Vayansh: "Love you too, maa!"

Shaurya muttered under his breath, still smirking.

Shaurya, who was sitting on the bed tying his shoelaces, smirked and muttered under his breath, “Guess I should start shopping for bangles.” 

The words were just loud enough for Vayansh to catch. He turned immediately, his eyes narrowing into a dramatic death glare. Without wasting a moment, he picked up the pillow from the bed and threw it straight at Shaurya’s face.

The pillow hit with a soft thud, and Shaurya burst into laughter, catching it clumsily. 

“Pagal hai tu!” Shaurya chuckled, throwing the pillow back. Within seconds, both brothers were laughing uncontrollably, their laughter echoing through the room like music.  

Moments like these—silly, ordinary, and filled with affection—were rare gems in their lives. For two boys who had known too much loneliness too early, laughter had become both survival and celebration. 

They finally calmed down, straightened their clothes, and headed to the dining table where Vasudhara was waiting. She was already seated with a gentle smile on her lips, the kind of smile that carried both warmth and pride. The aroma of parathas filled the small dining area, mixing with the soft clinking of steel plates. 

Vasudhara: “Bas yehi masti karte rehna, aur mujhe poore ghar ka kaam karne do.”

Her voice was scolding on the surface, but her eyes betrayed her love. 

Shaurya: “Maa, waise bhi aapke haath ka khana duniya mein kisi chef ke haath se better hai. Agar hum help bhi karenge toh taste kharaab ho jaayega.” 

Vayansh added quickly, “Aur humari toh duty hai aapko khush rakhna. Aap humari duniya ho, maa.”

The sincerity in his tone made Vasudhara pause for a moment. She glanced at both of them, her eyes misty but shining with pride. 

They ate together, talking, laughing, and sometimes falling into comfortable silences that only love can hold. Vasudhara asked about their schedule for the day, reminding them not to skip meals, not to overwork. For her, they were not grown men—doctors, professionals, or busy souls. For her, they were still those two boys who once ran through the orphanage corridors barefoot, who clung to her saree pallu when the world felt too harsh.

After breakfast, they cleared the table despite her protests, and soon the three of them were ready to head out. 

At the Orphanage 

The orphanage stood in its usual calm glory, its walls painted in faded colors, carrying stories of laughter, tears, and survival. For Shaurya and Vayansh, this place wasn’t just an institution—it was home, memory, and identity.

As soon as they entered, children ran toward them, their faces brightening with pure joy. 

“Bhaiya aa gaye!”

“Shaurya bhaiya! Vayansh bhaiya!” 

Tiny hands clutched their arms, little voices overlapped in excitement, and in that moment, the world felt lighter. Both brothers crouched down, hugging the kids, ruffling their hair, lifting some in their arms.

Shaurya carried a little boy on his shoulders while Vayansh spun two small girls around, their laughter ringing like temple bells. 

Vasudhara watched from behind, her heart swelling. These children didn’t carry the Raichand surname, nor any legacy of wealth or power. But they had something richer—a chosen family, stitched together with love, acceptance, and resilience. 

Today was Raksha Bandhan. The children knew it too, for the festival wasn’t about blood alone. It was about love, protection, and bonds that life had gifted beyond relations of birth.

As the children settled, one of the older girls shyly brought out a thali. It had rakhi threads, rice, and sweets—everything traditional, yet prepared with child like innocence. 

“Humne khud banayi hai yeh rakhiyan,” she said proudly. 

Vayansh’s chest tightened for a moment. Raksha Bandhan had always been a day of unspoken ache for him and Shaurya. They had no sisters. They had no one who tied rakhi to their wrists in childhood. Every year, this day used to feel like an empty reminder of what they didn’t have.  But then the orphanage children began filling that void. The little girls would come running, give rakhis with giggles and excitement, claiming them as their protectors. And each year, the sting in their hearts lessened, replaced by something warmer. 

Shaurya extended his wrist first, and the little girl give the rakhi with delicate hands. “Hamesha raksha karna, bhaiya,” she whispered. He smiled, his throat heavy, and kissed her forehead. “Always.”

Vayansh too bent down, allowing three little girls to give rakhis on him one by one. Their small voices carried wishes, prayers, and unconditional trust. For him, it was not just a ritual; it was redemption. He had once been a boy who thought he had no family. Now, in this circle of children, he had more sisters than he could have ever imagined.

After the rituals, the gifts came out. 

They had carefully chosen toys, books, and sweets for each child. The joy in their eyes as they received those gifts was priceless. A small car made a boy squeal in excitement, a coloring book brought a girl to hug Vayansh tightly, and the simplest of chocolates lit up faces as if they had been handed treasures. 

They spent hours playing—hide and seek, carrom, cricket in the dusty yard. Shaurya, always the dramatic one, pretended to lose on purpose, letting the children laugh at his ‘bad aim.’ Vayansh, competitive but soft, lifted the smallest ones to let them ‘win’ shots. 

Time slipped away unnoticed, woven into laughter, stories, and the kind of happiness that didn’t need perfection.

But behind the smiles, both brothers carried a shadow. For them, Rakhi wasn’t just joy. It was also memory—of loneliness, of what was missing. 

As they sat under the shade of a neem tree, watching children play, Shaurya broke the silence. 

Shaurya: “Kabhi sochta hoon… agar hume bhi ek asli behen hoti… toh kaisa hota?” 

Vayansh’s eyes softened. He picked a twig, drawing patterns in the dust. 

Vayansh: “Shayad hum dono ke zindagi ke zakhm thode kam hote. Shayad ghar ka matlab sirf chaar deewar nahi hota.”

Shaurya sighed, leaning back against the tree trunk. 

Shaurya: “Par jo hume nahi mila, woh hum dusro ko de rahe hain. In bachon ke liye hum wahi bhai hain jo hume kabhi mile hi nahi.” 

Vayansh looked at him then, his chest heavy with both pain and pride. Shaurya was right. They were rewriting the meaning of family, not with surnames or bloodlines, but with choice and love.   By the time the clock struck eleven, it was time to leave for the hospital. Their duties awaited, and though today was Raksha Bandhan, they had never taken the day as a holiday.   

“Maa, hum chalte hain,” Shaurya said, touching Vasudhara’s feet. 

Vayansh followed, his head bowed in respect. She blessed them both with trembling hands, her heart swelling with both pride and prayer. 

They stepped out of the orphanage, the bright sun greeting them with a glare. Yet, the warmth inside them overpowered everything.

As they walked toward their car, Shaurya suddenly slowed down. His gaze fixed on the temple across the street. The bells were ringing, their echoes spilling into the air like invisible threads of devotion. 

“Ruk na,” Shaurya said softly. 

Vayansh followed his gaze and nodded. Without a word, they crossed the road and stopped before the temple. Its steps were washed clean, marigold garlands hung over the archway, and the scent of incense wrapped around them like a familiar memory. 

Standing there, they didn’t need to speak. Both brothers folded their hands, closing their eyes.

For Vayansh, it was a prayer of gratitude—for maa, for Shaurya, for the family he had built from nothing. For Shaurya, it was a silent plea—that the children of the orphanage never feel the loneliness they once felt. 

