The air felt different the moment we stepped out of that room.

It was heavier, thicker. As though the conversation from earlier had followed us, clinging to my skin like the scent of something that wouldn’t wash off.

My steps slowed slightly, but his didn’t. He walked with the same calm, even pace.

And then we were there. In the living room, the main couch, the centre of it all.

Someone gestured politely and we were made to sit, together. Right there where he’d been sitting earlier. Apparently, the direction was important for the ritual according to vastu.

We were close, not touching, but close enough that I could feel the heat of his presence. His shoulder sat inches from mine, unmoving and steady.

I didn’t lean away, I didn’t move at all. I simply folded myself into that space like a shadow, back straight, palms resting on my lap, fingers entwined too tightly.

Everyone else melted into roles. Talking, arranging, gesturing in hushed coordination. The elders were discussing rituals.

But me?

I sat in the eye of the storm, watching it all spin around me.

Until I saw a familiar face in a room full of strangers. He was seated across from our sofa, an elderly man, probably his grandfather.

My gaze caught on him, unexpectedly. His features were distant, but something about them tugged at me like a memory I hadn’t unpacked yet.

Where had I seen him?

I kept staring, trying to chase the echo of recognition, but it stayed just out of reach. Like a name on the tip of my tongue, refusing to arrive.

And then he noticed me watching him.

A knowing smile touched his face. I knew that smile. Not from this moment, but from some forgotten corner of time.

I offered the faintest smile back, more instinct than intent, and yet... it stirred something quiet, something old.

I let the feeling slip into the folds of my mind, saving it for later, to be remembered, to be made sense of.

Because right now, the room pulled me back.

Instructions floated through the air. The quiet hum of preparations had begun, soft footsteps, hushed exchanges, someone arranging trays. The Roka was slipping into motion around me.

And yet, my mind refused to stay still. Half of it lingered in that room from earlier. That conversation, those eyes, his voice. And the other half sat here, upright, composed, pretending to belong.

It was real.

This moment.

This ceremony.

This strange, irreversible path.

I didn’t want to acknowledge it, but my bones already had. Every sound, every glance, every subtle movement in the room wove itself into my skin.

And then, like the air had been sliced open— something shifted.

A strange unease unfurled inside me, slow and certain, like smoke slipping beneath a closed door. It climbed my spine in a shiver I couldn’t suppress.

Goosebumps broke out across my arms, blooming fast and uninvited, even though the room was warm and filled with voices.

But I couldn’t hear any of them anymore. Just the sound of my heartbeat, heavy, loud, overlapping itself like a warning.

I didn’t know what I was responding to. But my body did, every nerve stood alert, every instinct leaned forward.

I looked around, eyes scanning faces, corners, movements, trying to locate the source of that invisible pulse in the air.

Something was wrong. I couldn’t explain it, but I could feel it. The room looked the same, plates in hand, soft conversations, casual laughter.

But something in me refused to relax.

And then my gaze shifted slightly to the right, and time collapsed.

A toddler, tiny, unsteady. On the ninth step of the staircase, looking down the railing, looking through it.

She was too close to the edge. Her tiny fingers barely brushing the railing as she leaned forward, curious, unaware.

The railing had gaps. Big enough for her small frame to slip through if she leaned the wrong way.

My breath caught.

The noise of the room fell away completely.

All I could hear was my own fear, sharp, sudden, and consuming. My heart slammed against my ribs like it was trying to reach her first.

Every part of me froze except my eyes, locked on her.

So fragile, so still, and just one innocent move away from slipping out of safety.

I didn’t think. There wasn’t space for thought, only instinct. Pure, blinding instinct.

The kind that doesn’t ask, doesn’t wait, doesn’t hesitate. Before I even knew I’d moved, I was on my feet, every part of me surging forward, like my body had decided long before my mind caught up.

My breath hitched, caught somewhere deep, as if the very air around me had turned fragile.

The room blurred.

All that remained was her, small, unsteady, and far too close to danger.

“AARAV, STAIRS!”

My voice tore through the room, loud and urgent, slicing clean through the low hum of conversations.

Aarav, who had been walking toward the kitchen just a few feet away from the staircase, froze mid step. He followed my gaze, eyes widening the moment he saw her.

And then he moved. Fast. Without a word, he turned and bolted up the stairs, rushing in long hurried strides.

