CHAPTER 34
ADITI
I’m sitting on the swing in the backyard, the sun lazily pouring gold onto the marigold bushes, when I hear the soft murmurs of Anika and Bhabhi talking in the verandah.
I know they’re talking about me. I don’t need to hear the exact words to guess the conversation.
It’s in the way their voices dip into concern.
The way Bhabhi has peeked at me from the kitchen doorway at least four times.
The way Anika has been unusually gentle, almost like she’s handling glass.
They know something’s wrong.
Of course they do.
They’ve known me for years—Bhabhi since she married Bhai, and Anika... well, she’s been like an elder sister long before she officially became one. There’s no faking it with them. Especially not now, when my eyes are probably still puffy from crying in the car the entire ride back home.
I had come back in the afternoon and met everyone.
Maa shed a few tears and clutched my face as though she was checking for cracks.
“You’ve lost weight,” she’d said, her voice breaking.
And despite the emptiness in my stomach, I had been force-fed everything from aloo-pyaaz kachori to halwa because apparently being emotionally wrecked wasn’t enough—I had to be physically stuffed too.
Badi Maa had scolded me like I was still a teenager sneaking in past curfew. “You’re in Jaipur and didn’t inform us? Are we strangers now, Aditi?”
No. You’re not strangers.
I am.
Anika appears in the doorway now, dressed in a casual kurti and jeans, tying her hair into a bun.
Bhabhi trails behind her, already pulling out the car keys from the drawer.
Rudrani is sitting cross-legged on the carpet nearby, building towers with wooden blocks, her tiny fingers working with precision only a five-year-old can afford to have during playtime.
Anika’s eyes flicker to me, soft and searching. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? We’re going to the market. Just a small run for groceries.”
I shake my head without looking up.
Bhabhi crosses her arms and leans against the wall. “You could use some fresh air.”
“I’m okay,” I reply, voice hollow.
Neither of them buys it. Of course they don’t.
They exchange one of those secret looks women share when they’re both helpless and frustrated but know when to give someone space. I can almost hear them silently saying, "Let her be." She’ll talk when she’s ready.
“I’ll stay back with Rudrani,” I add quickly, glancing at Rudrani, who perks up at the mention of her name.
“Okay,” Anika says gently. “Call if you need anything.”
I nod, and they leave.
The silence settles in like an old cardigan—familiar, heavy, and a bit suffocating.
I walk over to Rudrani, kneeling down beside her. She’s wearing a pink frock with unicorns on it and a tiny clip shaped like a strawberry in her hair. She beams up at me as though I’m her favorite person in the world. Maybe I am. Maybe she’s mine too.
“Want to help me build a castle?” she asks.
“Of course,” I say, trying to force the smile, because she deserves at least that much.
We spend the next few minutes stacking blocks.
Hers are carefully aligned—a mix of logic and imagination—and mine are.
.. Well, I’m just placing them wherever, pretending my brain isn't stuck replaying this morning like a scratched record. Me walking out of the room, the look Abhimaan had on his face—I can’t remember how he looked.
Was he hurt too? Was he okay with me walking away? Did he want me to stop?
“Bua, you made it fall!” Rudrani cries dramatically as our tiny tower collapses.
“Oops.” I try to chuckle, but it catches in my throat.
She narrows her eyes at me, scooting closer. “Why are your eyes red?”
I blink. Kids. They see everything.
I shake my head. “Nothing. I’m just tired.”
She doesn't look convinced. Not even a little. She tilts her head and then, so gently, places her small palm on my cheek.
“You're sad.”
I want to tell her I’m okay, but the words die before they form.
It just... slips. The grief. The weight of disappointment. The sharp sting of being found out and the deeper, duller ache of not being chosen—it all crashes through me. My chest caves before I can stop it, and I press the heel of my palm against my eye like that might hold the tears back.
But it’s useless.
The first sob escapes—low and broken—and I try to turn away from her, but Rudrani crawls right into my lap and wraps her tiny arms around my neck.
And that just makes me cry harder.
Not the loud, messy sobbing. No, this is quiet. Almost painful in its silence. My whole body trembles as I cling to this little girl like she’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
“It’s okay,” she whispers, her hand stroking my hair. “Don’t cry, Bua. Did someone scold you?”
I laugh through my tears. “Something like that.”
“I’ll fight them,” she declares with all the bravery of a five-year-old superhero. “Just tell me who. I’ll go and throw a tomato at their face.”
That makes me laugh. A real one this time. Small, cracked, but real.
“You’d do that for me?” I sniffle.
She nods solemnly. “You’re my favorite Bua.”
“I am your only Bua, you silly kid.” I pull her into a tight hug, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Her hair smells like strawberry shampoo and innocence.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” I whisper.
“You didn’t,” she says. “Even superheroes cry.”
I close my eyes. “Mumma cries too; she cried yesterday when she couldn’t find her notebook she writes in,” she explains. “Papa spent the entire night finding it, only to find it below her pillow,” she giggles.
God. She’s so cute.
I wish I could stay in this moment forever. Just here, in this warm house, in this tiny embrace, away from the politics of my surname and the battlefield of unspoken feelings.
Because what happened today… it broke something in me. I thought we were building something. Something quiet, unspoken, but solid.
But maybe he was just humoring the Malhotra princess in disguise. Maybe all those evenings we spent working together, every conversation, every look, every slight smile—maybe it all meant nothing to him.
Maybe I was just a project to him. A liability he managed.
I rest my chin on Rudrani’s head, tightening my hold on her.
How stupid was I to think someone could like me for me?
Not because I’m a Malhotra. Not because I carry the weight of that surname like a damn curse. But just for me—for the late nights, the sarcastic comments, and the soft silences between two people who slowly stopped hating each other.
I hate this. I hate feeling like this.
“Bua,” Rudrani whispers again. “Are you better now?”
“A little,” I say softly.
She nods. “Let’s draw something. Mamma keeps my crayons in that drawer.”
I wipe my face, already feeling the tears dry uncomfortably on my skin. “Okay.”
We sit together, sprawled on the floor. She draws a house, and then a sun, and then stick figures—“This is me, and this is you,” she says, labeling them. “And this is us throwing tomatoes at the bad people.”
I smile, grabbing a crayon to help her color the sky purple.
And in that moment—silly, tender, healing—I feel like I can breathe again. I’m still broken. Still bruised. But not alone. Not here. And for now, that’s enough.