The bells chimed louder, and for a fleeting moment, the ache of Raksha Bandhan didn’t sting. Instead, there was peace—a reminder that family wasn’t defined by blood alone, but by love strong enough to outlast pain. 

Tanishi’s POV

The car hummed softly as it sped along the highway, the morning light spilling in through the half-open windows. The air carried that faint fragrance of wet soil after last night’s drizzle, and somewhere in the distance, the fields looked as if they were stretching endlessly toward the horizon. 

Inside the car, the world was different. It was laughter and stolen jokes, it was two girls pushing the weight of life aside for a while and letting themselves breathe. 

Lavanya sat beside me, her hair tied back loosely, her eyes sparkling with mischief as always. 

Lavanya: “Arre Nishi, mein sochti hoon agar mujhe kabhi bhi lawyer ke bajaye comedian banna hai toh. Half of the court cases would end in laughter before the judge even gives a verdict.” 

Her not so good joke words made me  laugh and careless—the kind of laugh that shakes the shoulders and brings tears to the eyes. I leaned back, clutching my stomach, and she grinned even wider at her own success. For a few moments, the car filled with echoes of our voices, a warmth so powerful it almost convinced me that nothing was wrong in the world. 

But it was a lie.

Even as I laughed, even as my lips stretched into a smile, something inside me whispered: don’t laugh today.

Because it was Raksha Bandhan. 

And my brother hadn’t come to me.

Not this year. Not last year. Not ever.

The thought pierced through my laughter like a blade. My smile faltered for the briefest second, though I tried to hide it. But my heart, it knew. 

Why? Why was it always me? Why did he never tie rakhi from me? Why did he never even come to say goodbye when I left?

My hands tightened around the edge of my dupatta as the questions swirled. I wanted to believe there was a reason, something I couldn’t see, but all I could feel was rejection. And rejection from him—my own bhai—hurt deeper than anything else. 

Was I such a bad sister? Was I truly unworthy of his love, of his protection, of his time?

The thoughts flooded in, refusing to be silenced. My chest grew heavier, the laughter of a few seconds ago dissolving into an ache that I couldn’t show.   And then… Vanya’s voice broke through. 

Lavanya: “Nishi…” 

Soft, like a feather brushing against the rawest part of me. I turned, startled, and saw her smiling at me. Not the teasing smile she wore for the world, but the quiet, knowing one she reserved only for me.

I tried to smile back, just a little curve of my lips, enough to convince her I was fine. But she knew. She always knew.

She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t demand explanations. She simply reached out, pulled me closer, and let my head rest on her shoulder. Her fingers slid gently into my hair, combing through the strands with a rhythm so soothing it felt like a lullaby. 

In that warmth, something inside me broke and healed at the same time.

Her shoulder became my safe haven. Her fingers became the bridge between my tears and my silence. And her presence… her presence told me I wasn’t alone. 

I closed my eyes, letting the weight of the world fall away, if only for a little while. In that moment, I realized something: I could leave behind palaces, thrones, names, and bloodlines. I could abandon everything if it meant I could always return to this one thing—her warmth.

This was the best feeling in the world.

For a long stretch of road, we stayed like that. No words, no noise, just the sound of the engine and the rhythm of her fingers against my hair.  And then suddenly, Vanya lifted her head and spoke to the driver.

Lavanya: “Driver, gaadi roko. Mandir ke saamne rokna.” 

The car slowed and came to a halt in front of a temple. Its white marble walls glistened faintly in the sunlight, marigold garlands hanging across the archway. The bells above chimed as if welcoming us, and the faint fragrance of incense drifted out, mixing with the air. 

We stepped out together. 

The ground was cool beneath my sandals, and the temple steps stretched upward like an invitation. My heart thudded faster. Ajmer—bua’s palace—was still a little distance away, but standing here, in front of the mandir, felt like pausing at the edge of something sacred before stepping into something suffocating. 

I glanced at Lavanya. She wasn’t looking at me, but I could feel her hand brush against mine, a silent promise that she would not let me face anything alone.  I drew in a breath, lifting my eyes to the temple spire, and in that moment, a prayer slipped through my lips silently:

“Bhagwan… agar meri kismat mein bhai ka pyaar nahi hai, toh kam se kam meri dost ka saath kabhi mat cheenna.”

And as the bells rang again, as Lavanya gently nudged me toward the steps, I realized that maybe Raksha Bandhan wasn’t only about brothers and sisters. Maybe it was about protection, about someone standing between you and the world when it felt too heavy.

And in that sense, maybe I wasn’t as abandoned as I thought.

Because I had her.

Lavanya’s POV

The temple courtyard was alive with the soft chime of bells and the fragrance of marigolds. The white marble gleamed under the sunlight, and every step felt like a journey inward, deeper into a silence I rarely allowed myself.

But today, it wasn’t about me.

It was about her—my Nishi.

I walked beside her, watching her from the corner of my eye. Her face was quiet, her lips curved faintly as though holding onto a smile, but her eyes… her eyes were far away, lost in that place she always wandered to whenever festivals or family were mentioned. 

She thought I couldn’t tell. But I always knew. She always thought about them—those who never cared for her, who never stood by her, who never gave her the love she craved. Every Rakhi, she carried the same wound: a brother who never came to her, never tied a rakhi, never said goodbye, never let her come close. 

Why is my Nishi like this?

Why does her heart cling to the people who only hurt her?

I wanted to shake the world for her. But instead, I folded my hands before the deity, my heart spilling into prayer.

I bent down, touched my forehead to the cold marble, and whispered words that rose like poetry from my soul:

O God, protect her not from the world alone,

but from herself too—

from the ache that makes her chase shadows,

from the wounds that make her doubt her worth.

They, who were meant to be her shelter,

became her storm.

They, who were meant to hold her,

let her fall.

And today I stand here,

asking You to guard her from the family

who should have guarded her first.

She deserves more than sorrow,

her unanswered happiness.

For once, let happiness come to her,

not in fleeting drops,

but as a river that never dries.

If pain must fall, let it fall on me.

If battles must be fought,

make me her shield.

But let her breathe,

let her taste the peace she has always prayed for in silence.”
I touched God’s feet with trembling hands, and then turned to her. She stood a few steps away, her eyes wandering across the temple courtyard. She didn’t know what I had asked for. She didn’t hear my words.

But I wanted her to feel them. I lifted my hand and gently placed it on her head, closing my eyes for a moment. Take this prayer, Nishi. Even if you don’t believe in it, let my faith be enough for both of us. Let this blessing reach you.

She looked up at me, confused at first, and then smiled softly. She didn’t ask why. She never asked. And maybe that’s what made her mine. 

After the aarti, we walked toward the priest who stood by the sanctum, his face glowing in the flicker of the oil lamps. He blessed us with flowers and a pinch of sacred ash.

“Dono behne hamesha khush raho,” he said.

The words struck me. Behen. We weren’t bound by blood, but by something purer. In that instant, I silently vowed that no matter what her so-called family did, I would always stand as her sister, her anchor.

