"My aunt did not think it was a productive use of time. She said I should focus on studies and housework. Painting was considered frivolous."
The matter of fact way she said it made my jaw tighten. No anger in her voice. No resentment. Just acceptance of something that should never have been acceptable.
"Do you miss it?"
She considered the question carefully.
"Sometimes. When I see colors together in an interesting way, or when the light falls on something just right, I think about how I would paint it. But I have not actually picked up a brush in years."
"You should start again."
She looked surprised.
"What?"
"You should start painting again. If it is something you loved, something that made you happy, you should do it."
She shook her head slightly, a sad smile on her lips.
"It is not that simple."
"Why not? You have your own income now. You can buy whatever supplies you need. And our house has plenty of space. There is a room on the third floor with excellent natural light. It is just being used for storage right now, but it could easily be cleared out."
Our house. The words had slipped out automatically, but I found I did not want to take them back.
Viya was staring at me like I had said something in a foreign language.
"You would let me use a room in your house for painting?"
"It is your house too now," I said quietly. "And yes. You should use the space however you want."
She did not respond. She just looked down at her empty kulfi cup, her expression unreadable.
We finished our ice cream and walked back to the car. The drive home was quieter than the drive there, but it was a different kind of quiet. Less tense. More thoughtful.
When we pulled into the driveway, I noticed Viya looking up at the house with something like wonder in her eyes.
"It is so big," she said softly. "I still cannot believe I live here now."
"You will get used to it."
"Will I?"
There was something in her voice. Not quite a question. Not quite a statement. Just uncertainty about everything that had happened, everything that was still to come.
I wanted to tell her yes. I wanted to promise her that she would be happy here, that this arrangement would not be as terrible as she feared. But I could not make promises I did not know if I could keep.
So I just got out of the car and walked around to open her door.
We entered the house together. It was late enough that Mamta had already gone to bed, and Dadi had not yet returned from her satsang. The house was quiet and dark except for the soft lights we had left on in the hallway.
We climbed the stairs side by side, our footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. When we reached our bedroom door, Viya paused.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For the ice cream. And for listening."
"You do not need to thank me."
"I do, though. You did not have to do any of this."