I didn’t stop to see who else had heard me. My feet were already moving fast, not up the staircase, but around it. To the exposed side beneath the ninth step, where the railing curved out, leaving big open gaps.

There were no walls. No panels. Just wide, gilded gaps in the railing— designed for beauty, not safety.

And she— a toddler, barely steady on her own feet was crouched at the very edge of the ninth step, her tiny frame tilted slightly over, peeking through the opening with childlike curiosity.

She didn’t understand how high she was.

How little it would take.

How fragile that moment was.

My breath caught, tight and high, as if my body was refusing to inhale until she was safe.

I darted to the base of the stairs, heart slamming against my ribs, rounding the curve to reach just beneath her.

And then—

She tilted forward... too far.

A flicker. A breath. That’s all it took.

One second she was peering through the railing— the next, her balance gave way.

There was no scream, just silence, like the world forgot how to move.

And in that frozen second, gravity pulled.

Hard.

Her tiny frame tipped forward, weightless and terrifyingly fast.

Time cracked open, stretching too wide and too thin all at once.

But I was already there.

My arms shot up, eyes wide, heart pounding like war drums in my chest.

And then— impact.

Not on the floor.

On me.

She fell into my arms mid air, light and warm and so terrifyingly real.

A second more, a blink too late, and—

No. I didn’t let the thought finish. Because she was safe, she was breathing, she was in my arms. And I was still holding her, against all odds.

The world fell silent.

The voices, the movement, the ceremony, all of it melted into a hush. The world shrank down to just this, the impossible relief of her weight against my chest, warm, real, alive.

She clung to me instantly.

Tiny arms wrapped around my neck like she’d known me forever, like I was the only steady thing in a world that had almost let her go.

Her body trembled, subtle, delayed. The fear had caught her now.

I held her closer, one hand cradling the back of her head, anchoring her back to safety. As if the slightest loosened grip might undo the miracle I’d just caught mid air.

I turned around slowly, still holding her like something sacred, while my world, softly, cautiously, began to breathe again.

Every face in the room had stilled.

Conversations cut mid sentence, hands frozen mid movement.

Panic hung in the air, raw and unspoken, etched into wide eyes, clutched breaths, hearts suspended in the silence.

But then they saw her, saw her in my arms. Whole. Breathing. Safe.

And like a single string had been pulled loose, the room exhaled. One collective breath, shaky and slow, as if they’d all been holding it together.

I drew in a breath of my own.

Then gently, carefully, I loosened her from the fierce grip she had around my neck.

She didn’t resist.

Just blinked up at me, dazed and trembling.

I shifted her slightly in my arms, enough to scan her body. Fingers brushing gently over her back, her arms, her legs, searching for anything:

A cut.

A bruise.

A single mark that meant I hadn’t been fast enough.

But there was nothing.

No blood.

No injury.

Just fear, still clinging to her in tiny, invisible threads.

Her lower lip quivered, pushed out in that fragile way only toddlers manage.

Her eyes, wide, wet, confused, searched my face like they were still trying to understand what had just happened.

Her tiny chest rose and fell in shaky breaths, the kind that came after silence— not from calm, but from shock. I rocked her gently, hoping the rhythm would speak what words couldn’t.

She looked up at me, eyes still glassy, still unsure, face was full of questions she didn’t have words for, and something inside me ached.

A deep, protective kind of ache that didn’t ask questions or need reasons.

And in that moment, it didn’t matter that she wasn’t mine. Because every piece of me had already decided to protect her like she was.

I pressed my forehead gently to hers, voice low and soft, meant only for her.

“Shh... you’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Ananya moved toward us, her mouth open, on the verge of saying something.

But I caught her eyes and gently shook my head, pressing a finger to my lips, gesturing her to stay quiet.

The little one was still curled against me, her body tense, breaths shallow and quick.

Even kindness, spoken too soon, could startle her. She didn’t need noise, she needed quiet. A soft, still space to feel safe again.

So I turned, the weight of her still pressed to my chest, and walked back to the couch, each step slow and steady, like the moment still hadn’t fully let go of us.

I sat down gently, cradling her in my arms. My hand moved across her back in slow, soothing circles.

And then—

She pulled back. Just a little.

That panic in her face… it shifted. Softened into something quieter. Curious. Trusting.

Then, she buried her face into the crook of my neck.

Only to peek up.

Buried her face again.

Peeked up.

Again.

And again.

Each glance a little longer. Each nuzzle a little softer.