Behind the temple lay a quiet pond, its surface mirroring the sky. Lotus flowers floated lazily on the water, and the air was thick with the hum of bees and the rustle of leaves. The world felt slower here, as though time itself paused to breathe. 

We sat by the edge, our feet dangling just above the cool stone steps that descended into the water. The ripples moved gently, carrying the reflection of the temple’s spire across their surface.

For a while, we said nothing. 

She leaned slightly forward, her hands clasped together on her lap, her eyes fixed on the water. I knew she was thinking again—about him, about them, about everything she longed for and everything she was denied.

I wanted to speak, but sometimes silence is kinder than words.

So I let her be, letting the quiet of the pond hold us. 

Then, after what felt like an eternity, I touched her arm. 

“Nishi,” I said softly, “sit here for a while. I’ll just come in a minute.” 

She looked at me, puzzled. “Kahan jaa rahi hai?” 

“Bas yahin paas,” I smiled, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “Stay. The water listens better than people. Talk to it if you need to. I’ll be back.” 

As I rose and walked a little further down the path, I turned once to look at her. She was still sitting, her reflection trembling in the rippling water. She looked fragile and strong all at once—like a flower blooming in the middle of a storm.

I walked slowly, my thoughts heavy.

I needed to give her space. She had been suffocating for too long, buried under expectations, neglect, and her own unyielding loyalty to those who didn’t deserve her. If I crowded her now with my words, she would smile and nod, but she wouldn’t let herself feel. 

She needed this pause.

This moment by the pond, This silence that belonged only to her, But even as I gave her space, I promised myself one thing: I will never let her fight her battles alone.

I turned my face toward the pond once more, whispering to the wind like a vow only the water could carry:

“If her family cannot be her shield, I will.

If her brother cannot tie a rakhi,

I will tie my loyalty around her wrist every day.

If the world cannot give her a home,

I will build her one in my arms,

brick by brick, smile by smile.”
The temple corridors were bathed in the faint golden hue of the evening sun. The ancient stone pillars stood tall and silent, like witnesses of countless prayers whispered and countless tears shed in their shadow. The fragrance of incense floated in the air, blending with the faint sound of temple bells that echoed from inside the sanctum. It was a place of solace, of surrender, of unspoken conversations with God.

I had come here countless times before. For peace. For answers. For the warmth of faith. Yet that day, as my steps echoed on the marble floor, something different tugged at me — a strange pull, as though destiny had planted something in my path that I was meant to see. 

I was walking slowly when suddenly, my eyes caught sight of a man. He was leaning against one of the temple pillars, his head slightly bowed, his shoulders heavy with an invisible weight. His face was turned away from the crowd, almost as if he wanted to hide, to dissolve into the silence of stone and prayer. His eyes — though moist — were fixed somewhere far away, perhaps not even on the temple, but on the storm that raged within him.

And for a moment, my breath hitched. 

It wasn’t just the sight of him; it was the silence around him. The kind of silence that screams louder than words. His eyes looked like a boundless ocean — deep, vast, and restless — hiding storms that threatened to rise in waves if only he let them free. Yet he didn’t. He stood there, still, like a sailor holding a fragile boat together, afraid of letting go because he knew that if the storm escaped, it wouldn’t come as rain. It would come as a tsunami.

My heart ached as I watched him. Society says men don’t cry. Men must be strong, unbreakable, stone-hearted. But standing there, looking at him, I thought — what kind of cruel rule is this? Why must men silence their pain, bury their tears, and smile when their soul is breaking? Why is it that if a woman weeps, it’s considered natural, but if a man’s eyes moisten, he’s labeled weak? Who decided that strength is only in silence, not in honesty? 

I clenched my fists. Society was blind. Society was unfair.

Yet even amidst that injustice, there was something about him that drew me in. Maybe it was his vulnerability. Maybe it was his strength, disguised as stillness. Or maybe it was his eyes — those oceanic blue eyes that told a thousand unsaid stories. Stories of survival. Of pain. Of resilience. 

He was dressed in a simple blue checkered shirt, paired with black jeans, and draped across his arm was a white coat — the kind only doctors carried. My chest warmed with respect. Doctors were healers, givers of life, people who carried the burdens of others while hiding their own.

As I observed him silently, another man walked up to him. And just like that, he smiled. A smile so effortless, so convincing, that anyone would have believed it. Anyone… except me. Because I had already seen his truth — his eyes. And eyes never lie. His smile was a mask, a fragile shield covering the cracks in his heart. He was pretending to be happy, but behind that curve of lips lay a flood of pain. 

I looked away, almost guilty for peering too much into someone else’s soul. Turning around, I prepared to leave. But before I could take more than a few steps, a priest walked towards me with a plate of prasad. I accepted it with folded hands, bowed my head in respect, and turned to go. Yet something made me stop him. 

I don’t know why. But I wanted to ask. Maybe because my heart felt restless. Maybe because something in me whispered that this man wasn’t just a stranger I’d seen by chance. 

“Pandit ji…” I hesitated, then pointed toward him. “Aap unhe jaante hai? Woh kaun hai? Aur aise… kyun sannata sa lekar khade hain?” 

The priest followed my gaze, then looked back at me with a gentle smile. His eyes softened, as though remembering something tender. 

“He is Vayansh,” the priest said, his voice steady yet filled with compassion. “An orphan. He now stays with his best friend’s family. His friend’s mother runs a dance academy and an orphanage. She loves both her son and Vayansh equally, as if they were both born from her own womb. To her, there is no difference. And he… he has always been like this. Quiet, thoughtful, carrying the weight of silence within him.”

The priest’s words painted pictures in my mind. A little boy without parents. A boy standing quietly in corners, craving the warmth of love, learning to smile through pain, holding back tears because the world never allowed him the luxury of being vulnerable. 

The priest continued, “Every year on Rakhi, both boys come here. You see, his friend has no sister, and Vayansh too is an orphan, without a sister of his own. On Raksha Bandhan, when others tie rakhis, they come here together. They pray. They talk to God. They share what is heavy in their hearts. This temple has become their space — a place to let out what they cannot tell the world. Their bond is special. They are good boys, both of them.” 

I swallowed hard, my chest tightening. His pain wasn’t foreign to me. It echoed something inside my own heart.

“Pandit ji… par yahan toh ek hi hai. Dusra kahan hai?” I asked softly. 

The priest chuckled gently. “He was here. Maybe he’s just roaming around now. They don’t always stand together on this day.”

The priest blessed me and left, but his words stayed.

I stood frozen for a while, unable to move. My heart felt heavy — heavier than it had in years. Because in him, I saw a reflection of myself. I was not like this usually, not one to stop for strangers. But today something held me back, kept me rooted. 

I looked toward the idol of God, seeking some kind of sign. And then… as if answering my silent plea, a flower fell from the idol’s crown, landing gently on the marble floor. 

I bent down and picked it up, my hands trembling. Was this a sign? A whisper from the divine that what I was feeling was right? That I should not ignore the pull inside me? 

Clutching the flower tightly, I turned toward him. My steps were hesitant, yet determined. Slowly, I walked until I stood beside him. He didn’t look at me. His gaze remained fixed on the floor, his silence like a wall. But I didn’t need his eyes to know what he felt. 

