Chapter 31-The Father Who Wasnt There
The chest arrived from Devagarh three weeks later.
Vikram nearly ordered it placed in storage.
Then he saw Vinaya's name.
He stopped.
"What is it?"
The servant lowered his head.
"Princess Ganga's belongings, Your Highness."
Vikram's breath left him.
The chest was small.
Of course it was.
Everything about Ganga's life had been small.
He dismissed the servants.
Then stood alone before it.
Minutes passed.
Finally, he opened the lid.
A blanket.
Small dresses.
Tiny bracelets.
A wooden rattle.
Several ribbons.
Drawings.
Vikram frowned.
Ganga had been too young to draw properly.
Then he realized.
Vinaya had traced her little hand.
Again and again.
Different months.
Tiny palm prints growing gradually larger.
Vikram touched one.
His vision blurred.
He found a strand of dark hair tied with thread.
A first lock.
A pair of shoes.
The same kind he had seen at Devagarh.
Then a folded paper.
His name was written on it.
Vikram froze.
He recognized Vinaya's handwriting.
He unfolded it.
Vikram,
She walked today.
His knees nearly gave way.
He sat.
The letter trembled in his hands.
Three steps.
She was very proud of herself.
She has your stubbornness.
Vikram stopped reading.
He covered his mouth.
This was the birthday.
The day Vinaya had told him about after the funeral.
She had written to him.
She had thought of him.
Even after everything.
He forced himself to continue.
I almost sent for you.
I thought perhaps you would want to know.
The ink changed slightly there.
As though Vinaya had paused.
She looks toward the gate whenever horses arrive.
Vikram broke.
A sound escaped him.
Raw.
Uncontrolled.
He bent over the letter.
Ganga had looked toward the gate.
Why?
Had she been waiting?
For him?
Did she know horses sometimes meant her father?
Had Vinaya told her stories?
Had she seen portraits?
He would never know.
The final lines blurred through tears.
I don't know whether I should send this.
I don't know whether hearing about her hurts you more than not hearing.
But she walked today.
And for one moment, I wished you had been here.
There was no signature.
The letter had never been sent.
Vikram pressed it against his chest.
Then he cried.
Not the restrained tears of a prince.
Not the silent grief he had practiced for years.
He sobbed.
For Ganga.
For Priya.
For his son.
For Vinaya.
For every moment he had thrown away because he was too frightened to love something he might lose.
Ranveer found him there.
He stopped at the door.
Vikram did not even try to hide.
He held out the letter with shaking hands.
"She walked."
Ranveer's eyes filled.
Vikram looked at him.
"My daughter walked."
His voice collapsed.
"And I wasn't there."
Ranveer came closer.
Vikram looked down at the tiny handprints.
"She waited for me."
"We don't know that."
"I should have been there anyway."
Ranveer had no answer.
Vikram pressed both hands over his face.
"I sent her away."
His shoulders shook.
"I sent my child away."
Ranveer knelt beside him.
Vikram gripped his brother's arm like a drowning man.
"I told Vinaya I wished they had died."
Ranveer closed his eyes.
"I said it."
His voice broke completely.
"And then my daughter died."
"Vikram—"
"I never took it back."
His entire body shook.
"She died without hearing me take it back."
Ranveer pulled him into his arms.
Vikram wept against his brother's shoulder.
For the first time in five years, he did not hide.
He did not drink.
He did not retreat into Priya's chambers.
He simply grieved.
And when there were finally no tears left, Vikram looked toward the doorway.
Vinaya stood there.
He went still.
She had heard him.
He could see it in her face.
Vikram slowly rose.
"Vinaya."
Her gaze fell to the letter in his hand.
Then to Ganga's tiny belongings scattered across the floor.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Vikram looked at his wife.
And for the first time since Ganga's death, something appeared in Vinaya's empty eyes.
Not forgiveness.
Not love.
Pain.
Shared pain.
Vikram took one careful step toward her.
But whether she would let him come any closer—
he did not yet know.