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"Devika ji, sham ki chai milegi ya fir hum apni saali sahiba Nayantara ke ghar nikal jaun?" [Devika ji, will I get my evening tea, or should I head over to my dear sister-in-law Nayantara's house?]

Anurag Tripathi's voice drifts through the living room, carrying the lightheartedness of someone who knows exactly how far he can push his teasing.

He adjusts the strap of his wristwatch with care, his gaze briefly flickering over the page of an open accounting book on the desk, though his mind has wandered far from the columns of numbers.

"Aur humare chashme kahaan hain? Apne fir se idhar-udhar rakh diye kya?" [And where are my glasses? Did you misplace them again?]

In the kitchen, Devika turns the cooker of dal off,  with an almost meditative calm, the soft hiss of whistle filling the gaps in conversation.

Her saree's pallu is tucked neatly into her waist, but it slips slightly as she reaches for the small steel box of shakkar, her hands moving with the ease of years spent perfecting this evening routine. Her lips press into a faint smile at his words, but she doesn't look up.

"Chaliye, jaiye Nayantara ke ghar, uske haathon ki kam shakkar, kam doodh aur teez sauf wali chai pee lijiye," [Go ahead, visit Nayantara's house. Enjoy her tea with less sugar, less milk, and extra fennel seeds.] Devika replies, her tone carrying the perfect balance of sarcasm and affection that years of companionship have taught her.

She stirs the sugar into the chai, the faint aroma wafting through the kitchen and curling into the living room, where Anurag sits.

Her hand briefly brushes her forehead to tuck back a stray lock of hair, her focus still on the bubbling chai, though her ears are tuned to his next response.

Anurag leans back in his chair, tapping his pen lightly on the open ledger in front of him. A faint smile plays on his lips as he pictures the aforementioned tea—an almost medicinal brew Nayantara insists is "healthy."

"Arre Devika ji, uski chai toh bas naam ki hoti hai. Chai woh hoti hai jo aap banati hain—jo ek sip mein tript kar de!" [Oh, come now, Devika ji, her tea is barely worth the name. Real tea is the one you make—the kind that makes me enlightened with a single sip!] he counters, a touch of exaggeration in his voice, his words as much a compliment as they are a way to keep the banter alive.

Devika doesn't respond immediately. Instead, she picks up the pot and tilts it carefully over two cups, the chai flowing smoothly, the sound steady, filling the small gap of silence.

"Bas bas, baatein banana toh aapko aata hai," [You're good at making up words, I'll give you that.] she finally says, carrying the tray with the three cups into the living room.

She places one cup near him with practiced ease, ensuring the saucer doesn't clatter too loudly against the table, one on the table, and takes the other for herself as she settles onto the sofa opposite him.

"Waise," she begins, blowing gently over the rim of her cup before taking a tentative sip, "Adarsh ke exam ka schedule dekha? Ek din bhi chain ka nahi hai is bechare ko." [Have you seen Adarsh's exam schedule? The poor thing doesn't even get a single day to relax.]

Anurag takes a slow sip of his chai, the warmth spreading through him as he sets the cup down. "Dekha hai," [I saw it.] he says, his tone thoughtful now, "Aur kal raat ko uska chehra bhi dekha tha. Bechara, itni tension le raha tha jaise UPSC ka paper likhne jaa raha ho." [And last night, I also saw his face—he was so stressed you'd think he was preparing for a UPSC exam.]

"Hum yahi pe baitha hai," [I'm sitting right here, you know.] Adarsh mutters from the floor, not looking up from the math notebook he's meticulously writing on.

His CBSE Class 11 chemistry textbook lies sprawled next to him, pages fluttering slightly under the ceiling fan's breeze.

There's a faint crease of concentration on his forehead as he adjusts the pencil in his hand, his voice carrying the resigned tone of someone used to being discussed in absentia despite being very much present.

Devika leans back into the sofa, letting the warmth of the tea cup seep into her hands as she fixes her son with a pointed look, her expression somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

"Toh kya hua, Adarsh babu? Apne syllabus pe dhyan do. Kitni baar bola hai ki agar koi sawal ho toh Siya se phone pe poochh liya karo. Lekin nahi, tabhi toh apko apni badi didi se apne liye naye gifts ki baatein karni hoti hai," [So what, Adarsh? Focus on your syllabus. How many times have I told you to call your sister Siya if you have doubts? But no, you only call her to talk about new gifts you want!] she says, her voice carrying that distinct tone every mother reserves for when she's calling out her child but isn't entirely serious.

Adarsh sighs deeply, his shoulders slumping slightly as he straightens his back and returns his attention to the math notebook in front of him. The pencil hovers over the page, uncertain, as if waiting for the right moment to land.

After a pause, he finally speaks up, his voice a little defeated, "Maa, didi itni busy rehti hai ki hum unhe kaise tang karein? Pichli baar phone kiya tha toh do minute baad hi unhe meeting keliye jana tha." [Maa, Didi is so busy. How can I bother her? The last time I called, she had to leave for a meeting within two minutes.]

Devika shifts in her seat, her elbow resting casually on the arm of the sofa, her gaze soft yet knowing. She watches her son for a moment before responding with that familiar mixture of affection and mild exasperation.

"Acha? Aur aap kya poochte the? Homework ke baare mein tha ya phir woh naye sneakers ke baare mein?" [Oh? And what did you want to ask her? Was it about homework or those new sneakers you were eyeing?] she asks, raising an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.

Adarsh's eyes drop to the floor, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his notebook as a faint blush spreads up his neck, the kind that comes when you know you've been thoroughly caught.

Devika leans back against the sofa, her tea cup cradled in her hands, while Anurag simply raises his eyebrows, exchanging a glance with her that speaks of years of shared understanding—the kind that only comes from raising a child together and knowing exactly how predictable he can be.

They've seen this little routine play out more times than they can count.

It's always the same. Adarsh will call Siya, start with the usual concern—"Didi, aap kaisi ho?" [Didi, how are you?]—then slowly steer the conversation towards some new gadget or trend he's discovered. Before long, a package will arrive, bearing exactly what he had been eyeing.

Siya has never been able to say no to him, spoiling him in ways Devika often teases are "bad for his discipline" but secretly finds endearing. After all, how could she not? Siya had practically raised him alongside Devika.

She was just six when Adarsh came into their lives, a tiny baby with a loud wail and an even louder presence. Devika still remembers how Siya had insisted on naming him, poring over name books as if she were choosing the most important word in the world.

"Adarsh," she'd finally announced, with all the authority of a six-year-old who had just learned what the word meant. And from that moment on, she had taken her role as "Didi" very seriously—too seriously, sometimes.