Until finally—

A tiny smile bloomed on her lips. Lopsided, shy and brave.

And then—

“Hi.”

Just one word. Barely a whisper.

But it landed in the center of my chest.

My heart melted. Completely.

I smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

“Hi,” I whispered back, softer than I’ve ever sounded.

She looked around the room then, tiny head turning, blinking at the faces watching us.

And suddenly, her whole face lit up.

“E-dant!”

She squealed, arms flying out with full toddler enthusiasm.

I followed her gaze.

Mr. Malhotra

She was reaching for him, calling him by name, with a joy so pure, it rose above everything else.

Like she’d spotted her safe place in a room full of strangers, like nothing bad could happen now.

He stood beside the sofa, still.

His face didn’t show much, but his eyes gave him away. Softened at the edges, a flicker of something tender.

She called out again, her little hands reaching out. I stood and passed her into his arms.

She melted into his shoulder without a sound, arms wrapping around his neck, cheek pressed against him like she’d finally exhaled.

Like home wasn’t a place, but a person.

I watched.

And something tugged at me, she hadn’t cried. And I was so, so glad, because if she had… It would've undone me completely.

Then I turned to Aarav, voice low but harsh, harsher than intended. “How did she get there?"

“I—”

Before he could answer, a woman stepped forward, she looked like the baby, same eyes, same mouth.

“It's not his fault." she said quickly, "She’s just... adventurous,” her voice carried exhaustion and apology.

She crossed the room in two long strides and wrapped her arms around me, tight and desperate.

"Thank you." she whispered, her voice breaking, "If you hadn't— if you weren't there— she..."

She couldn't finish the sentence. Her body trembled against mine, and I realised this was her mother.

I gently pulled her away, and saw the tears building in her eyes.

I took her hand in mine, squeezing gently, grounding her. "She's safe. Nothing happened. And nothing ever will."

Just then, the front door creaked. A man entered and walked straight to us, straight to her. “Tanya? What happened?”

He hugged her the second he saw her face. “Misha almost fell from the stairs.” she said, barely audible.

The man froze. His eyes shot toward Mr. Malhotra, who now cradled the baby like she was made of porcelain. He met his gaze and gave him a subtle, reassuring nod.

The man exhaled, visibly relieved. His hand cupped his wife’s cheek gently, grounding her back into the moment as he whispered something only she could hear. Something quiet. Reassuring. The kind of words that aren’t for the room, just for the storm in her chest.

I didn’t look away. I couldn’t. There was something intimate about it— something sacred. Like watching love in its most fragile form… not loud or showy, but steady and trembling.

It took time for everything to settle, for the air to lose its edge, for breathing to feel like breathing again, and for hearts to stop racing.

The room had gone still, like it had collectively forgotten how to move. And slowly, movement returned, first in whispers, then in shuffles.

His aunt stepped forward and touched my arm, eyes glistening. “If you hadn’t seen it… you’re more than God to me. Thank you so, so much.” she said softly, voice trembling with sincerity.

I opened my mouth to reply but no words came out, because how do you explain that it didn't feel heroic? That it wasn't even a decision? That I simply... moved.

And yet, they thanked me again and again. Gentle touches to my arm, soft nods, gratitude in every look.

And I… just nodded back, not knowing how to hold it all.

Then, through the quiet murmurs, a voice cut through.

"It’s time for the ceremony.”

It was his father, his voice knew how to anchor the room. It wasn't loud, just enough to remind everyone to move on.

And just like that, the moment shifted, the energy changed, people stood straighter, clothes were smoothed.

Smiles returned to faces, some real, some rehearsed.

The living room rearranged itself once more— into a set, a stage, a place where rituals unfold like clockwork and every gesture holds the weight of generations.

I found myself moving again. Back to the center of it all. Back to the maroon of my anarkali and the gold of the dupatta.

Back to the spot near the stairs, where I had sat before it all happened.

And from there, the ceremony began.

🪔

We were seated next to each other again.

The room hadn’t changed, but it somehow felt smaller. Maybe it was the weight of what had almost happened.

The baby, Misha, was now cradled in her mother’s lap, her delicate frame rising and falling with soft, even breaths.

Her tiny fist curled into the fabric of her mother’s saree, lips parted slightly as she slept peacefully.

Blissfully unaware of how close she had come to falling through the gaps of something none of us would’ve been able to recover from.

I let my eyes fall on her for a second longer than necessary. Just to make sure.