From my bag, I took out a rakhi. Every year, I had bought one. Every year, I had kept it locked in a small box, untouched, waiting, hoping, but never tying it on anyone’s wrist. I was the only child in my family. My parents loved me dearly, yet I had always craved a brother’s love. Every Rakhi, while the world celebrated, I would sit alone, holding a rakhi in my hand, whispering wishes into emptiness. 

And now, here I was. Standing beside a stranger who was no stranger to loneliness. My fingers trembled as I held the rakhi, my voice breaking through the silence. 

“Main har saal ek rakhi sambhaal ke rakhti thi… par baandhne ke liye kabhi koi haath aage nahi badha. Aur tum… har saal ek muskaan sambhaal lete ho, par tumhari aankhon tak kabhi khushi nahi pahunchi. Aaj pehli baar laga… rab ne do adhoore insaan ko ek dusre ke saamne khada kar diya hai… taaki meri khamoshi tumhari tanhaayi ko awaaz de… aur tumhari aankhe, meri saalon ki rakhi ko apna ghar de.”

My voice shook. My heart pounded. I had never spoken so openly to anyone, let alone a stranger. Yet the words had flown from my lips as if they had been waiting for years. 

Tears blurred my vision as I continued, my voice barely above a whisper:

“Meri dibbein mein padi har rakhi kisi ke kalayi mein bandhne ka intezaar karti hai. Meri aankhe har saal logon ko rakhi celebrate karte dekhti hai, aur main sochti hoon… main itni khushnaseeb kyu nahi? Kyu mujhe ek bhai ka pyaar kabhi nahi mila? Lagta tha main kabhi kisi ko rakhi nahi bandhungi… mere naseeb mein yeh sukh likha hi nahi. Kya aap… aaj apna haath badha kar mujhe khushnaseeb banayenge? Kya aap mujhe aapko bhai bulane ka haq denge?”

The world around us faded. The sound of bells, the chants of prayers, even the footsteps of devotees — everything dissolved into silence. There was only him and me. A rakhi between us. A lifetime of unshed tears in our eyes.

He finally turned, his ocean-blue eyes meeting mine. And in them, I saw something break. Something melt. Something heal. 

For the first time, I saw his storm quieten.

With that, he smiled—a little, but enough to melt something inside me. It wasn’t just any smile; it was a genuine smile, one that made me forget my nervousness for a fleeting second. He was tall, much taller than me, and standing in front of him, I felt small, almost like a child. Even if I wore my tallest sandals, even if I tried to stretch myself with all my might, I knew I would still look like a little girl beside him. 

I was nervous. My heart was racing as if it wanted to escape my chest. This was the first time in my life I had ever asked a stranger something so sacred, so personal, so close to my heart: to become my brother. I had never done this before. The very thought of it terrified me, and yet, somewhere in my soul, I wanted this bond. 

Fear pricked me from all directions. What if he didn’t want to? What if he refused? What if he rejected the rakhi? I would look like a fool, and worse—I would feel the sting of rejection, the wound of being unwanted. For a moment, I almost regretted asking, but the words were already out in the open.

I waited. 

I waited for his answer, my heart sinking lower with every second that passed. But no words came. He remained silent, his expression unreadable, and that silence pierced me deeper than any rejection could have. My hope began to crumble. My lips trembled. My chest felt heavy. I wanted to run away before he could speak, before he could break me. I turned slightly, my heart already preparing itself for the ache of disappointment. But just as I was about to walk away with a heavy heart, a deep voice resonated in my ears.

“Yes… I want to become your brother.”

I froze mid-step. The world stilled. I turned around slowly, hardly able to believe what I had just heard. His voice was calm, firm, sincere—like a promise etched in stone. 

There he was, smiling—not mockingly, not out of pity, but with a warmth that touched the very corners of his eyes. A smile that said he meant every word. He extended his hand towards me, waiting. My breath caught, and in that instant, I felt a surge of emotions I couldn’t name. Relief, gratitude, joy—all colliding into one. 

With trembling fingers, I took the rakhi and tied it gently around his wrist. My hands shook, but my heart steadied with every knot I tied. It wasn’t just a thread—it was a bond, a vow, a prayer whispered through my soul. The sacred red and gold thread glimmered faintly under the temple lights, becoming more than just a rakhi—it became my hope woven into his skin. 

After tying the rakhi, I held his wrist carefully and guided him forward. Together, we stood before the idol of God. The air around us was filled with the soft fragrance of incense, the distant sound of bells echoing through the temple walls. I reached for the kumkum resting at the feet of the deity. With reverence, I applied the tilak to his forehead, the red mark glowing like a blessing, sealing the bond I had just created. 

But before I could even lower my hand, before I could step back, he did something that left me utterly shocked.

He suddenly bent down. 

I gasped softly as he touched my feet. For a second, I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. My eyes widened in disbelief. Nobody had ever done this for me. Nobody had ever shown me such respect, such purity. It felt almost unreal.

Before I could even ask why, before I could voice my confusion, his deep voice reached me again, filled with sincerity that shook me. 

“Today, you tied a rakhi on my wrist and made me the happiest person. You chose me as your brother. You thought I was worthy to hold this bond. Main jaanta hoon… duniya ke liye tum bas ek anjaani ho.Lekin mere liye tum uparwale ki bheji hui kripa ho… meri devi. Aaj tumne mujhe apna bhai banakar meri adhoori zindagi poori kar di.” 

I felt my world stop. His words weren’t just words; they were an ocean of respect and devotion poured into me. I felt my throat tighten, my eyes filling with tears I hadn’t expected. How could someone think like this in today’s world? I had always heard stories, always read about such respect in books, but I never thought I would witness it in real life.

He remained bent, still holding my feet, and in that moment, my heart overflowed. Slowly, with trembling fingers, I placed my palm gently on the back of his head, blessing him the way an elder would. Only then did he rise, standing tall again, his eyes meeting mine. 

In his gaze, I saw something I had been craving all my life—comfort.

It was the comfort of being cared for, the warmth of being accepted, the safety of being valued. For a moment, I wanted to cry, to break down and release everything I had been holding in, but I held myself back. I didn’t want to spoil this sacred moment with my tears. 

He looked at me again, and this time, there was a hint of nervousness in his voice. “I’m sorry… I don’t have anything to give you.” 

I shook my head immediately, ready to tell him he didn’t need to. But before I could speak, he opened his bag and began searching inside. After a few seconds, he pulled something out—a simple chain. 

He held it carefully, almost reverently, before extending it to me. “Keep this with you. It has the blessing of Shiv Ji. It will always keep you safe. Think of this as your brother’s first gift to you.” 

I stared at the chain in my palm. It wasn’t about gold, or silver, or value—it was about the thought, the purity, the emotion behind it. My chest tightened, and my eyes stung again, but this time with gratitude. I curled my fingers around it tightly, like it was a treasure, a promise I never wanted to lose. 

Then, almost hesitantly, he scratched the back of his neck, his lips curving into a shy smile. “Umm… can I… can I know your name?” 