Devika smiles to herself at the memory, the rim of the cup warm against her lips as she takes a slow sip of chai, her gaze settling on Adarsh, who is now scribbling furiously in his notebook, perhaps to divert attention from his embarrassment.

She can't help but think how funny it is—this rhythm of their family. Siya, halfway across the world, still manages to spoil him, while Adarsh, despite all his teenage bravado, clings to her approval like it's the most precious thing in his life. And in some ways, it is.

"Tension mat lo," [Don't worry.] Anurag says, his voice steady, as he leans forward, adjusting his glasses in that methodical way that somehow makes him seem more serious than the moment actually demands.

The coffee table before him is strewn with accounting books and bills, the kind of clutter he insists is "organized," though it makes Devika roll her eyes every time she passes by.

He doesn't pause in his calculations, his pen moving with a rhythmic scratch against the paper, as he adds, "Jo bhi problem ho, Siya se poochh lena. Humari beti aapke saare maths ke sawaal ek hi baar mein nipta dengi. Oxford se padhi hai, CBSE ke questions toh uske liye bas timepass hain." [If there's any problem, just ask Siya. my daughter studied at Oxford—CBSE math questions are like a pastime for her!]

Devika sits on the sofa, and watches him with that expression only wives seem to master—amusement, affection, and just a hint of exasperation at the way he can't help but bring Siya into every conversation.

She doesn't say a word; she doesn't need to. She knows how her husband is when it comes to their daughter. Siya isn't just his eldest; she's his pride, his proof to the world that all those late nights and sacrifices they made as a young couple were worth it.

It's not that she minds. She has long understood how deeply Anurag's pride for Siya runs—how much it means to him that their little girl, the one who used to sit cross-legged on the kitchen floor counting pebbles while he taught tuition classes at the dining table, has grown into someone others admire.

She knows other teachers at school, during lunch, gather around with their steel tiffin boxes, asking him about Siya as if she's a subject worth studying.

"Tripathi ji ki beti itni badi company ki head hai" [Tripathi ji's daughter is the head of such a big company.] they say, and she can picture the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he gives a modest nod, though inside, she knows his heart must swell with quiet joy.

It's not boasting—it's gratitude. Gratitude for the little girl who used to ask him endless questions about the world, who now commands boardrooms and holds her own in a world much bigger than the one they had imagined for her.

Devika sips her chai, her eyes lingering on the way he adjusts his glasses every few minutes, a habit that seems more about organizing his thoughts than improving his vision. She doesn't interrupt him.

She doesn't need to. Anurag doesn't talk about Siya to show off—he talks about her because, even now, years after she's left home, she's woven into everything he does.

Every account he tallies, every math problem he solves with his students, every cup of chai he shares with her on evenings like this—Siya is always somewhere in his thoughts, as if her absence from the house has only made her presence stronger in their lives.

And Devika knows better than anyone else how much of his heart belongs to that little girl who used to tug at his kurta, demanding to be lifted onto his shoulders.

Siya, who once fell asleep with her tiny arms wrapped around his neck as he carried her home from the market. Siya, who outgrew his shoulders but never his expectations.

Proof that all those evenings spent tutoring kids for extra money, all the compromises, all the times they counted coins to make sure they could send her to the best school, weren't for nothing.

Anurag's voice pulls her back. "Waise," he begins, leaning back slightly and stretching his arms, his pen tucked behind his ear like a true babu of old habit, "Siya ka janam din aa raha hai, yaad hai na apko, Devika ji?" [By the way, Devika ji, Siya's birthday is coming up. Do you remember?]

Devika smirks faintly, her voice slipping into that casual tone she uses when she knows what he's trying to get at but wants to make him say it anyway. "Maa hai uske. Humne hi paida kiya hai. Hume nahi pata hoga toh kisko pata hoga?" [I'm her mother. I gave birth to her. If I don't remember, who will?]

Anurag doesn't respond immediately, but the slight shift in his posture tells her he's about to say something else, probably about what Siya might like for her birthday this year or whether they should plan something special even though she's too far away to come home.

Devika knows him well enough to predict this, but she doesn't interrupt. She simply watches him over the rim of her cup, waiting, her own thoughts drifting to memories of Siya's birthdays when she was little—of balloons tied to the chairs in their small dining room, of homemade kheer that always had just a little too much sugar because Siya liked it that way, of Anurag teaching her how to calculate the angles of a paper kite while the other children ran around the yard.

The clock on the wall ticks softly, its rhythm blending into the faint hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional scratching of Anurag's pen against his notebook.

Her chai is almost finished now, but she doesn't get up to refill it. Instead, she lets her gaze linger on the calendar hanging crooked on the wall just above the TV cabinet.

November 19.

A month from today. Siya's birthday. Devika sighs, her lips curving into the faintest smile as she thinks about the last time Siya was home for her birthday.

It had been years ago, but the memory is clear—the aroma of fresh marigold garlands Anurag insisted on buying, the old but polished silver thali they used for the pooja, and Siya laughing so hard at her father's off-key rendition of 'Baar Baar Din Ye Aaye' that she nearly dropped the laddu he'd handed her.

Anurag's voice pulls her back into the present. "Soch raha tha," [I was thinking,] he says, leaning back in his chair and adjusting his glasses as he speaks, "iss baar Siya ke liye kuch special bhejna chahiye." [we should send something special for Siya this time.]

There's a touch of pride in his tone, but also a hint of that nervous energy he gets when he's trying to decide whether his ideas will land well.

Devika sets her cup down on the side table, the empty glass making a soft clink against the wood. She tilts her head slightly, not looking at him directly but enough to show she's listening.

"Special toh theek hai," [Something special sounds fine,] she says, her tone light but thoughtful, "par kya bhejenge? Woh toh wahan sab kuch khud le sakti hai." [but what will we send? She can buy everything herself over there.]

It's a simple statement, but Anurag knows her well enough to catch the unspoken suggestion in her words.

He leans forward now, resting his elbows on the table as if the shift in posture might help him think better. "Haan, sab kuch toh le sakti hai," [Yes, she can buy anything,] he agrees, tapping the edge of his notebook with the back of his pen.

Sending something isn't the same as being there, and as much as Siya might appreciate a lovingly packed box of homemade sweets, it won't fill the space she's left behind in their home.

Devika feels the ache of that space more keenly with each passing year, especially on days like this—birthdays, anniversaries, festivals—when the silence of the house feels louder, stretching to fill corners once warmed by Siya's laughter.

The thought of another birthday passing without her daughter at the dining table gnaws at her, the way only a mother's heart can ache for the child she no longer sees every day.

