Sarvagya's POV

Little Vidyut's laughter echoed in the surroundings when I tickled his tiny stomach. The swing moved back and forth, and with the soft blow of wind, his curls danced and brushed against my cheek. A chuckle slipped from my lips. I held him tightly as the swing moved slowly.

"Maa...chii.." he said in his baby tongue, opening and closing his tiny fists.

I knew he meant maasi, but still calling his own mother chii? What if Lady Helena heard that? She would twist his ears and give us both a wonderful lecture.

"Jaanti hoon Shona, jiji hai chii, par sun liya na unhone toh abhi achhi si khurakh de dengi dono ko," I teased him, watching his face scrunch up in protest, only to burst into laughter the next second.

(I know, little one, Jiji is a nuisance, but if once she hear, shr'll give both of us a good scolding.)

What a life. Laugh, beta... I'll wait for the day you first meet the varnmaala. We'll see who laughs then.

We stayed there like that, swaying on the wooden swing. My eyes drifted to the book lying on the side. The final year of college and exams looming like clouds in June. I closed it before Vidyut's mood changed, his expressions were already shifting. If he started crying now, I would have no strength left to calm him.

These little creatures... they hold more power than they realise. Expert manipulators in soft skin.

"No no tears, Vidyut," I pleaded, standing up from the swing, adjusting my slightly dishevelled dupatta. I walked around the house.

"Jiji!!" I called out, the way hawkers yell for attention in the bazaar. ( Market)

But the product I was holding? Already had a marketing strategy of his own. He let out a loud wail. I gently patted his back. "Shh... Vidyut... shant..." I whispered sweetly.

But the more I hushed him, the louder he cried. This exact contradiction I never asked for in life.

"Jiji... kahan ho!!" I called again while crossing the courtyard. She finally appeared, coming down the terrace stairs.

( sister... where are you!!)

"Kya hua, kyun rula rahi hai she?" she said, throwing it at me like I had personally planned a conspiracy.

( What happened, why are you making him cry?)

Seriously, woman? I'm managing your product with great diplomacy and you're blaming me?

What a kalyug!

I exhaled deeply and handed Vidyut into her arms. With full dignity, of course.

"Lo. Aapka laal." I declared like a performer exiting the stage after a rather loud, chaotic solo. Truly, her son was no less than a chameleon. His moods shifted like the sky after a storm-clear and blue one second, then grey and roaring the next. And who's left drenched? Me. Always me.

( Handle your beloved son.)

I sighed, stepping towards the swing to retrieve my poor book. The poor thing had been through as much neglect as I had, lying on the wooden seat like it had resigned itself to abandonment. I picked it up with the same care one reserved for an old friend and tucked it into my chest, walking back towards my room.

"Sarvagya!"

The name is less a name now, and more of a bell rung every time someone needs help. The sweet curse of being the younger daughter.

Our names aren't names anymore, just convenient summons. Free help, is always available. No salary, no days off.

"Aaayi!" I replied, turning towards the veranda like a dutiful helper but not without theatrical flair.

(Coming)

The evening sunlight had begun to soften. I found her there, sitting peacefully with a red cloth stretched across her lap, embroidering....maybe marigolds with the same ease she handled everything else in life.

I lowered myself beside her without a word. For a moment, we simply sat. Her with her stitches, me with my unread book.

She paused for a moment, placing the needle in the small metal box beside her. Then she lifted the fabric slightly, examining her work.

"Bas ek silai aur... fir dekhna, kitna sundar lagega."

(Just one more stitch... then you'll see how beautiful it looks.)

I smiled faintly, but something stirred inside me. Not sadness but something quieter. Like watching a boat sail away from shore and realising your feet are still in the water.

That cloth wasn't just any fabric. It was part of a wedding set. One of the many slow preparations that happened quietly, like time arranging itself behind my back. Her tone was gentle, but every thread was a reminder. A future inching closer.

I looked at the book. Suddenly, its weight felt different. As if it wasn't just paper and words but a piece of myself I wasn't sure I would be allowed to carry.

"Maa... kya koi dulhan kitab le ja sakti hai saath mein?"

(Ma... can a bride take books with her?)

The words left me before I realised how much they mattered. But the silence that followed was louder than expected.

Her needle paused mid-air. She looked at the cloth, not at me. That moment-brief as it was-felt like a thousand little truths strung together.

"Agar sasuraal wale manzoori dein... toh kyun nahi," she finally said, softly, and returned to her stitch.

(If her in-laws allow it... then why not.)

Such a small sentence, with such a vast 'if.'

I looked back at my book. The pages didn't flutter anymore. They lay still like they too were holding their breath.

I wasn't asking about books. Not really.

I was asking what parts of me will I be allowed to keep?

Right then, the bell of a bicycle rang from outside. I immediately placed the book aside like a guilty student caught reading poetry in a math class.

"Salochana," Baba's familiar voice echoed through the door.

"Munshi ji ki patni!!"

(Munshi ji's wife!!)

Nehmat?

I blinked. That girl had the magical ability to appear wherever there was movement or food. I walked quickly through the veranda and opened the front door.

Baba standing beside his cycle, slightly hunched from the day's work. And behind him sat Nehmat, her feet dangling like she owned the world. As soon as her eyes met mine, a grin bloomed across her face. Like always.

"Yeh aapko kahaan se mil gayi, Baba?" I asked while taking his office bag from the bicycle handle. He worked as a clerk at the court, which he never let us forget. Especially when the house got too noisy.

