“Look at you, you ungrateful boy. Your mother cries herself to sleep every night, and you’re off roaming the world. Huh. Men.”
“They say you’ve forgotten us. That you’ve become a different person. But I know you, Saras. You’re still the man who wrote poetry on my palm in the rain. Come back. Please.”
“You will not marry Kumud. I have arranged your alliance with the Desai family. You will obey me!”
Saraswatichandra buys a single ticket to Mumbai. A stranger asks, “Going home?”
“Then come inside and take me with it.”