DADI
ANAMIKA
My suitcase, it seems, has decided to develop a personality of its own.
It still hasn't arrived.
Apparently, after yesterday's confusion with the cars taking different routes, it is somewhere between here and the estate, stubbornly refusing to reunite with its owner. Which leaves me walking into breakfast wearing yet another one of Yuvaan's white cotton kurtas.
The sleeves are rolled twice over just to free my hands, the hem brushes almost to my ankles, and despite myself, I catch the faint scent of sandalwood every time I move.
It should feel awkward. Instead, somewhere between last night and this morning, I've become just comfortable enough in it to stop tugging at the fabric every few seconds.
Almost.
"Mumma," Sara announces the second I pull out my chair, her eyes lighting up as though she's just made an important discovery, "you look so pretty in Mister's clothes."
I freeze halfway through sitting down. Heat rushes to my face so quickly it almost makes me laugh.
Children really do have a terrifying talent for saying exactly the thing adults spend all their energy trying not to acknowledge.
Across the table, Amma Saheba smiles into her cup of tea.
"She really does." There's far too much satisfaction in her voice.
She exchanges a glance with Sara. A very suspicious glance. I narrow my eyes at both of them. "It was either this," I say, reaching for the teapot with exaggerated concentration, "or sleeping in yesterday's clothes."
"Hm."
Amma Saheba nods thoughtfully. "That explains the kurta."
I relax. Then she adds, perfectly innocently—"It doesn't explain why you're glowing."
I nearly spill my tea. "I am not glowing."
"You are a little," Sara says helpfully before taking a bite of toast. I close my eyes for a brief second. Wonderful. Now there are two of them.
"I'm not glowing," I repeat, though the words sound considerably less convincing the second time. Neither of them looks remotely persuaded. Before either can continue, a familiar voice comes from behind me.
"Stop troubling my wife." I turn instinctively. Yuvaan is walking toward the table, fastening the cuff of his shirt as though he hasn't just casually destroyed whatever composure I had left before breakfast.
My wife.
He says it so naturally. No hesitation. No self-consciousness. No emphasis. Just . . . my wife.
Like it's become the simplest truth in his vocabulary.
Something inside me stumbles. It's ridiculous how much two ordinary words can undo me.
He doesn't seem to notice. Or perhaps he notices and kindly pretends he doesn't. By the time he reaches the table, he's already crouching beside Sara's chair. His hand disappears behind his back.
A second later, he reveals today's flower.
A bright red hibiscus. He presents it with all the seriousness of a royal ceremony.
"Flower number . . . " He pauses thoughtfully before looking at Sara.
" . . . I've honestly lost count, Princess.
" Sara gasps dramatically before accepting it in both hands.
"Me too." She carefully tucks it behind her ear, patting it into place with enormous concentration. "There." She beams. "Perfect."
He nods solemnly. "Definitely." I watch them without saying anything.
It has become such an ordinary part of our mornings now that no one comments on it anymore.
Every single day. Without fail. A different flower.
The promise had begun almost accidentally—the sort of thing adults say to make a cautious child smile.
Most people would've forgotten by the third morning.
Yuvaan never did. Not once. Not even on days he left before sunrise for meetings.
Somehow, there was always another flower waiting.
I don't even think he sees it as keeping a promise anymore.
It's simply become part of who he is. Like breathing.
Like remembering to lock the study before bed.
Small things matter to him. Always have.
He remembers people's tea exactly the way they like it.
Birthdays nobody else remembers. Favourite books.
Offhand conversations from years ago. Dreams sketched on the back page of an old notebook.
Sometimes I wonder what it must feel like to move through the world carrying so much of other people inside your memory.
Then I remember . . . I've lived inside his memory for years without even knowing it.
My fingers tighten unconsciously around my teacup.
I look at Sara, happily adjusting her hibiscus in the reflection of the window, and then at Yuvaan quietly buttering her toast because she's become distracted again.
An unexpected thought settles gently somewhere inside me.
