M-I-L
ANAMIKA
By the time I reach Amma Saheba's wing, my stomach has tied itself into a dozen impossible knots. It reminds me of being twelve years old again. Back then, being called to her rooms usually meant one thing. Yuvaan and I had done something we absolutely weren't supposed to.
More often than not, it had been his idea. Somehow, I'd always ended up standing beside him anyway. I still remember those long walks to her sitting room, both of us rehearsing increasingly ridiculous excuses that never fooled anyone.
It's much worse. I'm walking toward my mother-in-law.
The thought alone feels surreal.
Sara, meanwhile, is completely unbothered.
She insisted on wearing the purple frock she'd picked herself this morning and rejected every other option I suggested with the unwavering confidence of someone absolutely certain she possesses flawless fashion sense.
She skips a few steps ahead of me, humming happily to herself, stopping every now and then to admire something that catches her attention before running ahead again.
Watching her, I can't help smiling. This palace already feels familiar to her. Comfortable. In some strange twist of fate . . . I suppose my childhood home is her home now too. The thought still feels too enormous to hold. As we walk, my mind keeps circling the same fear.
Maybe this is the conversation. The one I've quietly been preparing myself for ever since the wedding. Amma Saheba was never cruel. Not once. Not to me. Not to anyone, as far as I ever saw.
But she expected excellence from the people she loved. Especially from Yuvaan. Growing up, I'd lost count of the evenings he'd come looking for me after another lesson on royal protocol.
His shoulders would be stiff. His jaw locked. Some fresh lecture about posture, etiquette, diplomacy, or the proper way to greet visiting dignitaries still echoing in his head.
I'd drag him out through the back gardens.
We'd sit beneath the old neem tree eating hot jalebis from the market until the crease between his brows finally disappeared.
I never blamed her for any of it. Even then.
She wasn't trying to make his life difficult.
She was preparing him for a world that would never forgive him for making mistakes.
It was the only way she knew how to protect him. I understood that. Even as a child. Even when I hated seeing how lonely it sometimes made him. Which is exactly why . . . a part of me has been expecting disappointment.
Not anger.
Not cruelty.
Something quieter.
A carefully hidden disapproval. After all .
. . I'm the daughter of the palace housekeeper.
I left years ago chasing dreams. I came back carrying a child and far more questions than answers.
If anyone had reason to believe her son deserved someone .
. . simpler . . . Someone easier . . . Someone without a complicated past . . . It would be her.
I draw in a slow breath before stepping onto the veranda.
The sight waiting for me stops me in my tracks.
Amma Saheba is already seated at a small wrought-iron table beneath a canopy of flowering bougainvillea.
Sunlight filters gently through the pink blossoms overhead, scattering soft patches of light across the white tablecloth.
Tea has already been laid out. Porcelain cups. Fresh snacks. A plate of biscuits.
Everything arranged with quiet care. As though she'd been looking forward to this. Before I can even greet her, she notices Sara. Her entire face lights up. Not politely. Not out of obligation. Genuinely.
"There you are!" The warmth in her voice catches me completely off guard.
Sara doesn't hesitate for even a second. She marches straight toward the table with the confidence only children possess, her attention immediately settling on the plate of biscuits. Apparently priorities remain priorities.
Amma Saheba laughs softly before pulling out the chair beside her. "Come." She pats the seat affectionately. "I'll tell you which biscuits are the best."
Sara climbs up without the slightest hint of shyness.
Within seconds they're discussing biscuits with complete seriousness.
I remain standing for another moment, quietly watching them.
Then I take the chair opposite. Relief mixes strangely with confusion somewhere inside me.
This . . . isn't what I'd prepared for. Of course, Sara doesn't allow peaceful conversations to last very long.
She leans toward Amma Saheba with exaggerated secrecy.
Then announces loudly enough for the entire veranda to hear—"Mumma cried today. "
My soul leaves my body. I close my eyes. Just briefly. "Sara . . . "
"She did." Sara nods confidently. "While brushing her hair." I can actually feel heat rushing into my face.
