THE FAIR
YUVAAN
Somewhere nearby, a generator drones steadily beneath the music blaring from old speakers.
Strings of coloured lights sway overhead in the evening breeze.
A man at a cotton candy stall is enthusiastically advertising three different colours as though he's offering something revolutionary, while children squeal from the Ferris wheel every time it reaches the top.
The whole place smells like roasted corn, frying oil, sugar and dust, all tangled together into something oddly familiar.
Anamika walks beside me through the crowd, but she isn't really here. Not completely.
Within minutes, I notice the pattern. Her gaze keeps drifting back in the direction of the estate as though she can somehow see through fields and trees if she tries hard enough.
Every few steps, her fingers reach automatically for her phone, checking the screen even though it hasn't vibrated once since we left.
I understand it.
I'd be lying if I said my own thoughts weren't wandering back to Sara every now and then.
A small stomach ache shouldn't unsettle me this much, and yet I keep replaying lunch in my head anyway.
The way she pushed her plate away. The tiny crease between her brows.
The way Anamika's face changed the instant she realised something was wrong.
Still . . . we're here. And half an hour is half an hour. Besides, there's something about Anamika I don't think even she remembers anymore.
She has always loved fairs.
Not politely. Not because someone else wanted to come.
She genuinely loved them—the noise, the food, the games, all of it.
I can still picture a younger version of her tugging impatiently at my sleeve, determined to visit every single stall before we went home, somehow spending both our pocket money long before we'd even reached the halfway point.
"You used to love this," I say, nodding toward the bhel puri stall as the sharp smell of tamarind and green chillies reaches us. "You'd eat food so spicy your eyes would water, and then insist nothing was wrong."
"I was fine," she says automatically. The denial comes far too quickly. A tiny smile slips onto her face anyway.
"You cried once." I grin. "You had tears streaming down your face and still ordered another plate."
She lets out a quiet laugh. "That happened one time."
"But it happened." She looks back at the stall. Really looks this time. Something in her shoulders eases, just enough for me to notice. Before she can change her mind, I guide us toward it and order two plates.
I don't ask what she wants. I already know. When I hand one over, she accepts it absentmindedly, glances at her phone one last time, then seems to make a decision. She slips it into her bag and finally gives the bhel her full attention.
She takes one bite. Her eyes close briefly. It's only for a heartbeat, but I catch it. That tiny, unguarded expression of pure enjoyment. No worry. No carefulness. Just simple pleasure.
The sight loosens something inside me. For one whole moment she's standing here beside me instead of mentally sitting next to Sara's bed.
"Still too spicy," I say.
She immediately blinks several times. Her eyes are already watering. "It isn't." She says it with complete conviction before taking another bite anyway.
I laugh. The sound surprises even me. It comes easily, without thought. She looks over at me, studying my face with an expression I can't quite place before shaking her head with quiet amusement.
I don't give her much time to disappear back into her thoughts. Instead, I steer us toward one of the game stalls.
Ring toss.
Every fair has one. Every fair pretends it's possible to win. She throws the first ring. It lands nowhere near the bottle. The second isn't much better.
By the fourth attempt she's laughing at herself. I take my turn. The fifth ring would have landed perfectly if I'd wanted it to. Instead, I let it slip just enough to bounce harmlessly away.
She catches me. "I saw that."
"What?"
"You missed on purpose."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
She swats my arm. "You cheated."
"I lost."
"You lost theatrically." I don't bother arguing.
Her laugh is worth losing every game in the country. We wander from one stall to another after that. No destination. No plan. Just following whichever direction seems interesting next.
Somewhere along the way, almost without either of us noticing, her shoulders begin to relax. The constant glances toward her phone grow farther apart. Her smile arrives more easily now, without me having to work for it.
At some point, our hands find each other.
Neither of us says anything. Our fingers simply lace together as though they've remembered something before the rest of us did.
I spend more time watching her than I do watching the fair.
Watching the way she throws herself into little moments once she finally gives herself permission to enjoy them.
There's nothing restrained about her happiness. When she laughs, she laughs completely. When she plays, she forgets to be careful.
For a little while, I catch flashes of the girl who used to climb trees higher than anyone thought she should, never once worrying about how she'd get back down until she was already sitting on the highest branch.
And underneath all of that, another thought settles quietly inside me. One that refuses to leave.
She did all of it alone. Every fever. Every scraped knee. Every sleepless night. Every moment of panic when Sara wasn't feeling well.Every decision that had to be made by one frightened parent pretending not to be frightened at all.
There was never anyone beside her asking, What do you need?
No one telling her they'd stay awake so she could sleep. No one insisting she take thirty minutes for herself while someone else carried the worry. Just her. For seven years.
Seven years of being the only adult in every crisis. The only person holding everything together. And somehow she carried it so quietly that most people probably never realised how heavy it actually was.
I watch her miss another shot as she aims for the elephant plushie before laughing at herself under her breath.
Something settles inside me with complete certainty.
That part ends now. Not the worrying. I'd never ask her to love Sara any less fiercely than she already does.
But the loneliness of carrying it all by herself .
. . That has to end. I told her once that if she was falling, she should let me catch her.
I meant every word. Not only on the frightening days.
Not only when doctors are standing in the room.
On ordinary afternoons too. On noisy fairs. On ring tosses. On half hours that don't seem important until you realise they are.
We pass a stall selling fried chilli fritters near the edge of the fairgrounds.
Without thinking too much about it, I stop.
I buy a small paper cone and turn toward her, holding it out.
She looks from the fritters to my face, clearly puzzled.
Her gaze drops briefly to the small leather purse I've been carrying since we left the estate—the one I'd insisted on bringing myself instead of leaving with the driver.
She stares at it a bit longer as though she can’t believe what she’s seeing, “Why?” She whispers.
I don't answer straight away. I simply look at her for a moment, waiting to see if she'll ask again.
A familiar warmth settles quietly beneath my ribs.
There is something strangely intimate about remembering a person's favourite fair snack after so many years.
About handing it to her without needing to ask.
And about carrying something far more precious than a paper cone of fritters inside that little leather purse, something that has travelled with me for years without either of us ever speaking of it aloud.