If I'd spent the rest of my life searching .
. . I still don't think I could've found her a better father.
The realization doesn't arrive dramatically.
It simply slips quietly into place. It's not only the way he loves her.
It's the way he loves everyone entrusted to him.
As a son, he carries his mother's guilt more gently than she carries it herself.
As an elder brother, he lets Kairav win arguments he could settle in seconds, simply because seeing him laugh seems more important.
As a king . . . My chest tightens. I remember Kairav telling me about the council meeting.
About thirty influential men learning exactly what happened if they dared speak about me with anything less than respect.
I remember the buzz-cut disappearing from every member of staff within days without anyone ever telling me why.
I remember the bookshop. The school fees.
The flowers. The breakfasts. The way he catches every burden before I even admit I'm carrying it.
He has always loved through actions. Never announcements. Never speeches.
And perhaps . . . Perhaps that's why I believed him so easily all those years ago, even before I understood what love actually looked like.
"Sara." Amma Saheba laughs softly. "You were telling your mother something."
"Oh!" Sara immediately remembers. "Dadi told me there's a fair nearby."
My thoughts come to a complete stop.
Dadi.
Not Amma Saheba. Not the careful title she'd been using all week.
The word slips out so naturally she doesn't even seem aware she's said anything different.
I slowly lower my teacup. Across the table, Amma Saheba's expression doesn't change.
Which tells me everything. This isn't the first time she's heard it.
She simply smiles into her tea, pretending not to notice the silence that's settled around the table.
My eyes move to Yuvaan. He's staring at Sara with the exact same surprise I'm sure is written across my own face. His expression softens so quickly it almost hurts to witness. There's something vulnerable there.
Something that belongs more to the little boy who always wanted a family than the Maharaja sitting at this breakfast table. Sara, blissfully unaware she's just rearranged everyone's hearts before breakfast, continues enthusiastically.
"Dadi said there'll be a Ferris wheel." She counts excitedly on her fingers.
"And colourful cotton candy."
"And balloons."
"And games."
She gasps.
"And tiny horses."
Then she clasps both hands dramatically beneath her chin. "Mister . . . " I know that expression. We're all doomed. "Please?"
He doesn't even pretend to think about it. "If my Princess wants to go to the fair . . . " His smile reaches all the way into his eyes. " . . . then we'll go."
Sara squeals. The chair scrapes loudly across the floor before she's out of it completely. A second later she's climbing into his lap with complete confidence, wrapping both arms around his neck. "Thank you!"
She kisses his cheek with noisy enthusiasm before launching into an explanation about exactly which ride they'll go on first. He laughs, holding her securely with one arm while trying very unsuccessfully to follow the speed of her words.
I sit quietly with my forgotten tea. The room buzzes with conversation around me.
Amma Saheba asks whether they'll need hats because the afternoon sun will be strong.
Sara immediately decides everyone should wear matching hats.
Yuvaan somehow gets appointed responsible for buying them before he's even agreed.
Kairav wanders in halfway through the discussion and accidentally volunteers himself for carrying snacks. The whole table dissolves into cheerful chaos. And I . . . I simply watch. A strange warmth spreads through my chest.
Not relief. I've mistaken relief for happiness often enough over the last seven years to know the difference now.
Relief is finally reaching shore after nearly drowning.
This . . . .This feels lighter. Quieter. Like standing in sunlight after forgetting how warm it could be. My daughter is laughing. The woman she now calls Dadi is laughing with her. The man beside them looks happier than I've seen him in years.
And somehow . . . Somewhere along the way . . . It has all started feeling like home. I don't question it. I don't ruin it by wondering how long it will last.
For once, I simply let myself sit there in a borrowed kurta, surrounded by voices that somehow belong to me now, and accept the happiness exactly as it arrives.
Because the walls I've spent years building around my heart are no longer collapsing all at once. They're disappearing quietly. One brick at a time.
And for the first time . . . I'm no longer trying to rebuild them.