Devika's voice, when it comes, is soft but deliberate, cutting through the rhythm of Anurag's tapping pen. "Aapko lagta hai," she begins, carefully weighing her words as if testing their strength, "Siya ko yeh mithai ka dabba khush karega?" [Do you think a box of sweets will really make Siya happy?]

She glances at him now, her tone neither accusing nor doubting, but thoughtful in that way only she can manage, as if inviting him to step out of his neatly outlined plans and look beyond the obvious answer.

Anurag stops tapping, the pen still in his hand as he looks up at her, his brow furrowing slightly—not in irritation, but in thought. "Toh?" [Then?] he asks, his tone careful, cautious, like someone navigating unfamiliar terrain.

Devika leans back slightly, folding her arms across her lap as her gaze shifts to the calendar on the wall again. "Toh," [Then,] she echoes softly, her voice carrying the weight of years gone by, "kyun na is baar usse ghar bulane ki koshish karein? Itne saal ho gaye uska birthday humare saath nahi mana." [why don't we try inviting her home this time? It's been so many years since she celebrated her birthday with us.]

She pauses, her voice steady now, gaining a quiet conviction. "Woh London mein hai, theek hai, busy hai, woh bhi theek hai... par kab tak? Kab tak yeh sab chalta rahega?" [She's in London, fine. She's busy, fine too. But for how long? How long will this continue?]

Anurag sighs, the kind of long, drawn-out breath that comes when a person knows there's truth in what's being said but isn't sure how to respond. He sets the pen down, his fingers brushing against the edge of his notebook absently.

"Bulane ki koshish toh har saal karte hain, Devika ji," [We try to invite her every year, Devika ji,] he says, his voice tinged with the kind of resignation only a father can feel. "Par woh hamesha kaam ka bahana bana deti hai." [But she always makes work an excuse.]

"Kaam toh sab karte hain," [Everyone works,] she says, her tone softer now, as if trying to cushion the words so they don't hurt more than they should. "Par ghar wapas aane ka mann hona chahiye, Anurag ji. Aapne usse kabhi puchha ki woh itna door kyun reh gayi hai?" [but you need to want to come home, Anurag ji. Have you ever asked her why she stays so far away?]

Anurag looks up, his gaze unfocused, as though searching for an answer somewhere on the discolored wall in front of him.

He doesn't say anything at first, just exhales slowly, the sound stretching across the silence between them. His hand moves to the edge of the table, his fingers tracing the smooth, worn-out wood, a habit born from years of restless thinking.

"Puchhne ki zarurat hai, Devika ji?" [Is there a need to ask, Devika ji?] he says finally, his voice steady but low, like a man convincing himself as much as the person in front of him.

"Woh humari beti hai. Jab mann karega, aayegi. Shaayad kuch hai jo usse roke hue hai, par uska apna faisla hoga. Hum... bas intezaar kar sakte hai." [She's my daughter. She'll come when she wants to. Maybe there's something holding her back, but that's her choice. All we can do is wait.]

Devika's eyes narrow, but not in anger—more in that way mothers do when they're trying to decide whether to argue or let it go. She sets the cup down on the table carefully, as though making a decision.

"Anurag ji," Devika says again, her voice slipping into that tone she's used more times than she can count. The one that's just the right amount of coaxing, laced with a bit of authority, enough to make Anurag listen, but not too much to make him feel cornered.

How else do you think she managed to convince her husband for three kids? And not just that—she had him agreeing to a summer vacation to Rishikesh, all on a teacher's salary.

It was a skill, one she had perfected over years of subtle nudging, like when she asked for an extra cupboard in the kitchen, and somehow, one day, it was there. A part of her charm, and the occasional hint.

Anurag, on the other hand, was the type who never minded, as long as the reasoning made sense to him—or as long as it wasn't something too out of his comfort zone.

They had built their life on these unspoken exchanges, a delicate dance of needs and compromises, with Devika always just a step ahead in getting what she wanted, even if she had to wait a little for it.

She knew the rhythm of their marriage, how to give Anurag a little time to think, and then hit him with the exact words that would get him to say yes without even realizing it.

Look, Devika and Anurag's marriage had been arranged, but that didn't mean it hadn't evolved into something real. Over time, they had found their own way of being together.

Sure, there had been moments of awkwardness, the kind where they'd stare at each other over the dinner table, wondering who should start talking first.

But those moments passed quickly enough, replaced by a rhythm they both understood: a shared laugh when one of their kids said something ridiculous, a quiet evening spent watching TV with the sound off, just enjoying the presence of the other.

Anurag leans back in his chair, his fingers tapping a soft rhythm against the edge of the wooden dining table, as if the answer to this predicament might emerge from the cadence. He knows, deep down, that this is a losing battle, one he's already half-surrendered to in his mind.

How does a man, even one as pragmatic as a school math teacher who spends his days making sense of numbers and equations, ever truly argue against his Devika? She doesn't push or demand; she doesn't even raise her voice.

Instead, she has this way of steering him, like a gentle current that moves steadily enough to reshape rocks without anyone noticing until much later.

Her green eyes—the ones all their children inherited—meet his, and there's something in them that makes him pause, just like always.

They carry warmth and conviction, soft but unyielding, a reminder of the countless times she's quietly stood her ground and left him marveling at her strength. Even now, with the faintest trace of a smile playing on her lips, she looks as beautiful as the day they met.

It's a beauty that still unsettles him sometimes, not because he doubts it, but because it reminds him of how much he still loves her—how much he still wants to be the man she believes he is.

"Thik hai, Devika ji," [Alright, Devika ji.] he sighs at last, the resistance slipping from his voice before he even finishes the sentence. "Iss baar hum baat karte hai usse." [This time, I'll talk to her.] he doesn't know how he'll manage, but for her—always for her—he'll find a way.

Her face lights up instantly, her eyes widening with an almost childlike excitement as she clasps her hands together, the kind of reaction that makes him wonder how he ever thought he could say no.

It's this unfiltered joy of hers, so genuine, that reminds him why he loves her so much, even when she pulls him into situations he'd rather avoid.

"YES!" Adarsh's voice breaks into the moment, his tone matching his mother's enthusiasm. He bounces on the edge of his chair. "Didi agar maan gayi, toh itne saalon baad unse miloonga!" [If Didi agrees, I'll finally meet her after so many years!]

His words tumble out in a rush, as if the thought of meeting his sister is too exciting to hold back.

Anurag watches him, his youngest, Devika's spitting image, all the way down to those unmistakable green eyes. Adarsh is the picture of hope, unburdened by the weight of past grievances or the fear of rejection.

It's that pure, unshaken optimism that tugs at Anurag's heart even as it reminds him of the gap between himself and his family. He sees the world through years of hard-earned caution, but they—they seem to navigate it with faith alone.