And then, the day stepped into its purpose.

A hush rippled through the room, like everyone collectively adjusted their emotions, their postures, their faces.

His mother stepped forward, graceful, poised and visibly emotional.

A red dupatta carefully folded in her hands. It was heavy, embroidered with gold thread and delicate mirrors that caught the light like tiny, unblinking eyes.

She placed it on my head with both hands, whispering something I couldn’t quite catch.

Her voice was soft, blessing like, full of kindness I wasn’t sure I’d earned.

There was warmth in her touch, quiet approval in her tone. As the cloth settled on my head, the weight of it sank deeper than I expected.

It wasn’t just fabric, it was expectation, responsibility. A symbol of something that felt far too loud for the girl beneath it.

A thali was brought forward next, carried  by Misha's mother. Inside were tiny bowls of haldi, kumkum, rice grains, sweets.

The colors all blurred together in my periphery, too vivid for a moment that felt so muted within me.

He didn’t move either, he sat still, spine straight, hands resting on his knees. Every bit as composed as the last time we were in this room.

But I could feel his attention, he hadn’t withdrawn. He was right there beside me, sitting through something he hadn’t asked for, just like I was.

My mother applied a tilak on his forehead. Then on mine.

Rice was sprinkled, prayers were murmured, a small gold chain was handed over by someone from my side, then placed gently in his palm, then in mine.

Sweets were brought out, laddoos and barfis.

One was held up to my mouth by his aunt. I took a bite, chewed slowly. It tasted like sugar and saffron and something I couldn’t quite swallow.

People clapped, whispered and took pictures.

I wasn’t sure if they saw me. Or just the girl who now had a red dupatta on her head and a new title stitched silently to her name.

Eventually, it was over, the formalities, the rituals, the circling eyes and stretched smiles.

We were asked to get up and seek blessings. He stood first, I followed, a beat later.

We bent down first before his parents. His mother placed her hand gently on my head. “Such a beautiful pair… may you always be protected from evil eye.” Her smile reaching her eyes, her voice warm.

As she said it, she slightly touched her fingers to our foreheads and then behind our ears. His father simply nodded, his palm resting on our heads.

Then mine.

My father’s hand hovered just a moment before settling. “Stay blessed, and live long” he said with a rare smile. My mother touched my cheek after the blessing.

Next, his uncle and aunt. They smiled genuinely, hands resting on our heads affectionately. “May God always keep you both happy… and may He bless your bond to last forever.” his aunt said, her voice warm.

I smiled through it all, I bowed, I folded my hands. I didn’t let them see the weight I was carrying on my shoulders.

Then we reached him, his grandfather, the familiar face.

He was seated on a sofa across from us, his frame was delicate with age, but his eyes held a steady sharpness. Observing everything. Missing nothing.

We bent down together, my finger tips just beginning to graze the floor, about to touch his feet, when his hands reached out, gently holding my arms to stop me

“Daughters don't touch feet.” He said shaking his head with a soft smile, voice wrapped in quiet affection.

Then he placed a hand on both our heads. “Stay happy… always keep smiling and stay together.”

I could feel a familiar warmth radiating from him, I was still standing in front of him trying to remember where this feeling is coming from.

I was looking again now, searching his face like a map I used to know.

And standing beside me, I felt Mr. Malhotra shift just slightly, attentive and present.

The old man's eyes held mine like he was waiting for me to remember. He patted the space beside him gently. “Sit."

I obeyed before I even realized my legs had moved. Mr. Malhotra followed, taking the other side without needing to be asked.

He smiled, that quiet, knowing kind of smile that makes time feel like a lie.

“Bhool gayi mujhe?” he asked, tilting his head just a little.

[Forgot me.?]

I blinked, breath catching before the words even formed. “We’ve met before… I know” I whispered, the certainty threading through my voice despite the haze. “I just can’t—”

A faint curve touched his lips, the kind of smile that didn't rush to fill the silence, just gently confirmed what I was trying to remember.

I searched his face again. Really looked. The puzzle pieces shifting inside me. I was trying desperately, to put them together when—

“Vishwanath Kaka,” came my mother’s voice from across the room. She smiled, as if the truth was too obvious to miss.

“Tumhare vishu dadu.”

["Your vishu dadu."]

Everything stilled, I felt the breath catch in my throat. Vishu Dadu. The name cracked something open inside me, It all came back in a single wave.