The nervousness in his tone made me chuckle softly. He was tall, strong, confident—and yet, here he was, suddenly like a little boy asking something shyly. 

“Lavanya,” I said with a smile. “I’ll keep this with me always. And here—” My eyes fell on a flower that had just slipped from Krishna Ji’s idol. I picked it up carefully. “Take this. It fell from God’s feet. I had kept it to give to someone… now I know who.”

I extended it to him. He took it with both hands, bowing his head slightly, his respect shining in his every gesture.

He accepted the flower with both hands, bowing his head, his eyes soft with reverence. For a moment, the world felt still. The threads of the rakhi shimmered faintly on his wrist, the tilak still glowing on his forehead, and in his hands, the flower looked like a divine acceptance of everything that had just passed between us.

We exchanged a few random words after that—simple things, nothing too deep. And yet, every syllable felt like it carried meaning, like every pause held a promise. Slowly, the moment drew to a close, and I realized it was time for me to leave.

I turned, walked a few steps away, but my heart refused to stay calm. Something inside me tugged, as though I was leaving behind more than just a person. My chest tightened with every step I took, my mind screaming at me to turn back, to stay a little longer, to hold onto this bond that felt so fragile, so new, yet so necessary. 

By the time I was a little farther away, realization hit me like a storm.

I only knew his name.

Nothing else. No number, no address, no clue about where to find him again. Just a name.

I stopped in my tracks, my heart thundering in regret. Why didn’t I ask? Why didn’t I take a moment to know more? My fingers tightened around the chain he had given me, my thumb brushing over its surface as though I could pull answers from it. It felt warm, alive almost, as if it carried his blessing, his silent promise. 

I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and whispered a prayer. “God, if You truly made him my brother, then You will bring him back to me. If this bond is real, if it is written in my destiny, then I will meet him again. I place this in Your hands.”

The temple bells rang in the distance just then, almost as though heaven itself was answering me. I opened my eyes, and my lips curved into a soft, trembling smile. 

The thought soothed me. Instead of drowning in regret, I let faith cradle me. Somewhere inside, I believed—no, I knew—that if this bond was meant to stay, the universe would find a way to weave us back together.

As I walked out of the temple courtyard, the world felt different. The sunlight seemed warmer, the air richer, as though everything had witnessed the sacred bond I had just created. My sandals clicked softly against the stone pathway, each step lighter than before.

I held the chain close, pressing it against my chest. His words echoed in my mind: “This will always keep you safe. Think of this as your brother’s first gift.” 

The word “brother” tasted new on my tongue, but it filled me with a warmth I couldn’t explain. I had always longed for this—a bond of protection, of belonging, of unconditional love. And now, finally, I had it.

A faint smile played on my lips as I thought, Now I have a big brother. Three years older than me. Strong, respectful, kind. Someone I can proudly say is mine. Someone I can say is my brother.

The memory of him bending to touch my feet returned to me, replaying again and again in my mind. My chest tightened with emotion. How many men in today’s time think like that? Most would laugh, most would dismiss, most would never place a woman, let alone a sister, on such a pedestal. But he had. Without hesitation. Without shame. With pride.

I wanted to cry, but not out of sadness—out of gratitude. Out of the overwhelming rush of finally feeling seen, respected, valued.

As I walked farther from the temple, the crowd around me faded into the background. My thoughts spiraled inward, carrying me back into memories.

I remembered the countless Raksha Bandhans of my childhood—days when I tied rakhis to cousins, sometimes even distant relatives. Smiles exchanged, promises spoken, but none of them ever filled that hollow inside me. None of them ever gave me the comfort I was truly craving. They were bonds of formality, bound by tradition, not by heart.

This… this was different. 

This was pure.

This was chosen, not forced by family ties. This was destiny, not duty.

I thought about his nervous smile when he asked for my name, the way he scratched the back of his neck shyly. It made me chuckle softly even now. He was tall, strong, serious, and yet, in that moment, he looked like a little boy unsure of himself. So cute, I whispered to myself, shaking my head at the memory. 

I realized then that it wasn’t just a rakhi, a chain, or a flower that had been exchanged today. Something else had passed between us, something invisible yet unbreakable. A bond that had no explanation, only feeling.

As the temple bells echoed once more, I tilted my head slightly, gazing at the sky. My eyes softened, and silently, I thanked God. Thank You for sending me someone like him. Thank You for showing me that men like him exist. Thank You for giving me a brother I can proudly call mine.

The more I walked, the more peaceful I felt. My heart, once heavy with fear of rejection, was now overflowing with warmth. My steps carried me back towards where Tanishi was waiting, but my mind was still back there, standing before the idol, tying the rakhi, watching him bend down in respect.

Every detail etched itself into my soul—the fragrance of incense, the soft rustle of devotees’ clothes, the glow of diyas flickering against temple walls, the weight of the kumkum on my fingertips, the softness of the flower I had given him. Each piece of that moment became sacred, engraved in my memory forever. 

I held the chain tightly, almost afraid that if I let it go, the bond would vanish. But no—it was more than a chain. It was his promise, his blessing, his presence wrapped around me like unseen armor. For the first time in years, I felt safe. For the first time, I felt like I wasn’t alone, And so, with a soft smile, with my heart fuller than ever before, I whispered to myself, This Raksha Bandhan, I didn’t just tie a rakhi. I found a brother.

Tanishi P.O.V

Vanya left a while ago. I think I know why. She sensed it—the heaviness inside me, the silence pressing against my ribs, the ache that refuses to be spoken aloud. She wanted to give me space, to let me sit with my thoughts, with the storm I carry but never name.

I sit here alone, by the pond, staring at its surface shimmering under the golden sunlight. The water is calm, yet restless in its stillness—just like me. Countless lotus flowers float over it, their petals tender, untouched, their beauty unmarred despite being rooted in the mud beneath. Maybe that’s why I always come here. Maybe because these lotuses remind me that beauty can still rise from dirt, that grace can bloom even in filth. But today, even their beauty feels distant.

On the other side of the pond, my gaze lands on a sight that stops my breath for a moment. A little girl, her hands tiny, trembling, yet full of love, is tying a rakhi on her brother’s wrist. Her eyes sparkle, her lips curve into a smile pure and innocent, and her brother—he leans down, lets her tie it, then taps her head gently with a blessing. I see the glow on her face, the warmth in his eyes. The bond between them is silent yet screaming. And in that instant, something inside me cracks wide open. 

Because that sight drags me back to a memory.

A memory I wish I could burn.

A memory I wish I could forget.

But it’s etched inside me, carved like a wound that never heals.

And so, unwillingly, I fall into that day again.

                                                           ________________________________________

Flashback

That morning, I had woken with hope. It was Raksha Bandhan. A day every sister waits for. A day when love is tied around a wrist, and promises are sealed in silence. A day when bonds feel stronger than blood.

I had dressed carefully—simple yet beautiful. A soft pastel anarkali with delicate embroidery, my hair brushed neatly, a little kajal lining my eyes. I had carried the thali myself, decorated with a rakhi I had chosen days ago. The rakhi wasn’t fancy—it was simple, just like my heart. But its thread carried all my love, all my prayers, all my unspoken wishes that maybe, just maybe, this bond would heal what time had broken.