"Pehle yeh toh pata chale ki woh maanengi ya nahi," [First, let's see if she even agrees.] Anurag mutters, half to himself, as he rubs the back of his neck, the weight of what lies ahead settling on him.

But his words fall on deaf ears, as they often do when Devika and Adarsh are swept up in their plans. Devika, with that effortless authority of hers, has already plucked a notebook from the stack on the shelf, her fingers moving with practiced ease.

The pen she took straight from behind Anurag's ear—where it had been resting as a habit, forgotten—now glides swiftly across the page, filling it with her neat, slanting handwriting.

Adarsh, perched on the edge of the table like it's a throne, leans forward, animatedly rattling off suggestions like he's masterminding a grand event.

"Didi ke liye butter chicken toh pakka banni chahiye!" [We must make butter chicken for her!] he exclaims, his voice brimming with excitement. "Aur phir unka favourite strawberry cake." [And her favorite strawberry cake.]

Anurag pauses, frowning slightly, his hand stopping mid-air as he reaches for his glass of water.

Butter chicken?

Since when had Siya liked butter chicken? He distinctly remembers her wrinkling her nose at it during every family function, pointing out how oily it was and asking for dal instead.

"Adarsh," he says, his voice careful but curious, "aap sure hai? Siya aur butter chicken?" [are you sure? Siya and butter chicken?]

Adarsh looks at him like he's just asked if the sky is blue. "Haan, Papa! Aapko yaad nahi? London jaane se pehle didi kaise chatori cheezein kha rahi thi? Butter chicken toh unho ne itni baar khai thi." [Of course, Papa! Don't you remember how much Didi was enjoying all the spicy food before leaving for London? She ate butter chicken so many times!]

"Baat toh waise sahi kar raha hai. Hume bhi yaad hai... Siya kaafi baar butter chicken banane ke liye bol rahi thi, jaane ke kuch din pehle." [He's right. I remember... Siya asked for butter chicken quite a few times before she left.] Devika says, tapping her pen lightly against the page.

"Acha?" [Oh?] Anurag says, a faint smile tugging at his lips, more at the certainty in their voices than at the revelation itself. "Toh fir theek hai, hum uske liye butter chicken bana deyenge." [Alright then, I'll make butter chicken for her]

The moment Anurag finishes speaking, Devika snaps her pen shut with a deliberate click, the kind of sound that could silence an entire room.

Her head rises slowly, and her gaze lands on him, sharp and unwavering, as though she's deciding whether this comment deserves a response or just the kind of silence that speaks volumes.

But Devika Tripathi is not one to stay quiet when it comes to her kitchen. "Khabar daar agar humari kitchen mein pair rakha toh," [But mind you, don't set foot in my kitchen!]

Adarsh almost chokes on his tea, a burst of laughter escaping before he hurriedly places the cup back on the table. "Papa, butter chicken toh rehne hi do, aap roti bana lo—utna bhi bohot bada kaam hai," [Papa, forget the butter chicken—just try making rotis. That alone will be a big task for you.] he quips, grinning at his father, whose expression immediately shifts to one of offended pride.

Anurag straightens his back, as if preparing for a courtroom defense. "Aur jo baigan ka bharta uss din bana tha, woh kisne banaya tha? Hum hi toh the!" [And who made that baingan bharta the other day? That was me!] He folds his arms across his chest, looking at his son as though challenging him to deny this fact.

Adarsh doesn't even blink, already prepared with his response. "Acha? Uss din jo kadai mein tha, woh baigan ka bharta tha?" [Oh? That dish in the pan was supposed to be baingan bharta?] he asks, leaning forward dramatically, his voice dripping with mock seriousness.

"Hume toh laga kuch chua gir gaya tha! Tab se, jo uss kadai mein banta hai, humne toh khaana hi chhod diya." [I thought a mouse fell into it! Since that day, I've stopped eating anything made in that pan.]

Devika lets out an exasperated sigh but doesn't stop the corners of her lips from curving into a smile. She shakes her head, trying to focus on her notes, but the laughter bubbling up around the dining table is too contagious to resist.

Anurag looks genuinely indignant now, though the twinkle in his eye betrays his amusement. "Humara apna khoon hume yeh bol raha hai?! Humara khana itna bhi bura nahi hota!" [My own blood is saying this to me?! My cooking isn't that bad!]

"Hum toh wo hai jo kitchen mein apni taraf se mehnat karte hai. Aap log toh bas baith ke complain karte ho." [I am someone who works hard in the kitchen. You two just sit there and complain.] he says, gesturing towards both his wife and son, as though they're a team conspiring against him.

At this, Devika finally looks up, closing her notebook altogether and resting her chin on one hand as she fixes her husband with a look that is equal parts amused and sarcastic.

"Haan, hum toh woh TV serial waali vamp ki tarah baithi rehti hai,"[Yes, yes, I sit here like one of those TV serial villains,] she says, her tone laced with playful exaggeration.

"Pairo ko ekdum faila ke, haath mein chai ka cup leke, bas ye sochte hai ki aap dono kaam karte raho aur hum kuch nahi karte. Wah! Kya soch hai aapki, Anurag ji." [Legs stretched out, cup of tea in hand, just watching you both work. Great imagination, Anurag ji.]

Adarsh grins wider, unable to let the moment pass without adding his two cents. "Maa, agar aap vamp ban gayi, toh hum toh dar ke maare ghar hi chhod denge," [Mum, if you turn into a villain, I'll leave the house out of fear.] he teases, leaning back in his chair.

Devika picks up her pen and tosses it lightly in his direction, missing him by a mile but still making her point. "Zyada bolne ki zarurat nahi hai, samjha?" [Don't talk too much, understand?] she says, but her laughter betrays her.

"Aap dono humari izzat ka satyanash karne mein lage ho," [You two are out to ruin my reputation!] Anurag declares, shaking his head as if the world has turned against him, though the amusement in his voice makes it clear he's not exactly heartbroken about it.

"Papa, aap khud karte ho," [Papa, you do it yourself.] Adarsh quips, leaning back in his chair with a smug look that only a teenager can muster. "Aur waise bhi, Didi ke liye butter chicken toh Mumma hi banayengi, warna hum sab ka naam kharab ho jayega." [And anyway, Mumma will make the butter chicken for Didi. Otherwise, our entire reputation will be ruined.]

"Apka naam hai iss duniya mein, jo kharab ho jayega?" [Your name? Does that even exist in the world to get spoiled?] Anurag leans back in his chair, eyebrows raised just enough to carry that perfect touch of mischief, the kind that suggests he's a little too proud of his own sense of humor.

The words hit their mark instantly, and Adarsh gasps like someone's stolen the very air he breathes.

