished marble.
And here were chipped tiles, steel utensils, a flickering tube light.
