“Then why the delay?” she asks, near to tears now. The way she bites the inside of her cheek is one of the gestures that makes my throat hurt—a tiny, defeated motion that says she’s trying tobe brave and failing. “I let you do what you want. I support you. I support everyone’s choices and yet you won’t do the one thing that would make me sleep peacefully.”
Radhika shifts, and something in her face becomes tender. “Ma, it’s not that simple.”
Vedant folds his hands on his stomach, the way he does when he’s about to say something sensible that will probably make us all roll our eyes because sensible is his default setting. “Everything’s moving at its own pace,” he says. “Saanjh and I are... we’re talking about things. We’re not avoiding it.”
Radhika reaches over and squeezes his arm like she’s trying to anchor him in the present so he doesn’t float away into hypothetical futures. “She’s not a footnote in your life, Ved. She has plans. That’s the point.”
Ma looks between us, her mouth a thin line, and for the first time tonight she looks tired in a way that isn’t theatrical. The kind of tired that sits under eyes and doesn’t leave after a single night’s sleep. It’s been three years and she’s still rearranging the furniture of her life around a space where Papa used to fill the largest chair. We don’t mention the ways that absence shows up: the half-empty cups, the quiet at dawn, the way she hums the radio more loudly some nights as if sound can stitch seams that time left frayed.
“I want to see my kids settled,” she says again, and it’s not a demand so much as a small prayer that keeps surfacing in the same breath. “You are my life. You are my everything. I don’t have anyone else.”
I feel that tug in my chest. It’s a familiar pressure, the thing that used to keep me up at night when Papa was around and it wasloud with arguments and his stupid dad jokes—now it’s quieter, the kind of quiet that makes rooms seem larger than they should be. I want to tell her that she has us, that we’re stubborn, that we're her people, but that sounds like a script she’s memorized and I’m not sure she believes it the way I say it. “Ma,” I start, because sometimes saying the obvious is the only thing that counts. “We are trying. It’s not that we don’t want to make you proud.”
She sniffs and rubs at her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Proud? I just want to know you have someone to talk to at midnight if life is hard. I want someone to make you laugh. I want you to have someone who will be there when I’m not.” I hate how small I feel when I hear that. Not because I resent her—God, no—but because I know how those wishes have the potential to become barbed. Wishes like those can wrap themselves around decisions until decisions become obligations. I glance at Vedant and Radhika. Vedant’s jaw is a hard line, Radhika’s fingers are white where she grips the fabric of the couch. We’re a family that knows how to armor ourselves with jokes, but armor doesn’t stop the ache from getting in when it wants to.
Radhika leans forward suddenly, the jitter in her that only shows when she’s trying to be brave. “Ma, you remember when Papa used to watch cricket with us? He would shout at the TV, and then he would apologize to the bowlers as if they were family. We can still have those moments. We don’t need to rush everything into a wedding to get them.”
Ma’s face softens. The mention of Papa shifts something in her that is unseen but deep. Her hands fold in her lap. For a second there’s just the murmur of the commentators on the TV and the steady thump of Vedant’s foot against the carpet. “Your fatherloved this game,” she says, voice small. “He used to say that cricket brings people together. Maybe that’s what I miss. The ordinary things.” The wordordinarylands like a pebble in the pool. Ripples spread. I step forward because there’s something I need to do that isn’t a speech or a grand gesture. It’s small. It’s human.
“Ma,” I say, and my voice catches because the tight place behind my ribs is trying to be louder than everything else. I can’t make promises I don’t mean. I can’t promise weddings or tidy futures. But I can do the thing that matters tonight. I move forward and kiss her cheek, quick and warm. She jerks away, shrieking in that beautiful, exaggerated way she does when any of us get affectionate, and I pretend like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“You are a grown man now, stop doing all that,” she scolds, half-laughing, half-serious, and swats my arm with a tea towel but the motion is fond.
I clutch my chest in mock offense. “What happened to you will always be my child?” I gasp, because theatrics in the family are genetically predetermined. She rolls her eyes but doesn’t resist when I step in close and place a real, steady kiss this time on her forehead. It’s a small thing, but it’s medicine.
Radhika wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand like she’s embarrassed by her own softness and, as if on cue, my phone rings. I pull out my phone as I stand and pick up the call. “Hey dude,” I answer.
“At Rudraksh’s? In ten minutes?” Siddhant asks.
I chuckle. It’s a ritual, we have watched every important match at Rudraksh’s house since we were eight. Siddhant and I aremore alike, Rudraksh is the more calm, scary kind. Sometimes we do wonder how the fuck is he our friend but whatever no matter how grumpy he is, he is a great friend. “You think Rudrani will let us watch anything?” I ask.
“It’s her bedtime in an hour, I really miss that kid.” He huffs.
“Despite her almost breaking your nose?” I raise an eyebrow as a laugh escapes from me.
“Dude, it was one time and I told you don’t ever mention it again.” He sighs.
“Why will it hurt your ego that a four years old kid almost broke your nose?” I tease.
“Shut up,” he groans, “Are you coming or not?”
“Would never miss it.” I smile as I walk towards the door.
CHAPTER 4
ISHIKA
I have been sitting in this conference room for thirty entire minutes, and whatever microscopic supply of patience I woke up with today is now dissolving like a cheap paper napkin dunked in water.
I don’t know what’s worse—the persistent buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead, the irritatingly soft hum of the AC, or the sterile silence of this room that probably cost more per square foot than my entire flat. The walls are a muted grey, sleek enough for an architecture magazine, and the long wooden table stretches across the room like it’s mocking me for being alone in this massive, intimidating space.
My stomach feels hollow because I deliberately chose not to eat. Eating before an important meeting is always a terrible idea. It never gives me energy; it only gives me nausea, and sometimes regret.
I’ve been this way since childhood. Excitement, stress, anticipation—anything mildly emotional triggers my stomach like it’s a fragile ecosystem. Somewhere deep in my chest, a familiar ache stirs at the memory of my father gently chastising me, telling me to never miss breakfast, his voice likewarm winter sunshine filtering through a window.Never miss breakfast, Ishi.
The memory hits so suddenly that I feel winded. I shove it away immediately, practically slamming a mental door shut on it. I can't have the luxury of nostalgia today, and even if I did, remembering my parents never leads anywhere good. It’s a one-way street into a dark place I’ve worked too hard to avoid.
The ticking of the clock on the wall becomes louder for some reason, each second a small, sharp annoyance puncturing the stillness around me.