I had dressed carefully—simple yet beautiful. A soft pastel anarkali with delicate embroidery, my hair brushed neatly, a little kajal lining my eyes. I had carried the thali myself, decorated with a rakhi I had chosen days ago. The rakhi wasn’t fancy—it was simple, just like my heart. But its thread carried all my love, all my prayers, all my unspoken wishes that maybe, just maybe, this bond would heal what time had broken.

When I descended the stairs, the house felt eerily quiet. Not a single voice echoed in the hall. The laughter I had hoped for, the fragrance of festivity—it wasn’t there. Only silence. A silence that pricked my skin.

Clutching the thali tighter, I walked towards his study room. My brother’s study. The place where he drowned himself in work, in numbers, in deals, in everything but family. I paused outside the door, my hands trembling. My heart pounded against my ribs as if it already knew what awaited me.

I pushed the door open. 

He was there. Sitting in his chair, back straight, shoulders broad, eyes glued to papers on the desk. He looked as handsome as always—sharp features, neatly styled hair, a presence that commanded respect. For a fleeting second, I thought—this is my brother. My bhai. Maybe today, he will look at me, not as a burden, not as a curse, but simply as his sister. 

I stepped inside. The soft jingling of my bangles should have told him I was there, but he didn’t look up. His eyes remained fixed on his work. My throat tightened, but I told myself—it’s okay. He’s busy. He doesn’t know yet.

So, I spoke. Softly, timidly. “Bhai…” 

He didn’t react. My voice felt too small against the heavy air of the room. I took a step closer, clutching the thali with both hands, praying he would notice, praying he would see the love trembling in my eyes. 

“Bhai,” I tried again, this time a little louder, “tie this rakhi. Just once. Please.” 

My words cracked mid-air. Pleading. Fragile. Almost child like.

That was when he finally looked up.

And in that single moment, my world tilted.

His eyes weren’t warm. They weren’t surprised. They weren’t even indifferent. They were red. Bloodshot. Heavy with something sharp, something burning. For a second, I thought it was anger. But no. It was worse. Much worse.

It was rejection.
It was hatred.
It was disgust.

The kind that makes your stomach twist. The kind that makes you shiver in your own skin.

He pushed back his chair, the legs screeching against the marble floor. He rose, tall, towering, his shadow swallowing mine. His jaw clenched so tightly I could almost hear the grind of his teeth. And then his voice came—cold, razor-sharp, slicing through my hope.

“Rakhi? From you?”
I froze. The rakhi thread in my hand quivered as if it, too, was afraid of his words.

“You think you’re worthy to call me brother?” he spat, each syllable laced with venom.

My throat closed. Words refused to come. My eyes burned, but I refused to let the tears fall. I clutched the rakhi tighter, as if that thin piece of thread could hold my breaking heart together.

Inside me, a voice screamed—He’s my brother. He can’t mean this. He can’t. But he wasn’t done. He stepped closer, his presence suffocating. His gaze bore into me like fire, like poison, like everything a sister should never have to see in her brother’s eyes. 

“Don’t you dare come near me with that thing,” he hissed. “Don’t you dare call me bhai again. Tum jaanti ho na, tumse ye rishta main kabhi accept nahi karunga.” 

Each word hit me like a slap across the soul. My knees weakened. My hands trembled so badly that the thali almost slipped. The diya flickered dangerously, its flame dancing as if mocking my desperation.

“But… I’m your sister,” I whispered, my voice shattering. “Main sirf yeh chahti hoon ke tumhe apna raksha-karna keh saku.”

For a moment, I prayed. Maybe he would soften. Maybe something in him would remember the bond of blood, the bond of childhood, the bond of shared name.

But instead, he laughed.

A hollow, bitter laugh that echoed like an empty shell.

“Raksha? Tum?” His voice dripped with mockery. “Tumhari wajah se hi to meri zindagi ek disgrace ban gayi hai. Main tumhari shakal tak nahi dekhna chahta.” 

The floor beneath me seemed to disappear. My breath caught in my chest, my lungs burning. His words weren’t just rejection—they were erasure. He wasn’t refusing the rakhi. He was cutting the very thread of existence that bound us.

I tried to speak, but my lips wouldn’t move. My throat burned raw, yet no sound escaped. The rakhi slipped from my trembling hand, dangling by a single thread. Still, foolishly, desperately, I caught it, as if saving it would save me.

His eyes grew colder. Sharper. And then he leaned closer, his words whispering poison into my ear. 

“Aur suno… apna chehra dhak lo. This face—this cursed, disgraceful face—is nothing but shame. From today, you are a stain, not my sister.”
The thali finally slipped from my hands, crashing to the floor. The diya extinguished instantly, smoke curling into the air. Darkness consumed me in that moment.

I stood frozen. Tears blurred my vision but refused to fall. My chest felt hollow, my heart an empty vessel. I wanted to scream, to beg, to collapse—but nothing came. Nothing, except one truth that echoed louder than any sound.

He wasn’t just rejecting the rakhi.

He was rejecting me.

And in that instant, I understood what it truly meant to be unwanted.

Flashback Ends

                                                          _______________________________________

The pond’s ripples shimmer back into focus. The little girl across the water is still smiling, still glowing, still receiving the love I was denied. Her brother still bends, still accepts, still protects.

I sit on this side, my hands empty, my heart heavy, my wrist bare. And though years have passed, though I smile in front of the world, though I pretend strength, inside I remain that girl—standing in the study room with a broken thali, an extinguished diya, and a rakhi no one ever accepted.

A sister without a brother.

A daughter without a family.

A girl who learned that sometimes, even blood can turn its back on you.

And perhaps… that is the cruelest truth of all.

I sat there, tears rolling down my cheeks, utterly helpless. My hands trembled, and my chest ached as if the world itself had decided to squeeze the life out of me. I didn’t know what to do or how to feel. My emotions swirled uncontrollably—pain, loneliness, confusion—all mixing into a storm I could neither calm nor escape. 

“Was it my mistake? Why don’t you love me the way you used to when I was a child? Baba, was my smile not enough anymore? Bhai, did I stop being your little sister one day without knowing? Chachu, Maa, Chachi… when did your arms stop being my shelter? Dadi… why don’t your prayers carry my name the way they once did? Tell me… what did I do so wrong that the love which once wrapped me warm, now feels like it was never mine at all?” 

I whispered the words into the emptiness, almost hoping someone, anyone, would hear me. But the silence stretched on, unbroken, pressing against my ears and heart. Then, suddenly, a soft melodic voice reached me, cutting through the stillness like sunlight through a cold morning fog.

Startled, I recoiled slightly, instinctively shifting back. I didn’t see him at first—I only heard him. His voice carried a warmth that seemed to seep into my bones, gentle yet commanding attention without demanding it.

