WATER CRISIS
ANAMIKA
The picnic is Amma Saheba's idea.
She announced it over dinner with the same calm authority she uses for everything else, as though she's simply informing the weather of her plans. "The men can survive one afternoon without us," she declared, "We're going to the lake tomorrow."
No one argues. So here we're spread out beneath the enormous banyan tree near the northern edge of the estate, where its wide branches throw cool shade over the grass.
A thick cotton sheet is spread beneath us, the picnic basket sits open between Amma Saheba and me, and the lake stretches out ahead, its surface shimmering under the afternoon sun every time the breeze ripples across it.
Sara has already abandoned us.
She darts through the grass after a bright yellow butterfly, laughing every time it changes direction, her tiny sandals kicking up little sprays of dust as she runs.
I watch her for a moment before taking another sip of tea. "You know," Amma Saheba says, following my gaze, "your daughter informed me last week that I've been holding my teacup incorrectly." I blink.
" . . . She what?"
She nods with perfect seriousness. "Apparently there's a proper way to hold one." Her lips twitch. "And I've been doing it wrong for the last sixty-one years."
I burst into laughter before I can stop myself. "No . . . "
"Oh yes." She lifts her cup to demonstrate. "She took this very personally." I can already picture it.
Sara standing with both hands on her tiny hips, patiently correcting someone three times her age with complete confidence because, in her mind, facts are simply facts.
"I believe," Amma Saheba continues, "she learned it from you."
"I have never corrected anyone's teacup grip in my life."
"You'd better inform your daughter of that."
My laughter only grows louder. "She also looked at my saree over breakfast," Amma Saheba says, somehow managing to keep a perfectly straight face, "and told me my pleats were 'a little bit messy today, Dadi . . . but that's okay. Everyone has bad days.'"
I nearly inhale my tea. "Oh my God."
"I've had royal dressmakers arranging my sarees since before you were born." She sighs dramatically. "I've survived state dinners, foreign diplomats, and palace etiquette. But apparently I cannot survive your child."
I wipe tears of laughter from the corner of my eyes. "I promise she doesn't get that confidence from me."
"No." This time her smile softens. "We’ll say she inherited it from Yuvaan."
I look up. "He was exactly the same." Her eyes drift toward Sara.
"He said whatever was in his heart. Didn't stop to wonder whether he should.
If he thought something was true, he simply .
. . said it." She smiles to herself. "Then, somewhere along the way .
. . " Her voice grows quieter. " . . . he stopped.
" The laughter between us fades naturally.
Neither of us rushes to fill the silence.
The breeze carries the scent of damp earth and wildflowers across the lake, rustling the banyan leaves overhead until they whisper against one another.
A little farther away, Sara has wandered closer to the water, crouching at the shoreline to investigate something only she can see.
Probably a smooth stone. Or a shell. Or a leaf she's already decided is magical.
She lives in a world where every small thing deserves attention. For a while neither of us speaks.
The only sounds are birds somewhere in the trees and the soft rhythm of water brushing against the bank.
Then Amma Saheba says quietly, "Thank you." I turn to her.
"For what?" She doesn't answer immediately. Instead she folds her hands together in her lap and looks out across the lake.
"I spent so many years looking at my son .
. . " She pauses. " . . . and seeing the future Maharaja before I saw my child.
" The words settle heavily between us. "There was always something demanding attention.
" She gives a tired little smile. "The estate.
Your Maharaj's expectations. Council meetings.
Guests. Staff. Land disputes. Festivals. Endless responsibilities."
She shakes her head slowly. "I kept telling myself I was preparing him."
"Making him strong."
"Teaching him how to survive the life waiting for him."
Her fingers tighten around each other. "And perhaps I was." Another quiet breath. "But while I was busy preparing him to rule . . . " She swallows. " . . . I didn't notice how lonely he had become."
My chest tightens. I don't interrupt. This isn't the kind of confession that should be rushed. "I would walk past him," she says softly, "and see discipline."
"I'd see responsibility."
"I'd see a boy who never complained."
Her smile breaks slightly.
"And I mistook silence for strength."
The words hit harder than she probably realises.
"He stopped asking for things."
"He stopped crying."
"He stopped expecting comfort."
She closes her eyes briefly. "I praised him for all of it." A painful laugh escapes her. "I thought I'd raised such a mature little boy." When she opens her eyes again they're bright with unshed tears. "It took me years to realise children aren't supposed to be that quiet."
I feel my own throat tighten. "You were always there." She looks at me now. "You."