One hand flies to his chest, the other clutching the table for support as he leans back, eyes wide with exaggerated disbelief, the drama pouring out of him like a daily soap star in the middle of a betrayal scene.

"ITNA BADA DHOKA!" [This betrayal!] Adarsh exclaims, turning toward his mother with newfound urgency. "Mummy, abhi ke abhi Prithvi mamu ko phone lagaiye. Mere pehelwan mamu hi ab papa ko jawab denge. Dekhta hai kaise bolte hain ye!" [Mummy, call Prithvi mama right now. Only my wrestler uncle can handle this injustice!]

Devika doesn't even flinch. Her pen glides steadily over the notebook balanced on her lap, the soft scritch-scratch sound of ink on paper the only acknowledgment of his outburst.

Her back is straight, her expression calm as she jots something down with a focus so intense it almost feels deliberate, like she's decided that ignoring the storm in the living room is the best way to handle it.

A small sigh escapes her lips, barely audible, but it somehow makes Adarsh's indignation seem even louder in contrast.

Anurag leans forward, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair. "Arre, oh hello, jo aapke Prithvi mamu hain na, woh saale hain humare. Aur yaad rahe, uske jija hai hum. Apne jija ko toh Prithvi jawab nahi dega, aur aap bina wajah ke pit jayenge humse." [Oh, hello! Remember, Prithvi is my brother-in-law. I'm his brother-in-law, and he won't argue with me. You'll just end up getting beaten instead of me.]

Adarsh freezes, his face stuck somewhere between disbelief and fury, as if he's just heard the plot twist of a murder mystery and realized he's the victim. "Papa, yeh toh... yeh toh cheating hai! Yeh toh unfair advantage hai! Yeh toh golmaal hai!" [Papa, this is cheating! Unfair advantage! This is chaos!]

His arms flail around as he tries to make his point, his words tumbling over each other in his urgency.

Devika finally sets her notebook aside, not because she's done working, but because managing these two feels like running a circus—one where the animals are too smart for their own good.

"Tripathi ji," Devika begins, her tone dripping like sugary gulgule, yet carrying an unmistakable sharpness.

"Aap shayad bhool rahe hain ki mere paanch bhai pehelwaan hai. Khane ke maamle mein sabhi expert hain. Agar unhone aur Prithvi bhaiyya ne aapka butter chicken dekh liya na, toh woh shaadi ke itne saal baad bhi hume apne ghar wapas le jayenge." [Don't forget, I have five wrestler brothers. They are experts in the topic of food. If they see your butter chicken, they'll take me back home even after 26 years of marriage.]

Anurag leans back in his chair, folding his arms in that classic "I told you so" pose, his head shaking like he's heard the most ridiculous thing of the century. "Achha? Toh Devika ji, ab aap shaadi ke 26 saal baad ghar chhod kar jayengi? Woh bhi sirf butter chicken ke wajah se?" [Oh? So Devika ji, now, after 26 years, you're planning to leave home over butter chicken?]

His smirk stretches wider, the kind that screams he's having far too much fun with this conversation, much to Devika's visible irritation.

Adarsh, sitting cross-legged on the floor and playing with a stray thread on the carpet, doesn't miss a beat.

"Mummy, aap agar sach mein ja rahi ho toh hume pehle se bata do. Hum apke aur papa ke kamre mein kapde shift kar lenge. Waise bhi papa toh aapke peeche peeche Rewari tak aa jayenge." [Mummy, if you're really going, let me know in advance. We'll shift my clothes to your and Papa's room. Anyway, Papa will follow you all the way to Rewari.]

For a moment, there's silence, the kind that hangs in the air before a storm hits. And then, with a speed that only mothers of the Indian middle class possess, Devika reaches out and flicks him on the back of his head with precision, not too hard to hurt but just enough to convey exactly how many levels of nonsense he's crossed.

"Ouch!" Adarsh yelps, rubbing his head as if he's been grievously injured in battle. "Mummy, bhool kyu jaati ho ki aap pehlwaan ke ghar se ho? Haath hai ya hathoda? Hum toh keh rahe the ki--" [Mummy, why do you forget that you're from a family of wrestlers? Are these hands or hammers? I was just saying that—]

"Bas, bas, aur ek shabd bola na, toh butter chicken toh chhodo, humko aapki maggi bhi banana bandh kar denge," [Enough, one more word and forget butter chicken, I'll stop making even your Maggi!]

Devika cuts him off, pointing the pen at him like a warning. Her eyes narrow, her tone sharp, and for a second, Adarsh genuinely wonders if she's serious about the maggi ban.

"Maggi? Mummy, aap kitna neeche gir sakti ho?" [Maggi? Mum, how low can you go?] he mutters under his breath but loud enough for Ananya to burst into laughter from the dining table. "Ye toh dictator ka behavior hai." [This is dictator behavior.]

Devika turns sharply, still holding the pen like a sword ready to strike, her gaze locking onto Adarsh. "Kya bola?" [What did you just say?] she asks, her tone sharp but with that faint undercurrent of humor only a mother can wield, equal parts scolding and amused disbelief.

Adarsh shrinks just a little but doesn't back down entirely, rubbing the back of his head with exaggerated drama, muttering something about how unjust this house and family is. Before he can launch into more theatrics, the door creaks open.

Heads turn toward the doorway as Lavanya steps in, her presence heavy, like a sudden gust of wind that carries more dust than relief.

Her bag hangs haphazardly from one shoulder, half-open, with loose papers slipping out, fluttering briefly before landing on the floor.

She doesn't look down at them. She doesn't pick them up. Instead, she strides into the room like she's somewhere she doesn't entirely want to be but has no choice but to tolerate.

Lavanya scans the room, her glance fleeting, her face expressionless. Without a word, she pulls out her phone and plants herself on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, her thumb immediately swiping across the screen as though the world around her doesn't exist. It's a gesture as familiar as it is infuriating.

Adarsh perks up instantly, as if a lifeline has just been thrown his way. "Lavanya  di! Dekho na, mummy keh rahi hai maggi nahi banayengi!" [Lavanya di! Look, Mummy is saying she won't even make Maggi for me!]

His voice rises with the kind of dramatic plea only the youngest in the family can muster. "Yeh toh dictatorship ho gaya hai!" [This is dictatorship!]

Lavanya doesn't lift her head. Her thumb doesn't pause, her eyes don't waver from the phone's glow. "Tumhe aur kuch kaam hai bhi nahi," [Don't you have anything better to do?] she says, her tone flat and cutting, not loud but sharp enough to leave no room for argument.

The words land like they were never meant to be harsh, but somehow they are. Adarsh stiffens, caught off guard by how casually she says it.