(Where did you find her, father?)

"Raste mein paidal chal rahi thi, toh bitha liya," he said, his voice gentle but carrying the weight of the day. That quiet tiredness I recognised well-the kind that only comes from long hours, ink stains, and the burden of never letting it show.

(She was walking on the road, so I gave her a lift.)

"Kal uske Abbu ne bhi toh chai pilayi thi na." He added and I couldn't help but smile.

Of course, Baba's entire social circle ran on chai.

( Yesterday, her father also offered a cup of tea.)

He stepped inside, removed his coat carefully, and made his way to the far end of the veranda where brass pots and buckets waited like silent soldiers. He had a rhythm there, first the hands, then the face, then that sharp splash that always reached the floor.

"Andar chal aati hoon main," I offered to Nehmat politely. But before I could move, she had already marched straight to Maa, as if the house was hers by birthright. Sometimes I really wondered if I was adopted and no one had the heart to tell me.

( go inside I'm coming.)

I shook my head and closed the door behind them, then turned to the wall. There, on the iron nail that had somehow survived generations, hung the familiar white cotton towel.

I walked over to Baba. He was just finishing up, water dripping from his face like tiny droplets of the day washing away. I handed him the towel.

He wiped his face slowly, pressing the cloth first to his forehead, then behind his neck with deliberate care. Each movement was measured, never hurried just like everything Baba did. I stood beside him with the kind of stillness one naturally offered in his presence. Even silence had a place when he was around.

Once done, he folded the towel like always neatly and then handed it back without a word.

"Din kaisa raha, Baba, kacheri mein?" I asked, as I always did when he returned home. It had become a habit and almost like a quiet ritual between us.

(How was your day at the court.)

He hummed first, his hands moving to adjust the collar of his kurta. "Wahi likhai padhai... dastavej idhar udhar. Waqeel sahab toh aise bak bak kar rahe the jaise aaj hi apna faisla suna de."

(Same old paperwork... documents here and there. The lawyer was jabbering as if he was about to announce the verdict today.)

That made me smile. "Aur aap kaunse kam ho, Baba? Har paper pe likhte ho jaise wahi faisla hone wala ho kal subah," I teased gently.

(And what about you, Baba? You write on every paper like the verdict will come tomorrow.)

His soft chuckle came like a rare reward. Not loud, but enough to linger.

"Faisla toh hota hi hai, bitiya."

(A verdict does come, dear.)

He stepped forward and poured the last of the water from the brass lota over his feet, letting it trail down before stepping into his old slippers. His hand moved slowly to adjust the worn leather strap always with the same care, even if they were cracked.

"Vo Devdhar... Karsan ke yahan se kal samachar patr le aaya tha," he said while straightening up. "Keh raha tha tujhe kuch kaam hai."

(Devdhar... brought the newspaper from Karsan's shop yesterday. Said you have some work.)

A big smile pulled at my lips. "Sach mein? Hume laga bhool gaye honge..."

( Really? I thought he had forgotten again.)

He laughed, soft again, but real. "Nahi, usi ke kamre mein rakhe honge. Mil jayenge."

( No, it must be kept in his room. You'll find them.)

I nodded and turned toward the kitchen. The matka stood cool in its red cloth wrap. I took out a brass glass, let the stream of water flow in a slow arc, and then returned to him with glass in my hand.

He had settled on the woven cot in the centre of the courtyard now. The moon hadn't yet risen, but the blue of twilight had begun its quiet spread across the walls.

"Aur court mein? Koi naya case?" I asked as I handed him the glass.

(And in the court? Any new case?)

I sat down near the leg of the cot, cross-legged on the floor. I always listened when he talked about the court. It gave that kind of knowledge you couldn't learn from schoolbooks.

Real stories, real people... and a system that claimed it was here to civilize us.

He took the glass."Sab purane waale khinch rahe hain. Par ek tha..."

(They are pulling up the old ones. But there was one...)

He paused. Sipped the water. "Chhoti si ladki ka mamla tha. Waqeel keh raha tha, ladki kuch nahi bolti. Bas aansuon se hi gawahi deti hai."

(It was a case of a little girl. The lawyer said the girl didn't speak. She only testifies with tears.)

I didn't respond at once. My eyes lowered, slowly, to the stone floor.

Something in those words brushed against an old bruise.

"Koi samajh nahi paaya hoga," I murmured, I hadn't meant to speak aloud.

(No one would have understood)

But the truth had already surfaced.

Because I remembered.

I remembered the stillness of a locked room. The way a child goes quiet, not because of what was said, but because of what was felt. The kind of touch that rewrites your skin. That teaches you not to flinch too visibly, and not to cry too loudly. That convinces you your silence will keep it from happening again.

She didn't speak for months.

She had no words for it just the kind of aching that sat behind the ribs and surfaced at night when the house was quiet.

He didn't look at me, but said gently,

"Hm... aisa hi hoga."

(Hm... it must have been like that.)

I nodded and rose, the glass now empty in his hand. I took it and turned back to the kitchen, my steps light, and measured.

Not every wound bleeds.

Some just stay quiet, tucked inside, waiting for moments like these to be remembered in a line of conversation, then folded away again like the corners of Baba's towel.

Some silences you inherit.

Others, you learn to carry.

And some... you swallow, like water.

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Thank you