Chapter Dhruvtara
Dhruvtara
DHRUV
Birthdays stopped meaning much to me a long time ago.
They turned into dates on a calendar where people shook my hand a little longer than usual, smiled a little wider, said things that sounded rehearsed. Dinners I hosted. Toasts I endured. Obligations wrapped in silk and good intentions.
So when Sitara tells me we’re not doing any of that today, I don’t argue.
I just follow. Anyways if my wife says something, I usually follow.
We drive out of the palace early, before the sun climbs too high, before the world wakes up properly. She’s unusually quiet, fingers laced together in her lap, lips pressed into a small smile she keeps trying—and failing—to hide. Every few minutes she glances at me, then looks away just as quickly.
Suspicious.
I don’t say anything. I’ve learned that when Sitara plans something, it’s better to let it unfold in its own time, at her own pace. She likes moments the way she likes stories—slow, intentional, meant to be felt rather than rushed through.
We stop near a stretch of land where the city fades into something softer. Trees scattered like they chose this place deliberately. Grass that hasn’t been trimmed into obedience. A small lake catching the morning light like it’s holding onto secrets.
“This,” she announces, stepping out of the car and turning to face me with a satisfied smile, “is perfect.”
I step out too, the air immediately different here—lighter, quieter. When I turn back to her, I forget whatever response I was about to give.
She’s wearing a sundress. Not anything dramatic. No jewelry meant to make statements. Just soft fabric that moves with the breeze, light in color, brushing against her knees. Her hair is loose, falling over her shoulders in the way it always does when she wants to feel free. Comfortable. Herself.
She looks like she belongs to this morning.
She looks like she belongs with me.
“You’re staring,” she says, not unkindly, a hint of laughter in her voice.
“I’m appreciating,” I correct, walking closer. “There’s a difference.”
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks give her away. “Happy birthday,” she says, quieter now.
I cup her face without thinking, my thumbs brushing over warm skin. “Thank you for stealing me away.”
“I didn’t steal you,” she says. “I borrowed you. Permanently.”
I laugh, leaning down to kiss her—slow, unhurried. The kind of kiss that doesn’t need an audience or an occasion. When I pull back, her eyes are soft, shining.
“I love you,” she says, like it’s the easiest truth in the world.
Something in my chest loosens. “I love you, too.”
We spread the picnic out near the water.
She’s packed everything herself—food she knows I like, things that remind her of us.
She talks while arranging it, narrating what she’s doing as if I might miss something important otherwise.
I listen, because this is my favorite version of her: absorbed, gentle, present.
At some point, she sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. She leans her head against my arm like it’s second nature.
“This,” she says softly, looking around, “is my favorite way to celebrate anything.”
I glance down at her. “Being away from people?”
“Being with the right one,” she corrects.
We eat. We talk. We sit in comfortable silence that doesn’t ask to be filled. The sun climbs higher, warming everything it touches. She laughs at something small I say, and it feels like a reward I didn’t know I’d been waiting for.
Then she shifts. There’s that look again—the one she gets when she’s about to do something that matters to her.
“Okay,” she says, drawing her knees up. “I have something for you.”
I arch a brow. “You already kidnapped me. Isn’t that enough?”
She snorts. “Please. You liked it.”
She reaches into her bag and pulls out her tablet, holding it out to me with both hands like it’s fragile. Precious.
“What’s this?” I ask, though my voice has already softened.
“A gift,” she says. “But… you have to actually look at it.”
I take it from her carefully, turning the screen on. It unlocks immediately.
The first thing I see is a title.
Dhruvtara.
My breath catches before I even realize it has.
I scroll.
An illustration fills the screen. A couple under a mandap. Familiar in a way that’s impossible to mistake. The man is holding the woman in his arms, protective, steady. The woman is smiling—not posed, not perfect, but real.
Her.
Us.
I look up slowly, my chest tight.
“It’s my first webtoon,” she says, suddenly shy, words tumbling out a little faster now. “I’ve thought about writing one for a long time as you know, but I never felt… I could do justice to any story. And then—” She gestures vaguely between us. “You happened.”
My throat feels thick. I look back down, scrolling further. Pages of story. Moments. Emotions rendered in her lines, her colors, her voice.
“You based it on us?” I ask quietly.
She nods. “On our story. On how it felt. On what it meant to be chosen when I least expected it.”
I don’t speak for a moment. I don’t trust my voice.
When I finally look at her again, she’s watching me like this matters more than anything she’s ever made.
“I like the name,” I say quietly.
She blinks. “You do?”
I nod, still staring at it, thumb brushing the edge of the tablet like it might disappear if I don’t anchor it. “Dhruvtara,” I repeat, tasting the word. Then I look up at her. “Do you know it’s a star?” I smile and she nods.
“Dhruv Tara. The pole star. The one travelers looked for when they were lost,” I whisper.
“I’ve lived my life surrounded by noise.
People. Opinions. Expectations. Everyone pulling me in different directions.
” I swallow, because this part is harder than it should be.
“And somewhere along the way, I forgot what it felt like to stand still.”
I reach for her hand, lace my fingers through hers.
“And then you walked in,” I say, softer now. “You didn’t ask me to become anything else. You didn’t demand I shine brighter or louder. You just… existed. Steady. Honest. Unmoving in the best way.”
Her eyes are glassy now. Mine aren’t far behind.
“You’re my Dhruv Tara, Sitara,” I murmur. “When I lose myself, when I doubt who I am, I look at you—and I know where I stand again.”
She laughs through a broken breath. “I named it that because it, you know, connected our names.” She smiles, squeezing my hand. “You made it so much more beautiful.”
“I do have a complaint, though.”
She frowns, and I lean in pecking her cheek.
“No one,” I say slowly, “can do justice to how beautiful you are, Tara. Not even you. That’s the only complaint I have.”
Her eyes fill instantly. “You’re biased.”
“Completely,” I say, pulling her into me. She fits there like she always has, like she was made to.
“This is the best gift I’ve ever received,” I add into her hair.
She exhales shakily, arms tightening around me. “I was scared you’d think it was silly.”
I lean back just enough to look at her. “You turned our life into art.”
Then I kiss her—soft at first, then deeper, the world narrowing until it’s just us and the quiet certainty that this is where I’m meant to be.
She laughs against my mouth. “Happy birthday, Dhruv.”
I smile, holding her close. For the first time in years, it actually feels like one.