For a moment, his usual quick comebacks fail him, and he looks down, fiddling with the edge of his shirt like he's trying to brush off her words. He mutters something, barely audible, before falling silent.

Devika watches all of this unfold, her hand tightening slightly on the edge of the table. The tension in the room shifts, subtle but undeniable, as she straightens her back. "Lavanya," she says, her voice firmer now, a hint of steel creeping into her tone.

"Yeh kaunsa tareeka hai baat karne ka? Woh bechara aapse pyaar se baat kar rahe hain, aur aap—" [Is this how you talk? Your brother was just speaking to you lovingly, and you—]

"Hume sunne ka mann nahi hai, Maa," [I don't feel like listening, Maa.] Lavanya cuts her off, her voice even, almost bored.

She stands and moves to the dining table, her steps unhurried but deliberate, the scrape of the chair loud against the floor as she pulls it out.

She picks up a glass of water, takes a slow sip, and sets it down with a deliberate thud, her actions making more of a statement than her words.

Anurag has been silent so far, leaning back slightly in his chair, his hands resting on the armrests.

His gaze has been fixed on Lavanya since she entered the room, his expression steady but thoughtful. Now, as the silence thickens, he leans forward just slightly, resting his elbows on the table.

"Lavanya," he says, his voice calm, yet it carries an unmistakable weight that cuts through the stillness. "Maa se aise baat karte ho?" [Is this how you speak to your mother?]

This time, Lavanya finally looks up. She pauses mid-sip, her glass hovering just inches from her lips, her expression teetering somewhere between annoyance and defiance.

"Papa, aap please shuru mat ho jaiye," [Papa, please don't start.] she says, her tone measured, as if trying to contain her irritation but not quite succeeding.

She places the glass back on the table, picks up her phone again, and lets her thumb hover, ready to retreat back into her self-made bubble.

Anurag's gaze doesn't falter. "Jis ghar mein aap reh rahi ho, us ghar ke logon se aise baat karte ho?" [You live in this house, with these people, and you talk to them like this?] he says, his voice lower now, the words precise, cutting through whatever resistance she's trying to build.

Lavanya doesn't look directly at her father, keeping her gaze fixed on the table. "Papa, humne kuch galat nahi kaha," [Papa, I didn't say anything wrong.] she says, her tone carefully controlled but carrying the unmistakable defiance of someone who knows they've crossed a line and is unwilling to step back.

Anurag exhales slowly, his face unreadable, though his steady eyes remain fixed on her. "Beta, galat ya sahi ka sawaal nahi hai," [Beta, this isn't about right or wrong,] he says, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table.

His voice stays even, the kind of voice that doesn't demand attention but quietly commands it. "Baat tameez ki hai. Aapke bhai ne aapse kuch mazaaq mein kaha tha. Uska yeh matlab nahi hota ki aap is tarah baat karo." [It's about respect. Your brother said something to you in jest. That doesn't mean you respond like this.]

Lavanya's jaw tightens. She places the glass down a little harder than necessary, the soft thud breaking the stillness. "Aap log bas hume hi samjhate raho," [You people always blame me.] she mutters, pushing her chair back with a deliberate scrape. "Jo bhi ho, galti toh hamesha meri hoti hai na?" [Whatever happens, it's always my fault, isn't it?]

She doesn't wait for a reply, her phone already back in her hand as she walks toward the sofa, stepping carelessly over the papers scattered on the floor.

Devika opens her mouth, ready to interject, but Anurag raises a hand subtly, signaling her to let it be. There's no point in escalating things now; he knows when to step back.

Years of teaching stubborn teenagers math have taught him that pushing too hard only makes people dig their heels in deeper.

Adarsh, who has been sitting in restless silence, glances toward his father, his face uncertain, as if waiting for permission to speak.

Anurag catches his son's gaze and shakes his head slightly, a small but deliberate gesture that tells him to let it go, to not add fuel to a fire that doesn't need stoking.

Adarsh hesitates, his lips parting as if to argue, but then he slumps back in his chair, his shoulders sagging in reluctant acceptance.

Lavanya moves to the sofa with deliberate steps, her posture radiating the kind of defiance that doesn't need words. She sits with her legs tucked beneath her, scrolling through her phone with quick, detached movements.

The glow of the screen lights her face, but her expression is hard, her brows drawn into a faint frown that doesn't soften. The room feels heavy in her presence, as though everyone is waiting for someone to say something that might break the tension—or worsen it.

Devika's voice comes eventually, calm but edged with a mother's firm patience. "Lavanya," she says, not looking directly at her daughter as she picks up Adarsh's abandoned cup and carries it toward the sink.

"Aapke papa sahi keh rahe hain. Adarsh ne kuch ulta nahi kaha, pyaar se baat kar raha tha aapse. Kabhi-kabhi tone sambhalna zaroori hota hai." [Your father is right. Adarsh didn't say anything wrong. He was speaking to you lovingly. Sometimes, you need to watch your tone.]

Lavanya's fingers don't pause on her phone, but something about her posture shifts—a stiffness in her shoulders, a stillness in the way she now sits. Devika notices, though she doesn't press further. A reflection of their relationship.

"Adarsh, beta, jao thoda apne doston ke saath time bita lo," [Adarsh, beta, go spend some time with your friends.] Anurag says, his tone lighter now, intentionally redirecting the energy in the room.

"Padhai se break lena zaroori hota hai. Saara din ghar mein baithe rahoge toh mann kharaab hoga." [It's important to take a break from studying. Sitting at home all day will only make you restless.]

Adarsh's face lights up faintly, though his gaze flickers toward Lavanya before he speaks. "Theek hai, Papa," [Alright, Papa.] he says, standing up and stretching his arms above his head.

He lingers for a moment, clearly debating whether to say something to his sister, but then thinks better of it and heads toward his room to grab his phone.

As he leaves, Devika wipes her hands on the edge of her saree and looks at Anurag, her expression weary but affectionate. "Lavanya ke saath aap baat kijiye," [You should talk to Lavanya.] she says softly, her voice carrying just enough for him to hear. "Main Dal dekh kar aati hoon." [I will go check the Dal.]

Anurag nods, his gaze shifting to Lavanya, who is now hunched over her phone, her fingers still moving but slower, her focus seeming more scattered than before.

He stands up, brushing imaginary dust off his kurta, and walks toward the sofa. He doesn't sit down right away, instead hovering near the armrest, giving her space.

"Aapko pata hai, hum Siya ko bula rahe hai," [You know, we're inviting Siya back home.] he says, his words slow and deliberate as he watches for a reaction. Lavanya's fingers falter briefly on her phone, but she doesn't look up.