“Rakhi ke din sab kuch bolna zaroori nahi hota......kabhi kabhi sirf ek hath badhane se bhi Rishta ban jaata hai. humari koi behen nahi toh kya aaj aap hume rakhi bandh kar hume apna bhai hone ka daarza dengi.”
I looked up, finally seeing him. His brown eyes were intense, a strange mixture of hope and longing, yearning for something I didn’t yet understand. It struck me like a sudden ache, sharp and unfamiliar, seeing that vulnerability in someone so composed. His little smile bloomed like a fragile flower, delicate, yet somehow defiant in its quiet warmth. I felt a nervous flutter in my chest, my throat dry, words failing me. Normally, I could barely look strangers in the eye, especially men, but there was something about him that coaxed a trust from deep within me, a strange, unexplainable assurance.

Then his gaze caught mine, steady and unwavering. It drew me in. I noticed his hand, extending slowly toward me, waiting. Waiting for me to do something, to trust him, to accept him. My heart raced. Could I? Should I? Everything inside me screamed hesitation, but at the same time, a voice deeper than fear whispered: this is right… trust him.

I watched his hand, saw it tremble ever so slightly, a mirror of the vulnerability in his eyes. Just as he was about to pull back, something in me shifted, a sudden awareness that I might lose something precious if I didn’t reach for it. My heart ached, and a tear slipped down my cheek. In that instant, the faint ringing of temple bells seemed to echo in my soul, as if the universe itself was urging me forward.

I reached out, holding his hand, my own trembling as I struggled to speak through the lump in my throat. My voice came out broken, small, almost drowned by the weight of my emotions:

“I don’t have rakhi…”
He turned toward me, and I saw a flicker of relief pass through his eyes. Slowly, reverently, he came closer and kneeled before me. My heart skipped, and yet, strangely, I felt safe. He looked at me, his eyes seeking permission, and in that silent exchange, I nodded softly.

He began to speak, his voice gentle, careful, and almost afraid to shatter the fragile trust that had formed between us:

“Can... I…”
I didn’t understand at first what he wanted, but I simply nodded. Fear coursed through me, but I didn’t want him to sense it. His hands cupped my cheeks for a moment, brushing away a tear. The simple gesture pierced me—no one in my family had ever cared enough to wipe away my tears like this, no one had ever made me feel seen. For a moment, the weight of rejection lifted, replaced by an odd, heart-warming tenderness. 

From his pocket, he produced a rakhi, holding it out to me with a reverence I had never witnessed. I took it, my fingers brushing against his, and tied it around his wrist. Then, carefully, I retrieved a small packet of kumkum from my bag, borrowed from the temple, and applied a tilak to his forehead. And suddenly, in a movement so unexpected that my breath caught, he bowed his head to my feet. Shocked, I froze, unsure what to do. 

“Today, when you tied that rakhi on my wrist… you gave me an identity I never had. You made me your brother. You saw me worthy of this sacred bond. For me, you are no less than a blessing from God. Tumhare charan mere liye dharti ka swarg. Aaj apna sir in charnon mein rakhkar main yeh maana hai ki uparwale ne mujhe sirf ek behen nahi, ek devi bakshi hai. Tumhare ek aashirvaad se meri puri duniya roshan ho jaayegi.”

It hit me—the sacredness of his gesture, the depth of his words, the purity of his emotions. My own family, who had always treated me like a shadow, had never even acknowledged my existence like this. And here was a stranger, someone I had just met, treating me with the reverence of a goddess. Trembling, I placed my palm gently on the back of his head, feeling a strange, soothing warmth spread through me.

He rose, sitting beside me, taking my hand in his. From his wrist, he produced a simple rudraksha bracelet, sliding it onto mine with care and reverence.

“I have only this for now. It carries my blessings. Keep it close to you, and never feel afraid when you are alone. Whenever you touch it, remember that you have a brother now… someone who will always stand by you, even from afar.”

I offered him a small smile, though hidden beneath my scarf, letting only my eyes express the gratitude and emotions too intense for words. And then, slowly, we began to talk, our voices mingling softly. The conversation was casual, almost mundane, yet every word, every joke, every small story he shared was a thread weaving a bond between us. He spoke with such ease, noticing the little things that made me uncomfortable, adjusting his words to comfort me, making me laugh gently for the first time in so long.

I learned his name—Shaurya. I whispered mine in return, feeling a strange pride, as though telling him who I was finally mattered. He tell me his funny stories, and I laughed a little, yet in every gesture, I sensed an understanding, a recognition of the pain I carried silently. Time passed, unnoticed. And then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone. I searched frantically, but there was no sign of him. My heart sank.

I looked down at the rudraksha bracelet, gripping it tightly. A small smile appeared on my lips, hidden behind the scarf, as a spark of hope warmed my chest. If God wills it, if the universe deems it right, our paths would cross again. Until then, the bracelet rested on my wrist—a silent promise, a thread connecting me to someone who had seen me, valued me, and accepted me unconditionally.

Even as I walked away, alone but not lonely, I felt a strange, comforting warmth in my heart. The world had rejected me, yet Shaurya had offered me something my family never did—a recognition of my worth, a bond of protection, a sense of being loved. The memory of that moment, the touch of his hand, the sincerity of his eyes, and the gentle weight of the rudraksha on my wrist would stay with me forever.

And for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to hope—hope that maybe, just maybe, love and care weren’t always meant to hurt. That there were people in this world who would see the soul behind the scars, who would recognize the divinity in someone who had been ignored for far too long.

I clutched the bracelet tighter, closing my eyes and whispering a silent prayer into the stillness: If this is fate, then let our paths meet again. Let me not forget the warmth, the hope, the bond of today. And let me learn to trust… once again.

After what felt like an eternity of overwhelming emotions, I sank back onto the bench, my fingers still brushing against the rudraksha bracelet on my wrist. The memory of Shaurya’s warmth, his eyes, the gentleness of his hands—it all played repeatedly in my mind, a symphony of feelings I couldn’t quite name. My chest still throbbed, but this time it wasn’t pain; it was a strange, tender ache, the kind that came when someone unexpectedly made you feel seen, valued, and loved.

I heard a familiar, teasing voice break into my thoughts. “Nishi… who was he?”
It was Vanya. Her presence was like a ray of sunlight cutting through the haze of my emotions. I turned toward her, a small smile tugging at my lips despite the lingering shyness. I told her everything—the entire story of how I had met Shaurya, how his words had cut through the silence of my lonely heart, how he had kneeled, how he had made me feel… important, special, and cared for in a way that no one ever had.

Vanya listened intently, her eyes widening at every detail, and when I finished, there was a long, quiet pause before she spoke, her voice soft but filled with awe after listening she told me about her story. 

“Today… today, we both got a brother,” she said, her words carrying a weight of wonder and joy. “A brother for whom we craved love, warmth, and everything we ever needed but never received.”

Her words made my heart tighten. I nodded, feeling the truth of them settle deep inside me. The loneliness, the years of feeling invisible, the ache of wanting someone to truly see me—they were all acknowledged in her words, and in that acknowledgment, I found a strange comfort.

Then, suddenly, her voice shifted, curious and a little sharp.

“Wait… what did you say? Your brother’s name is Shaurya, right?” 

I nodded my head.

