FIRST DAY
ANAMIKA
I've fixed Sara's school uniform three times already. Not because it needs fixing. It doesn't. The tiny pleats are perfectly in place, the shirt is neatly ironed, and I've already checked twice to make sure every button is fastened properly.
Still, I smooth invisible creases from the fabric with my palms, unfold it, and fold it all over again. My hands need something to do. Otherwise they'll betray how nervous I actually am.
It's ridiculous, really.
This isn't Sara's first first day. There was the tiny anganwadi we enrolled her in after moving to Mumbai. The little crèche tucked between two apartment buildings where I used to leave her while working double shifts.
I've done this before. I've survived this before. So why does today feel different?
Maybe because this isn't temporary. Maybe because this school feels . . . real.
When we finally stop outside the gates, I find myself staring at the old stone signboard mounted beside them. Its faded letters have probably welcomed generations of children long before Sara was born.
Parents must have stood exactly where I'm standing now, worrying over children who eventually grew up and walked through these gates without looking back. The thought makes my chest unexpectedly tight.
Yuvaan insisted on coming with us this morning.
I almost argued. Old habits die slowly.
For years every school admission, every doctor's appointment, every parent meeting had been mine alone. There had never been anyone beside me to share those ordinary responsibilities. A part of me still automatically assumes there won't be.
Thankfully . . . he ignored that part of me.
Now he walks beside us toward the school entrance with Sara's tiny hand tucked comfortably inside his much larger one. I trail half a step behind, quietly watching them. The sight still feels new enough to steal my breath.
The Maharaja of Devgarh has unconsciously slowed his stride to match the pace of a five-year-old. Sara is explaining something very important about her brand-new shoes.
Apparently they squeak. She isn't sure whether that's a manufacturing defect or an exciting feature. Yuvaan listens with complete seriousness, nodding thoughtfully as though she's presenting him with an engineering problem that deserves immediate attention.
I smile before I even realise I'm doing it. Just before we reach the school gate, he stops walking. "Come here, Princess."
Sara immediately lets go of his hand. "What?"
Instead of answering, he slips one hand into the pocket of his jacket. When he brings it back out . . . A single rose rests between his fingers.
Fresh.
Red.
Tiny droplets of water still cling to the petals.
He must have cut it from the palace garden this morning. He kneels until they're eye level before holding it out with a quiet ceremony. "Flower number two."
Sara gasps dramatically. "What?"
He smiles. "We've already collected a daisy." He gently places the rose into her waiting hands. "And now . . . a rose."
She accepts it with both hands as though she's receiving a royal honour. Immediately inspecting every petal. Every leaf. Thankfully there’s no thorns. Finally she nods. "I like this one."
"I thought you might." She grins.
Then, without a word, tilts her head toward him. The movement is so instinctive that I don't even understand what's happening until his hand reaches up. He brushes one loose strand of hair gently behind her ear.
My breath catches.
Sara freezes. Not because she's uncomfortable.
Because she lets him. She doesn't pull away. She doesn't wrinkle her nose. She doesn't complain. She simply stands there.
Perfectly content. For two years . . . no one except me has been allowed to touch her hair.
Not teachers. Not neighbours. Not affectionate aunties who believed every child enjoyed being fussed over.
Sara always politely stepped away. "My hair." She'd say seriously. "My rules."
I'd learnt to laugh about it. Eventually everyone else had too. Yet here she is . . . standing absolutely still while Yuvaan smooths her hair back with effortless familiarity. As though she's never known there was a rule at all.
Something inside me aches unexpectedly. Not painfully. Just . . . Softly.
Because somehow, without either of us noticing exactly when it happened . . . He has quietly found his place in parts of her world I never imagined anyone else would be invited into.
Sara studies the rose one last time before looking up at him again. Her expression suddenly grows serious. "Mister."
"Hm?"
"You'll take care of Mumma while I'm in school?" The question is asked with complete sincerity. Like she's assigning someone an important responsibility. He doesn't laugh. Doesn't tease. Doesn't brush it aside.
He answers her with exactly the same seriousness. "I always will." Their eyes meet for one silent heartbeat. Some tiny agreement passes between them. One that doesn't need words. I look away before either of them notices my eyes stinging.
The teacher at the gate calls for the new admissions.
It's time.
Sara slips her little hand out of Yuvaan's.
She immediately finds mine. We walk the final few steps together.
I kneel in front of her one last time. Straighten her collar.
Even though it doesn't need straightening.
Smooth down her sleeves. Even though they're perfectly fine.
Adjust her hair. Even though it's exactly how it should be.
Anything to delay letting go.
"You'll have so much fun." I smile at her. "You already know how brave you are."
She nods. Completely confident. As though she's the one reassuring me. "I know."
Of course she does.
Then she hugs me. Quickly. Tightly. Before turning around and marching confidently toward her classroom without the slightest hesitation.
I watch her go. She doesn't look back. Not once. I laugh softly to myself.
Of course she doesn't.
That's my girl.
Halfway through the doorway . . . She suddenly stops. Spins around. And waves at us with both arms. So enthusiastically that I laugh through the sting gathering behind my eyes.
I wave back until she disappears into the corridor. Only then do I finally lower my hand. Only then do I realise how tightly I've been holding myself together since we left home.
My shoulders slowly relax.
Beside me, Yuvaan waits quietly.
He doesn't rush the moment. He doesn't fill the silence. He simply stands there with me. When he finally speaks, his voice is warm enough to make me smile before I've even processed the words. "Come on."
I glance at him.
"Let's go eat ice cream."
The suggestion is so wonderfully ordinary that I actually laugh. "Ice cream?"
He shrugs. "Our daughter started school." He says it as though that naturally explains everything. "I think that deserves a celebration."
The words wrap themselves around my heart before I can stop them.
Our daughter.
He says it so effortlessly now. As though he has always belonged in that sentence. He notices my smile. Then study me for another second. "You're already missing her."
It's not really a question. I don't bother pretending otherwise. I nod. My lower lip probably does something embarrassingly childish because amusement flickers across his face. "She's all I have."
The confession leaves quietly. "So . . . " I look back toward the school gates. "It feels strange." I laugh weakly. "Not being able to check whether she's alright every five minutes."
"I know." His answer comes almost immediately. Something passes briefly across his face. Gone before I can understand it. Then he smiles. "But . . . " His voice softens. "You have me now."
Such a simple sentence. Four ordinary words. Yet somehow . . . they settle deep inside me.
Before I can think of a reply, he reaches over. His fingers gently find mine. No hesitation. No awkwardness. No grand gesture.
He simply takes my hand. As though this has always been where it belongs. As though he isn't even aware he's done it. And then . . .He starts walking toward the waiting car . . . Still holding my hand.
I let him. I don't trust myself to speak. Every bit of my attention has narrowed to one impossibly small thing. His hand around mine. Warm. Steady. Certain.
I glance down once. Then again. Just to make sure it's real.
Two people. Walking side by side down an ordinary road.
On their way to eat ice cream because their daughter started school.
Nothing about the moment is extraordinary.
And somehow . . . Everything about it is.
A month ago I couldn't have imagined this life even if someone had asked me to.
Now I'm living it. Slowly. Carefully. One ordinary morning at a time. I look at our joined hands again, a smile finding me before I can stop it. And for the first time in years . . . I allow myself one dangerous, beautiful thought.
I hope this isn't a dream.
Because if it is . . . I'd like to stay asleep just a little while longer.