PLEASE GO
YUVAAN
The first sign is so small that, for a moment, none of us think much of it. Sara pushes away her lunch plate.
Normally, that wouldn't mean much with most children.
With Sara, it's enough to make everyone at the table look up.
Food has always been one of life's greatest joys to her.
I've watched her negotiate for extra dessert with the confidence of an experienced lawyer and declare three different breakfasts "the best breakfast ever" in the span of a single week.
Seeing her leave half her favourite meal untouched doesn't fit. I notice her pressing a hand against her stomach just as Anamika does. She's beside her before I can even push my chair back. "What happened, sweetheart?" Her voice is calm, but I can hear the worry tucked underneath it.
She crouches in front of Sara immediately, brushing loose strands of hair away from her forehead before resting the back of her hand against it.
No fever.
She checks again anyway. Then her palm moves gently to Sara's stomach. "Does it hurt here?"
Sara nods a little. "Just a little." She curls instinctively toward her mother. "I think . . . I ate too fast."
Anamika doesn't answer straight away. She presses lightly again, asking where exactly it hurts, watching every tiny expression that crosses Sara's face with the kind of attention only mothers seem capable of.
I've seen this look before. The world narrows until only one person exists. Everything else disappears. The same look when her blood sugar dropped. The same look in the bookshop after the man with the buzz cut walked in. Fear never freezes her. It makes her move.Think. Fix.
"I think we should call the doctor," she says quietly. Her hand finds Sara's forehead again as though a fever might have appeared in the last thirty seconds. "Just to be safe."
"Mumma . . . " Sara's voice is softer than usual. "I'm okay." She shifts slightly against the cushions. A tiny wince slips across her face before she can hide it. Anamika catches it immediately.
"So that's a no."
"It only hurts a little."
"You never stop eating halfway through lunch."
Sara looks down at the untouched plate. " . . . I know."
"I'd rather overreact than ignore something important."
Sara sighs dramatically. "I just want to lie down."
"I know."
"I'll feel better after sleeping."
"I know."
"So . . . " Hope appears in Sara's eyes. " . . . can we still go to the fair later?"
Anamika's expression changes almost imperceptibly. The answer is already there before she speaks. "No." She sits beside Sara on the cushions and gently pulls her closer. "We're staying here."
Sara blinks. "But—"
"We'll go another day."
"Mumma."
"I mean it."
Sara's shoulders slump. "I don't want you to miss it because of me."
"It's only a fair."
"But you wanted to go too."
Anamika smiles faintly. "My favourite place is wherever you're feeling better."
Sara shakes her head stubbornly. "No. You've been excited all morning."
"I've been excited because you were excited."
"Mumma . . . " Her lower lip starts to wobble. "You promised."
"I promised we'd go when everyone was alright."
"I'm alright."
"You pushed away your favourite food."
"I wasn't hungry."
"You've never not been hungry." Sara opens her mouth.
Closes it again. She knows she's lost that particular argument.
The conversation circles like that for several minutes.
Sara insisting she's well enough. Anamika refusing to move an inch away from her.
Neither of them raising their voice. Neither giving way.
Watching them, I slowly realise they're arguing about two entirely different things.
Anamika thinks she's protecting her daughter. Sara thinks she's ruining her mother's afternoon. Children have a remarkable way of blaming themselves for things no one else ever would. And guilt . . . Guilt has a familiar shape. I've seen it on Anamika's face often enough to recognise it now.
The quiet belief that her needs to inconvenience other people. Somehow . . . Without meaning to . . . Sara has learned the same lesson. I can't let that stay. I crouch beside them. Anamika looks at me expectantly. She's already certain I'll agree with her.
"Let's go."
She stares. "What?"
"Half an hour."
Her eyebrows draw together. "Yuvaan . . . "
"We'll go." I glance at Sara. "Half an hour." Then back to Anamika. "We'll be back before she even wakes up."
Her expression hardens. "She's unwell."
"I know."
"I'm not leaving her."
"I know."
She looks almost offended that I'm pushing. I lower my voice. "Look at her."
Anamika frowns. "I am looking at her."
"No." I shake my head gently. "Really look." Her eyes move back to Sara. This time she notices what I'd hoped she would. The tiny crease between Sara's eyebrows. The anxious way she's studying her mother's face. The hesitation. The guilt.
Not pain.
Guilt.
I see the exact moment Anamika understands. Her shoulders soften. Just a little. "She thinks she's stopping us," I murmur quietly. "I don't want her carrying that." Anamika closes her eyes briefly.
When she opens them again, she's no longer looking at me. She's looking only at Sara. "Oh, sweetheart . . . " Sara immediately shakes her head. "I'm okay."
"I know why you're saying that."
"No . . . "
"You don't have to feel bad."
"I just . . . " Sara's voice grows very small. "I wanted you to have fun." My chest tightens. Children shouldn't know sacrifice this early. They certainly shouldn't feel responsible for it. Before either of us can say anything else, Maa appears in the doorway.
She pauses only long enough to understand what's happening. Then she walks straight over. "I'll stay." She lowers herself onto the cushions beside Sara as though she'd planned to spend the afternoon there all along.
Anamika looks up immediately. "I don't think—"
"I raised two boys." Maa smiles. "And a palace full of stubborn people." She gently strokes Sara's hair. "I think I can manage one little stomach ache."
"But—" She looks directly at Anamika.
"Go."
"I'll only worry."
"You'll worry whether you're here or at the fair." That earns the smallest reluctant smile. "At least let me give you something else to think about for half an hour."
Anamika still hesitates. Maa reaches over and takes her hand. "So many years," she says softly. "You've carried everything alone."
"Let someone carry one afternoon." The room grows quiet. Sara looks hopefully between the two women. Then, deciding diplomacy has failed often enough, she joins in.
"Mumma . . . " She smiles weakly. "Dadi's here." The word slips out naturally. Without thought. Without effort.
Maa's entire face lights up for just a second before she hides it behind a composed smile. Sara doesn't even notice. "Go." She nudges Anamika's hand. "And bring me something sweet."
That finally earns a laugh. A small one. But a real one. Anamika looks at me. Then back at Sara. Then at Maa. I can almost see the battle happening inside her. Every instinct she's built over years is telling her not to leave. Every instinct she's slowly learning here is asking her to trust.
It's harder than people realise. Learning to accept help. Sometimes it's much harder than surviving without it. Finally . . . She nods. "Half an hour." She looks directly at me. Not at the room. Not at anyone else. Just me. There's trust in that look. Still fragile. Still careful. But real.
"Half an hour," she repeats.
"I promise." I don't hesitate. "We'll be back before then." She kneels one last time in front of Sara, brushing a kiss across her forehead before whispering something only the two of them hear. Sara smiles instantly. Whatever she says is enough.
Anamika stands slowly. She smooths the front of the borrowed kurta with nervous fingers before taking one deep breath. "Okay." The word comes out quietly. " . . . Let's go."
I reach for her hand without thinking. She lets me. As we walk toward the door, I glance back once.
Maa is already halfway through what appears to be an extremely dramatic story involving a monkey, three laddoos and an angry priest.
Sara is laughing. Actually laughing. The hand she'd been pressing against her stomach moments ago is now waving animatedly through the air as she interrupts with questions.
I smile to myself. Sometimes children don't only need medicine. Sometimes they need distraction.
Love.
The certainty that the people they love will come back. I tighten my fingers around Anamika's hand ever so slightly as we step outside into the afternoon sunlight.
Thirty minutes. That's all she'd agreed to. Thirty minutes to remind a woman who's forgotten how that feels . . . that she's allowed to be someone's priority too.