CHAPTER 37
ABHIMAAN
The dining table seems small for the number of people crammed around it, and yet, no one seems to mind.
Laughter spills over half-finished conversations, arms reach across plates for extra rotis, and at least three voices talk over each other at any given moment.
It should feel overwhelming.
But instead, it feels warm.
Almost like being wrapped in a thick, slightly scratchy quilt that smells like home.
Even if it’s not my home.
Aditi’s mother shuffles closer, nudging a second helping of rice onto my plate despite my polite attempt to tell her I am full. “Nonsense,” she replies, waving me off. “You’re so thin.” I almost laugh, because me, thin? How? But I don’t say anything.
From the other side, Rudraksh’s mother piles sabzi on the edge of my plate. “You don’t need to be shy, beta. We have plenty.”
I glance up at both women—soft cotton sarees, bangles clinking as they serve, their eyes kind but sharp, trained in that particular brand of maternal care that doesn’t take no for an answer.
A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Thank you,” I murmur, not used to being fussed over at a table like this.
Across from me, Rudraksh cuts a glance in my direction.
Sharp. Calculated. Not hostile exactly—just watchful. Protective.
He’s spooning dal into Rudrani’s bowl, his hand steady despite her constant wriggling.
She’s babbling something about how rotis taste better if they’re shaped like hearts, and Shivani leans in to say, “That’s because Mumma made those rotis. Papa’s rotis always come out like the earth, very round.”
Rudraksh huffs a laugh and shakes his head. The ruthless businessman I know—he is nowhere to be seen.
“Debatable,” Aarav says, from the far end of the table, stuffing his mouth with rice before Aditi elbows him hard in the ribs.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, idiot.”
“Don’t elbow me while I’m eating!”
“You deserved it.”
“Stop picking fights!”
“You stop breathing so loud!”
Shivani and Anika burst out laughing, clearly used to this.
“Don’t mind them,” Shivani says, sipping her nimbu pani with a grin. “They fight like this all the time. I think it’s how they say ‘I love you.’”
“Gross,” Aarav says, dramatically gagging, while Aditi throws a rolled-up napkin at him.
It hits him square in the face.
I watch them—the chaos, the comfort, the noise.
I don’t speak. I just sit there, letting the sounds wash over me.
It’s not just the way they talk—it’s the ease with which they exist in each other’s space. The way conversations bounce around the room like ping pong balls, the way no one ever has to ask to be included—they just are.
Aarav reaches across Aditi to grab the achar, deliberately knocking her elbow.
She shoves him. He flicks a grain of rice at her in retaliation.
Anika sighs dramatically and says to no one in particular, “This is why I avoid family lunches.”
Everyone laughs.
Even me.
And then my gaze finds Aditi.
She’s not part of the noise in this moment—she’s watching me.
She must’ve caught something in my face I hadn’t realized I was wearing, because without a word, she reaches under the table and slips her fingers into mine.
Her hand is warm. Steady. Like she’s grounding me to something I didn’t know I needed.
I turn to look at her—really look—and she just squeezes my hand once, gently. As if to say, I see you.
And in that moment, it hits me.
This is the kind of place she grew up in.
This noise. This warmth. These people who scold you while serving your favorite dish. Who bicker like children and love like adults. Who tease and protect and sit shoulder to shoulder even when there isn’t enough space.
She was safe here.
She was loved here.
No cold corridors. No distant voices behind locked doors. No rules that only pretended to resemble care.
Only this—too many people, too many opinions, too much food—and exactly the right amount of love.
And I’m glad. God, I’m glad she had this.
I look at her again. Her eyes crinkle just a little, like she knows what I’m thinking. And still, she doesn’t let go.
“Abhimaan,” Aditi’s mom calls out, “You haven’t tasted the kheer yet! Wait, I’ll get you some.”
Before I can protest, she’s already in the kitchen.
Behind me, Aditi snorts. “Oh, now you’re officially family. Once Ma offers you kheer, there’s no going back.”
I shake my head, laughing quietly, and Rudraksh—still feeding Rudrani, still watching—gives me that same measured look.
I know that look.
I’d wear it too if it were my sister sitting next to someone like me.
But Aditi’s hand is still in mine.
And something in my chest loosens.
This is what family looks like.
Loud. Clumsy. Tangled.
But real.
And for the first time in a long, long while—I don’t feel like I’m looking in from outside a window, feeling jealous over some family as I see a mother feed their kid food, or a father who bought his child’s favorite toy.
That was how my childhood was, envious of other kids.
But right now, I feel like I’ve been let in.
Just a little. And that… that’s enough for now.