"It wasn't—"
I clear my throat. "There was . . . " I search desperately for something believable. " . . . an eyelash." I lie because what am I supposed to say? That her son made breakfast for me and I have been so desperate for him that it made me tear up? That would be very embarrassing.
"An eyelash?"
"Yes."
"It went into my eye."
Amma Saheba laughs. A full, genuine laugh that immediately eases the embarrassment threatening to swallow me whole. She reaches across the table and pats my hand gently. "I'm sure."
I know she doesn't believe me. Mercifully . . . She doesn't say so. Sara, having completed today's mission of exposing every family secret she knows, immediately loses interest in the adults.
Only then do I notice the little play corner arranged a short distance away. Wooden blocks. A colouring book. Fresh crayons. A stuffed elephant almost as big as she is.
Someone prepared all of this. For her. Sara lets out a delighted gasp before hurrying over. Within moments she's sitting cross-legged on the floor, completely absorbed in building something wonderfully complicated out of wooden blocks.
Amma Saheba watches her quietly. Something changes in her expression. It softens. "She has your mother's eyes." The words are spoken almost to herself. I follow her gaze toward Sara. "Your mother used to sit exactly like that." She smiles faintly. "Whenever she had a few free minutes."
I blink. "I didn't know."
"No?"
She shakes her head gently. "I'd forgotten myself.
" Her eyes remain on Sara. "Until today.
" For a moment . . . Neither of us speaks.
The ache inside my chest feels strangely different now.
Softer. Because she'd just given me something I never knew I was missing.
A memory of Maa. One that belonged to someone else's heart until today.
She pours the tea herself. Not the attendant waiting discreetly nearby. Her own hands. She passes one cup toward me with an apologetic little smile. "I remember you." I look up. "You were always with Yuvaan." A laugh escapes her. "The two of you rarely arrived anywhere clean."
I can't help smiling. "We got into trouble quite a lot."
"You certainly did."
I lower my eyes. "I probably caused most of it."
She looks at me over the rim of her teacup. "No." The answer comes without hesitation. "You got him out of far more trouble than you ever got him into."
I stare.
She smiles knowingly. "You look surprised."
"I . . . "
"I knew my son." She stirs her tea slowly.
"He was lonely." The word settles quietly between us.
"No amount of tutors, etiquette lessons, or responsibilities ever changed that.
" She sighs softly. "I kept trying to prepare him for the crown.
" Her smile turns bittersweet. "But what he needed wasn't another lesson.
" She looks directly at me. "He needed someone who looked at him and saw a boy.
Not a prince. Not a future Maharaja. Simply . . . Yuvaan. And you did."
A lump forms unexpectedly in my throat. "For years . . . " She smiles to herself. "I watched it happen before I finally understood what I was seeing."
I don't know how to answer. Every response feels too small.
So I simply wrap both hands around my teacup, letting its warmth anchor me.
She notices my silence immediately. "You don't need to be uncomfortable.
" She sighs, "I'm not scolding you." She laughs softly.
"I never did. Even when people whispered.
" My eyes lift to hers. She reaches across the table and gently takes my hand.
Her grip is warm. Steady. Only the faint tremor in her fingers betrays the passing years.
"Amma Saheba . . . "
"Thank you." The words stop me completely. She squeezes my hand once. "Thank you . . . " Her smile grows gentler. " . . . for coming back." Time seems to hesitate. For a second, I simply look at her.
The kindness in her voice washes over me before the meaning catches up.
Then . . . The sentence settles properly.
Thank you for coming back.
My breath catches. Something deep inside me stills. She didn't say I'm sorry you had to come back.
She didn't say I'm glad you're here.
She thanked me. As though I'd returned by choice.
As though this meant something more than unemployment, unpaid bills, and having nowhere else left to go.
As though she'd been waiting. She has already turned back toward Sara now, smiling as my daughter proudly adds another block to the increasingly unstable tower she's building.
The conversation moves forward naturally. But mine doesn't. I sit quietly, my tea slowly cooling between my hands, replaying those five simple words again and again.
Thank you for coming back.
The sentence refuses to leave me alone.
Because people don't thank someone for returning unless they've been hoping they would.
And suddenly . . . I can't stop wondering.
What exactly does Amma Saheba know . . . that I don't?