"When his father was too strict."
"When I was too distracted."
"When this palace became too heavy for shoulders that small . . . "
" . . . he had you."
A warm breeze lifts the edge of the picnic blanket before letting it fall again. "You made him laugh. You argued with him. You dragged him into trouble. You reminded him he was allowed to be a child."
A tear slips down her cheek. "I knew." She smiles sadly. "I always knew how much he missed you after you left."
"He never told me."
"He didn't have to."
"I've been his mother long enough to recognise grief even when he buries it."
Her voice grows smaller. "So when you came back . . . " She laughs quietly through the tears. " . . . I was selfishly happy."
"So unbelievably happy. Because I thought . . . " She looks down at her hands. " . . . finally. My son gets his home back." I blink hard against the sting behind my own eyes.
"Amma Saheba . . . " She lifts one hand gently.
"Let me finish." I nod. "I've tried to be better."
"I truly have."
"I ask about his day now."
"I notice when he's tired."
"I've learned to knock before walking into his study."
She smiles faintly. "I even make him leave work for dinner." A pause. "But . . . " Her shoulders sink. "Some mistakes arrive too late for apologies."
"I know I cannot give him back the childhood he should have had."
"I know I cannot undo years of absence simply because I finally understood what I was missing." Her voice breaks. "And he'll never tell me."
"He'll never say I failed him. That's not who he is. He would rather carry the hurt himself than let me carry the guilt." She wipes quickly at her cheek. "But a mother knows.”
“I know." Silence stretches between us. Then she reaches across the blanket and covers my hand with hers.
"So . . . " Another small smile. "Thank you. For loving my son when I wasn't loving him the way he needed." My own eyes finally overflow.
I reach for her hand without thinking. "I never thought of it that way." My voice comes out softer than I expect. "I wasn't taking care of him. He was just . . . " I smile through the tears. " . . . my best friend."
"The only person who ever made this enormous palace feel small enough to belong in."
"I never stayed beside him because someone asked me to."
"I stayed because that's where I wanted to be."
She squeezes my hand. We sit like that for a while.
Two women. Different generations. Both carrying years of guilt.
Both loving the same stubborn, quiet man more than either of us has probably ever managed to tell him.
A little while later she laughs unexpectedly.
"When I first met Sara . . . " I look at her. " . . . I nearly dropped my teacup."
I smile. "She is you. So completely you. The same chin. The same stubborn little expression whenever she's decided something. The same eyes."
She laughs again. "And then, one afternoon . . . she marched into my sitting room. Closed the door."
I already know this is going somewhere dangerous. "What did she do?"
"Oh." Amma Saheba grins outright. "She informed me she required my assistance."
"With?"
"Getting you and Yuvaan together."
I stare at her. " . . . She what?"
"There was a plan. A very detailed one." She chuckles, “Quite impressive, honestly. She'd clearly been thinking about it for days."
I bury my face in my hands. "I cannot believe this child."
"Oh, I can." Amma Saheba laughs warmly. "She inherited determination from both of you." She grows quiet again. "My son deserves happiness." The smile remains, but something deeper settles behind it. "I've watched him carry loneliness for far too many years."
"I couldn't stand by and watch him do it for the rest of his life." I lean forward without another word and wrap my arms around her. She hugs me back immediately.
Firmly. Like she'd been waiting for it. "I don't know if I deserve him," I whisper against her shoulder.
The old fear slips out before I can stop it.
"But I promise you this . . . " I tighten my arms around her.
"As long as I have any choice in it . . .
he will never be lonely again. Not for a single day. "
She pulls back just enough to cup my cheek. Her own eyes are still shining. "That's all I ever wanted." The words have barely settled between us when a sound tears across the afternoon.
A splash.
Too loud.
Too sudden.
Followed by a frightened cry that freezes every drop of blood in my body.
I know that voice.
"Sara."
I don't think. My body moves before my mind catches up. One second I'm sitting on the blanket. The next I'm running. Grass disappears beneath my feet in frantic blurs. My heartbeat pounds so hard I can barely hear anything else.
The lake rushes toward me.
Then cold.
Freezing water slams into my legs as I wade straight in without slowing, soaking my clothes almost instantly. I don't feel it. I don't feel anything except terror. Out ahead, a small head bobs unevenly against the water. Tiny arms thrash wildly. She isn't screaming anymore. She's trying to.
And somehow that's even worse.
"Sara!" My voice breaks across the lake as I force myself deeper into the water, every desperate step carrying only one thought. Get to her. Just get to her.