SUPERHERO
YUVAAN
The note from Sara's school arrived three days ago.
Fancy dress day.
Come dressed as your hero.
Simple enough.
Except, ever since that note came home tucked carefully into her school diary, the house has been full of whispered conversations that stopped the moment I entered a room.
Sara would lean close to Anamika and murmur something behind cupped hands.
Anamika would look at me over our daughter's head, bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling, and very deliberately change the subject whenever I asked what exactly the two of them were plotting.
For three days I've lived with the uncomfortable certainty that I am the only person in this palace excluded from a conspiracy being run by a five-year-old.
Today, apparently, I finally get to discover why.
"Mister!" Sara's voice echoes down the corridor, bright enough to make me smile before I've even reached her room. "I'm ready!"
"I'll be there in a second, Princess." I set the council file I'd been pretending to read onto the table and head toward her room, already wondering whether she's dressed as some storybook princess or a doctor or perhaps the astronaut she declared she wanted to become last Tuesday.
I push the door open.
Then stop.
Completely.
Sara is standing in the middle of the room with her hands planted proudly on her hips.
She's wearing a cream Jodhpuri suit stitched perfectly to her tiny frame, delicate gold embroidery catching the morning light along the collar and cuffs. She looks impossibly small. Impossibly regal. Like one of the old royal portraits somehow wandered out of its frame and learned how to grin.
It's also . . . not remotely a superhero costume.
I blink once. Then twice. "Princess . . . " I crouch until we're eye level. "You look beautiful."
Her smile grows even wider.
"But . . . " I glance toward Anamika, who's standing quietly near the wardrobe, arms folded loosely, watching both of us with an expression she's making absolutely no effort to hide anymore.
There's something almost emotional in it.
Like she's been waiting for this moment all week. "I thought today was hero day."
"It is." Sara nods confidently. "I'm my hero."
I frown slightly.
"No . . . " She giggles. "I'm wearing my hero." That doesn't help at all.
I look down at the tiny sherwani again, trying to solve whatever puzzle she's clearly already solved hours ago.
"I'm afraid I’m confused, Princess."
"I know." She says it with complete certainty. Then she walks closer. Very close. Close enough that she reaches both tiny hands up and cups my face. The gesture steals the breath right out of me. I've felt these hands on my cheeks before. Then, without warning, I realize why it feels so familiar.
Because Anamika does this. Every time she wants me to really listen. Every time something matters. Sara has copied her without either of them ever noticing. My heart does something strange inside my chest.
She studies my face with enormous seriousness. Then leans forward. A tiny kiss lands softly against my cheek.
Warm.
Quick.
Certain.
When she pulls back, she keeps holding my face. Her little thumbs rest just beneath my eyes. "You're my hero."
Four words. That's all. Four tiny words. I don't think anyone has ever said anything to me that has carried this much weight. "You made my Mumma smile again." Her voice is quiet now.
Careful. Like she's explaining something obvious.
"You bring her flowers too." She starts counting on her fingers. "You bring me flowers every morning."
"Every single morning. You never forgot. Not even once."
"You always come when I call."
"You always play."
"You let me colour your tattoos."
A tiny smile.
"You even let me win at Ludo."
"I absolutely do not let you win." My lips stretches into a smile.
"You do."
"I lose with dignity."
"You lose because I beat you."
I laugh helplessly. "I stand corrected." She nods, satisfied that justice has been served. Then her expression turns serious again. The kind of serious only children manage. The kind that comes straight from the heart without stopping to wonder whether it's too much.
"I feel safe when you're here." The words hit harder than anything before them. "So . . . " She takes a tiny breath. "I wanted everyone at school to know who my hero is."
I swallow. Hard.Before I can find any words, she smiles. Small. Certain.
"And . . . " Her eyes shine. "You're my Papa." Everything inside me stops.
The room. The morning. The palace. The world itself seems to fall completely silent.
Papa.
Not Mister. Not almost. Not someday. Now.
Chosen. Deliberately. Freely.
I don't even realize my vision has blurred until her face becomes difficult to see.
My throat closes so completely that speaking isn't an option anymore.
I simply pull her into my arms. She fits there so naturally it's almost frightening.
Like this space beside my heart has always belonged to her and we've only just figured it out. I hold her tighter than I mean to.
My hand slides through her hair. I breathe in the familiar scent of baby shampoo and crayons and sunshine.
Across the room, I lift my eyes. Anamika is crying.
She isn't trying to hide it. One hand covers her mouth.
The other presses against her own heart.
She's smiling through tears that keep slipping down her cheeks anyway.
Our eyes meet. There's something in hers I've never seen before. Not relief. Not gratitude. Something deeper. Like she's watching two people she loves find each other at exactly the moment they were always meant to.
"I love you, Princess." The words scrape out of me. Hoarse. Unsteady.
"So much." I kiss the top of her head. "So much more than I know how to explain."
She wraps her arms tighter around my neck. "You already chose us." Her voice is muffled against my shoulder. "I just wanted you to know . . . " She squeezes me with all the strength a five-year-old possesses. " . . . I choose you too."
I close my eyes. For years I've signed documents worth crores without my hand shaking. I've addressed thousands of people without losing my voice. I've buried my father. I've stood before councils determined to challenge every decision I make.
Nothing . . . Nothing has ever undone me like one little girl choosing to call me Papa, well except when I saw Anamika after years or when she said she felt the same way as I do. But this . . . this is so special.
Something settles quietly inside me.
This is my daughter. Not because blood says so. Because she does.
Because she looked at every man in the world she could have chosen and somehow decided I was the one she wanted waiting outside classrooms, reading bedtime stories, fixing scraped knees and checking monsters under beds.
I don't think there's a greater honour anyone could ever hand another person.
Whatever this life demands from me after today .
. . Whatever storms still wait for us . .
. Whatever truths Anamika hasn't yet found the strength to tell me .
. . Whatever battles this family still has left to fight . . . They won't fight them alone.
Not while I'm breathing. Not while I have any strength left to stand between them and the world. Sara finally leans back just enough to look at my face. "You cried."
"I did. A little bit." I chuckle softly, "A lot, actually."
She beams. "I knew you would."
"Did you?"
"Mumma said happy tears are allowed."
I glance toward Anamika.
She laughs softly through her own tears. "I did say that."
Sara slips out of my arms and runs straight across the room. "Mumma!" Anamika drops to her knees just in time to catch her. She hugs Sara fiercely, burying her face in our daughter's shoulder, whispering something into her hair that I can't hear.
I don't need to. I already know it's love. I stay exactly where I am. Watching the two of them. My family. My chest still feels impossibly full. I've been called many things in this lifetime.
Your Highness.
Hukum.
Yuvraj.
Titles that came wrapped in duty long before I understood their weight. People stood when I entered rooms because of those names. They bowed. They saluted. They obeyed. None of them ever reached me the way one tiny voice did this morning.
Papa.
No title I have ever carried has felt more like home.