The faint clink of glass bangles from the kitchen, the soft rustle of curtains swaying in the hallway, afternoons spent cross legged on the floor, crayons scattered everywhere.

Him on one side, my Dadu on the other. Laughter, soft and echoing. That’s where he lived in my memory, half in sketches, half in summer light.

A man with smiling eyes, always ready to lift me up even when my knees were muddy and scraped.

I was three, maybe four. And then he just stopped coming... I hadn’t realised I’d remembered him… until now.

His hair was white now. Skin soft and loose around the edges. The sparkle in his eyes had creases framing it, but the warmth? The warmth hadn’t aged a day.

For a moment, I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. My throat tightened with too many feelings trying to exit at once.

“Why did you stop coming?” I asked. There was a hint of accusation in my voice, but mostly? It was ache.

“I used to wait for you,” the words tiptoed out of my mouth. "Every time the door creaked, I thought it might be you.” my voice low, almost like i was telling it to the past. A memory tucked so deep, I didn’t even know I’d been carrying it.

His hand held mine, rough and soft all at once. “I’m sorry,” he said. Just that. No excuses.

I shook my head slowly, meeting his eyes, letting my silence say all the things I couldn’t voice.

“My Diya has grown up so much,” he whispered, almost in awe, like he was seeing both the girl I was and the woman I’d become, all at once.

I offered him a small smile, fragile but real. A piece of me, handed over quietly.

Then, his voice softened even more.

“Khush hai tu, beta?”

[“Are you happy, beta?”]

The question settled over me, heavy enough to press against my chest.

Right now? In this moment? Yes.

But beyond that... I didn't know how to answer something i hadn't fully admitted to myself.

My eyes flicked, almost involuntarily, to Mr. Malhotra. It was just for a second, and he was already looking at me.

There was no expectation in his gaze, no questions, just a quiet kind of stillness. Like he, too, was navigating something wordless.

I turned back to Dadu, gave him a small nod and a practiced smile. He didn’t need to know those parts of me.

Dadu watched me for a beat longer, and just when I felt the sting behind my eyes, the kind that comes before tears—

His face lit up, mischief softening the seriousness of the moment.

“Abhi bhi kacche chawal khati hai?”

[Do you still eat raw rice?"]

It caught me off guard. My eyes widened.

“Dadu!”

Somehow, in the middle of everything unfamiliar, he still remembered the silliest part of me. For a second I felt like a child again, safe, seen and loved.

And just like that, the moment lightened. Like a curtain had been pulled and sunlight finally poured through.

His laughter was soft, raspy, familiar. And for the first time that day my chest loosened.

I wasn’t just someone’s daughter or someone’s bride to be.

I was Diya.

Four year old Diya,

All over again.

🪔

The living room had taken on a new kind of silence now. Everyone was seated.

My father stood, speaking to someone on the phone in low, urgent tones. I didn’t need to guess. I already knew.

The family pandit had been called.

I didn’t even blink. At this point, I had run out of reactions, out of resistance.

I sat there, my fingers brushing the edge of my dupatta, my heart somewhere between the past and the too soon future.

The pandit arrived, carrying that worn out book with frayed corners and pages lined with stars and dates that determined lives.

He gave us his blessings, said a few prayers. Then they asked him, for an auspicious date. The wedding date.

“The auspicious time for the wedding is twelve days from today,” he said, flipping a page slowly. “The next auspicious time is after nine months.”

My stomach dipped. Twelve days... twelve days to rewire the rest of my life.

“And for the engagement?” someone asked.

“After four days,” he replied. “It is an auspicious time.”

Four days, that’s all I had before I’d be officially engaged.

The room went still again, all eyes shifted toward us. Me and Him. Like we were supposed to say something.

Nod? Smile? Object? Agree? Anything.

But neither of us said a word, the silence between us held everything that our mouths couldn’t.

And just like that, wordlessly, it happened. Not agreed upon but not resisted either.

Roka today.

Engagement in four days.

Wedding in twelve.

The room buzzed again with murmurs of planning, of outfits and guest lists, of preparations that had nothing to do with us.

And I sat there, quiet, composed, still trying to understand what I was mourning more. The life I was walking out of. Or the one I was being shoved into.

And somewhere along the way, I found myself thinking about him. He'd slipped into the back of my mind before I even meant to let him in.

He hadn’t said a word after our conversation. But in that silence, something heavy lingered.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