Encouraged, he continues, leaning slightly against the armrest. "Uska janamdin aa raha hai, toh socha iss saal usse yaha bula le. Siya itne saalon baad ghar aayegi... aapki badi behen ghar aa rahi hai, khush ho na?" [Her birthday is coming up, so we thought we'd bring her here this year. After so many years, your elder sister will come home... are you happy?]

Her hands still completely now, the glow of the phone casting a faint light on her tense face. Lavanya doesn't respond immediately, her gaze fixed on the screen as though willing it to give her an escape.

Finally, without looking at him, she says, "Aapne usse pucha? Woh waise hi busy rahegi London mein. Aap log khud ko disappoint karne ki aadat dal chuke ho." [Did you ask her? She'll just stay busy in London as usual. You've gotten used to disappointing yourselves.]

Anurag studies her for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly, not out of anger but concern. "Lavanya, yeh kya tareeka hai baat karne ka?"[Lavanya, is this how you should talk?] he says, sitting down finally but keeping a little distance between them.

"Siya humse door hai, par iska matlab yeh nahi ki woh hume yaad nahi karti. Aur aapko toh khushi honi chahiye. Behen hai aapki." [Siya may be far away, but that doesn't mean she doesn't miss us. You should be happy. She's your sister.]

Lavanya snorts softly, the sound barely audible but loaded with disdain. She places the phone on the armrest beside her, her face carefully neutral now.

"Behen? Haan, behen hai, par humne uske liye khushi kyun honi chahiye? Uski life perfect hai, sab kuch hai uske paas. Phir bhi aap sab uske peeche kyun pade rehte ho?" [A sister? Sure, she's my sister. But why should I be happy for her? Her life is perfect, she has everything. Yet you all keep chasing after her.]

Anurag frowns, leaning forward slightly, his hands clasped together. "Perfect? Aapko lagta hai Siya ki life perfect hai?" [Perfect? You think Siya's life is perfect?] He shakes his head, his voice soft but steady.

"Beta, jo door rehta hai, uski zindagi hamesha asaan lagti hai, par aisa hota nahi." [Beta, people who live far away always seem like their lives are easier, but it's rarely the truth.]

Lavanya stiffens, her expression hardening as she glances at her father. For a brief moment, anger flashes in her eyes, but she tamps it down, turning away.

"Aapko lagta hai hum nahi jaanti?" [You think I don't know?] she says, her voice low but edged. "Hum sab jaante hai, Papa. Sab kuch. Aap log hi anjaan ho." [I know everything, Dad. You're the ones who are clueless.]

Anurag sits back slightly, taken aback by her tone. "Kya matlab hai aapka?" [What do you mean?] he asks, his brows knitting together in confusion.

Lavanya presses her lips together, as though she's already said too much. She picks up her phone again, staring at it without doing anything, her fingers tightening around the edges. Anurag watches her closely, a growing unease settling in his chest.

"Lavanya, agar aapko kuch kehna hai, toh hume batao. Hum aapke pita hoon. Agar aapko Siya se koi takleef hai, toh hume batao. Par is tarah apne mann mein baat rakhna... yeh sahi nahi hai." [Lavanya, if you have anything to say, tell us. I am your father. If you have any problem with Siya, tell us. But trying to bury things in your heart... this is not right.]

Lavanya exhales sharply, almost a sigh but heavier, as though she's been holding something in for far too long. She turns to him suddenly, her eyes sharp and her expression vulnerable.

"Aapko pata hai, Papa, Siya di perfect thi hum sabke liye," [You think Siya di was perfect for all of us.] she says, her words tumbling out faster than she means them to. "Par agar aapko uske 'perfect' hone ke peeche ka sach pata chale, toh aap kya karoge?" [But if you knew the truth behind her 'perfection,' what would you do?]

Anurag leans forward again, his concern deepening. "Kya kehna chahti ho aap?" [What are you trying to say?] he asks gently, his tone urging her to continue.

For a moment, Lavanya looks as though she's about to say it, the words on the tip of her tongue. Her fingers clench tightly around her phone, her breathing uneven.

But then, just as quickly, she retreats, shaking her head and looking away. "Kuch nahi," [Nothing] she mutters, standing up abruptly.

Anurag watches her with a mix of confusion and frustration as she begins pacing near the sofa. "Lavanya, agar aapko lagta hai hum galat samjhe, toh aap hume underestimate kar rahe ho," [Lavanya, if you think I've misunderstood, then you're underestimating me.] he says, his voice steady but laced with a father's quiet determination.

Lavanya stops pacing, her back to him, her shoulders rising and falling as she takes deep breaths.

She doesn't turn around, but her voice, when it comes, is quieter, almost strained. "Aapko lagta hai Siya di aap logon ke liye waapas aa rahi hai?" [Do you really think Siya di is coming back for you all?] she asks. "Woh khud wapas nahi aayengi, Papa." [She won't come back on her own, Papa.]

Anurag stands now, moving toward her but stopping just short of closing the distance. "Siya jo bhi kar rahi hai, uska apna reason hoga. Par aapke dil mein itna gussa kyun hai? Jo baat aapko pareshan kar rahi hai, woh hume batao. Shayad aapke papa aapko samajh lein." [Whatever Siya is doing, she must have her reasons. But why is there so much anger in your heart? Tell me what's troubling you. Maybe your papa can understand you.]

Lavanya turns to face him finally, her eyes glistening with emotions she refuses to let fall. "Samajhne ki baat chhodiye, Papa," [Forget trying to understand, Papa.] she says, her voice trembling slightly despite her attempt to steady it.

"Agar humne jo dekha hai woh aapko bata diya, toh shayad aap Siya di ko waapas bulaane ka decision hi badal dein." [If I told you what I've seen, you might reconsider your decision to bring Siya di back.]

Her words hang in the air, heavy with meaning, and for the first time, Anurag feels a sliver of fear creeping into his heart.

But before he can press her further, she brushes past him, picking up her bag from the sofa and heading toward her room.

"Lavanya!" he calls again, his voice carrying the weight of a father's authority, but it stops just short of anger. She doesn't answer.

The door to her room shuts firmly, the dull sound lingering in the quiet house. Anurag stands rooted in place, his thoughts heavy, staring at the closed door as though willing it to open.

Devika watches him from the kitchen doorway, wiping her damp hands on the edge of her saree. Her brows are drawn together, her lips pressed tight, but her eyes betray the worry she doesn't want to voice. "Kya bola usne?" [What did she say?] she asks, her voice low, the kind that doesn't push for an answer but waits patiently for one.

Anurag exhales, running a hand over his face, then looks down at her. "Itna gussa kyu hai inke dil mein?" [Why is there so much anger in her heart?] he murmurs, almost to himself.

"Siya ke London jaane se pehle inke beech koi ladai hui thi kya, Devika ji?" [Did something happen between them before Siya left for London, Devika ji?]

Devika tilts her head slightly, her gaze shifting from his face to the door across the hall. She shakes her head slowly, her own confusion clear. "Humare samne toh kabhi aisa kuch nahi hua," [Nothing like that happened in front of me,] she says, her voice soft, almost reluctant.

"Siya aur Lavanya toh inseparable the. Ek dusre ke bina ek pal bhi nahi rahte the. Siya toh Lavanya ki duniya thi, Anurag ji." [Siya and Lavanya were inseparable. They couldn't spend a moment apart. Siya was Lavanya's entire world, Anurag ji.]

She pauses, her fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, the way she always does when she's deep in thought. "Hume yaad hai... Lavanya Siya ke peeche-peeche ghooma karti thi. Siya jaise bolti thi, Lavanya waise hi bolti thi. Siya jaise kapde pehenti thi, Lavanya wahi karne ki koshish karti thi. Siya uske liye ek idol thi."

Anurag nods, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips for a moment as the memories surface. "Haan," he says, his voice quieter now, filled with a tenderness that comes from remembering happier times.

"Ek baar Siya school ke dance competition mein second place aaye the, toh Lavanya kaise ro rahi thi jaise unka apna medal chhin gaya ho. Us din Siya ne khud unhe samjhaya tha ki har baar jeetna zaroori nahi hota." [I remember... Lavanya used to follow Siya everywhere. The way Siya spoke, Lavanya spoke the same way. The way Siya dressed, Lavanya tried to copy it. Siya was like an idol to her.]

Devika smiles faintly at the memory, but it fades quickly, replaced by a heavier expression. She steps closer to the table, her fingers tracing the edge absently as she speaks.

"Par ab... aisa lagta hai jaise Lavanya bilkul badal gayi ho. Siya ka naam sunte hi unka chehra badal jaata hai. Hum toh samajh hi nahi paa rahe hai ki yeh sab kya ho raha hai." [I remember the time Siya came second in her school's dance competition, and Lavanya cried as though she had lost her own medal. That day, Siya herself consoled her, saying it's not necessary to win every time.]

Anurag watches her carefully, his mind piecing together fragments of the past. "Lavanya ke dil mein kuch toh hai, Devika ji," [But now... it feels like Lavanya has completely changed, Devika ji.] he says, his voice firmer now.

"Siya se narazgi hai, ya kuch aur... jo bhi hai, woh unhone apne andar daba liya hai." [Her face changes the moment Siya's name is mentioned. We just can't figure out what's going on.]

Devika's voice trembles slightly as her fingers clutch the thin gold chain around her neck, her thumb brushing against the tiny pendant of her mangalsutra like it's the only thing grounding her in the moment.

Her eyes dart to Anurag's, filled with a nervousness she rarely lets show. "Aap Siya ko bulane ka plan change toh nahi karenge na?" [You're not thinking of changing your plan to invite Siya, are you?] she asks, her words soft yet laced with urgency.

"Aisa mat kejiye, Anurag ji. Bahut saalon ke baad ek ummeed jagaayi hai humne." [Don't do that, Anurag ji. After so many years, I've held a spark of hope.]

"Devika ji, plan badalne ka sawaal hi nahi uthta," [There's no question of changing the plan, Devika ji.] he says, his voice calm but deliberate, like someone trying to steady a boat rocking in shallow waters.

"Siya ko bulaana zaroori hai. Par... agar ghar ke andar itna gussa hai, toh hume yeh bhi samajhna hoga ki baat aage kaise badhani hai. Aap Lavanya ke chehre ka rang dekhiye, Siya ka naam lete hi woh bilkul alag insaan ban jaati hai." [Inviting Siya is important. But... if there's so much anger in this house, we need to figure out how to move forward. Have you noticed Lavanya's face? The moment Siya's name comes up, she becomes a completely different person.]

Devika exhales deeply, her hand falling back to her side as she leans against the edge of the table, the corner pressing into her hip. "Hume lagta hai yeh sab temporary hai," [I think this is temporary] she says, though her tone carries a faint doubt, as if she's trying to convince herself as much as him.

"Jab Siya ghar wapas aayegi na, toh sab kuch theek ho jayega. Aakhir behne hai... ladti hai, naraaz hoti hai, lekin zyada der tak gussa reh nahi sakti." [When Siya comes home, everything will be fine. After all, they're sisters... they fight, they get upset, but they can't stay angry for too long.]

Anurag nods slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Umeed toh hum bhi yehi karte hai," [I hope for the same,] he murmurs, though his voice lacks the conviction he's trying to project.

His gaze flickers back toward Lavanya's closed door, and for a moment, he stands there, rooted in place, as if waiting for the door to open and give him answers. It doesn't.

He exhales deeply, the sound carrying the weight of his thoughts as he walks back toward the living room, where Devika is setting the table for dinner.

She glances at him, her hands busy straightening the corner of a plate, but her eyes searching his face. She doesn't ask him anything more—perhaps because she knows the answers he might give will be the same as her own swirling doubts.

Anurag stops by the dining table, his fingers brushing against the chair where Lavanya had sat just moments ago. He looks at Devika. "Sab kuch theek ho jayega, hai na?" [Everything will be alright, won't it?] he says, his voice low, almost as if he's asking himself.

Devika smiles faintly, her hands coming to rest on the back of a chair. "Hona hi padega," [It has to be,] she says softly, her tone carrying the kind of quiet determination that only a mother can summon. "Siya wapas aayegi. Aur Lavanya bhi samajh jayegi." [Siya will come back. And Lavanya will understand too.]

Anurag doesn't respond, but he nods, his lips pressing into another thin line as he walks toward the window. The evening has stretched into night, and the faint hum of traffic outside barely reaches their small home.

He stares out at the dark sky, the scattered lights of nearby houses twinkling faintly. Somewhere out there, Siya is living a life he's only heard bits and pieces about—a life far removed from the one she left behind.

He rubs his hands together absentmindedly, the familiar ache of unanswered questions settling in his chest. All he can hope for now, he thinks, is that Siya says yes. That she agrees to come home.

Because if she does, then maybe—just maybe—the cracks in their family can begin to heal.

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Hello, I hope you guys like the chapter. I hope you guys liked the Tripathi Family, and don't worry, Lavanya is not a bad person. She is a complex character, and the reason why she is the way she is, will be revealed soon.

Any suggestions of what you guys wanna see in this story ya fir kisi aur story mein?

Milte hai, prem se bolo

Radhe Radhe🙏🏻