Vanya paused, biting her lip, a distant expression clouding her eyes as if she were lost in thought. I watched her, a question hovering on my tongue, and finally asked softly, “Vanya… what happened? You seem… thinking about something.” 

She took a deep breath, her eyes flickering with something I couldn’t immediately read—an amalgam of hope, realization, and a faint worry. “I… I just remembered something the pandit ji said today,” she began slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. “He mentioned Vayansh’s best friend—Shaurya. I think… maybe… maybe he could be the same Shaurya you told me about.”

I blinked, my mind spinning. The thought that the boy who had touched my heart, the one who had given me a bond I never thought I’d have, could be connected to Vayansh… it was almost too much to process. Yet, a quiet thrill ran through me at the possibility, a flicker of hope I hadn’t expected to feel. 

“Then… you can also become his sister,” I said, my voice tentative but hopeful, thinking aloud about the joy of having two brothers in our lives, two people who could care for us, protect us, and fill the void our families had left behind.

Vanya’s reply, however, stopped me in my tracks. Her words were sharp, determined, and carried a conviction that left me momentarily stunned. 

“No. There’s no need. I’m happy with one brother.” Her gaze locked onto mine, firm and unwavering. “And don’t even think about calling Vayansh your brother, Nishi. You have Shaurya. I have Vayansh. Also… I didn’t tie rakhi on shaurya’s wrist, so he’s not my brother. And if I meet vayansh a second time, I’ll observe him carefully. If he turns out to be a good man… then, maybe, I’ll set you with my brother. And yes… I’ll make you my Bhabhi.” 

I stared at her, a mix of surprise, amusement, and admiration washing over me. Her blunt honesty, her protective streak, her mischievous hint at future matchmaking—it was so very Vanya. I couldn’t help but laugh softly, the sound echoing in the quiet afternoon. Her words, while teasing, carried an undercurrent of care, a promise that she would always look out for me, just as I would for her. 

We fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, letting her words linger, the weight of the bond we were forging settling around us like a gentle embrace. Then, almost instinctively, we decided—without needing to say it aloud—that we wouldn’t call each other’s brothers “ours” just yet. That was a line we wouldn’t cross, at least not until the universe revealed the path in its own way.

With that unspoken understanding, we rose from the bench and walked toward the car. I climbed in, settling into the seat with a heart that felt lighter than it had in years. The weight of loneliness, the sting of neglect, the ache of invisibility—they all seemed distant now, replaced by a quiet joy, a tender warmth that radiated from the thought of having a brother, even if it was just one.

Vanya joined me, her presence beside me a silent comfort, and as the car started moving, I leaned back, letting my eyes close for a moment. The wind brushed gently against my face through the partially open window, carrying with it the faint scent of flowers and earth, mingling with the echoes of Shaurya’s voice in my mind. I smiled softly, hiding it beneath my scarf, letting my heart revel in the happiness of having found someone who cared, someone who would be a brother in a way my family never had been.

Time passed in a blur, the car gliding smoothly along the road, the landscape shifting from trees and fields to more structured buildings, the sunlight now dipping lower in the sky, painting everything in gold and amber. I let my mind wander, replaying every moment—the warmth of his hands, the careful reverence with which he had knelt, the kindness in his smile, and the sincerity in his words. Every memory was a thread, weaving a tapestry of emotions so rich and vibrant that I could almost reach out and touch it. 

Vanya, sensing my introspection, nudged me gently. “Nishi… are you thinking about him again?” 

I nodded slightly, a soft laugh escaping me despite myself. “Yes… I can’t help it. He… he made me feel things I haven’t felt in a long time. Seen… cared for… loved, in a way.” 

Vanya’s expression softened, her eyes glinting with understanding and a touch of amusement. “That’s the magic of a brother, Nishi. Someone who sees you, truly sees you… and makes you feel that you matter. That you’re not alone in this world.” 

I nodded, gripping the rudraksha bracelet on my wrist a little tighter. The tiny beads felt like a lifeline, a tangible reminder that somewhere, someone had acknowledged my existence in the most profound way. It was a bond forged in simplicity and sincerity, yet its impact was immeasurable, reshaping the contours of my heart with gentle, deliberate care. 

The car slowed down, and soon we arrived at a sprawling palace, its grandeur breathtaking against the fading light of the day. The gates opened, revealing gardens that stretched endlessly, fountains that shimmered with the reflections of the sinking sun, and marble walkways lined with intricately carved statues. The sheer opulence made my chest tighten—not with desire, but with awe. I had never seen anything like it.

The car rolled to a gentle stop in front of the towering palace, its golden walls catching the sun’s last light, reflecting it like a crown of fire. My heart had already begun to beat faster from the moment the gates opened. The palace was vast, intimidating, but today… my heart wasn’t heavy. For the first time, I wasn’t suffocated by the thought of walking into these walls. I had Vanya by my side, and on my wrist, the rudraksha bracelet—my reminder that I wasn’t alone anymore.

We stepped out together, the sound of our sandals against the marble steps echoing into the quiet evening air. Maids rushed forward to carry our luggage, their movements practiced, silent, respectful. I barely noticed them because something inside me had begun to stir—an odd flutter, as though my heart already knew what my eyes were about to find. 

And then… I saw her. 

Standing in the hall, her sari a deep shade of maroon with golden borders, my Bua was speaking softly to a servant. I didn’t even see the servant’s face. My eyes blurred instantly, because all I could focus on was her. My Bua. My only shelter, my only piece of home in a world that often treated me like a stranger.

Without thinking, without even breathing, my legs carried me forward. I rushed across the gleaming floor, my dupatta flying behind me, and in the next moment, I was in her arms. My body crashed against hers with the desperation of a drowning person clinging to land. My arms wrapped around her waist tightly, and before I even realized it, I was sobbing. 

Tears poured down my face, hot and unstoppable. My legs shook so violently that I could barely stand. My chest heaved as though the years of silence, of suppressed cries, of swallowed pain—all had chosen this single moment to erupt.

Bua’s hands, soft yet strong, instantly wrapped around me, holding me upright. Her palm pressed against my back, the other against my head, anchoring me to her. “Nishi…” she whispered, her voice trembling with a love so fierce it broke something inside me. 

My knees gave way, and together we sank down onto the cold marble floor. I buried my head into her chest, curling into her warmth like a lost child who had finally found her way home. My sobs shook my whole body, and I clutched her tighter, as though if I let go, she too would vanish like everyone else who had abandoned me.

Her hand stroked my hair with slow, soothing movements, her lips pressing against the crown of my head. I could feel her heart beating against my cheek—steady, grounding, alive.  And then the words came, broken, cracked, spilling out from the wound I had tried to hide for too long.

“Bua…” My voice was almost unrecognizable, hoarse with pain. “Baba… Chachu… they slapped me. They locked me in a dark room… for something I didn’t do. I swear, Bua, I swear—I never went to meet any man. I only go to college… and office… and then I come home. Always. Always! But they never believe me. They always… always punish me…”

My words dissolved into sobs. My hands clutched at her sari, twisting the fabric as if holding onto it could erase all the torment I had endured. Bua’s arms tightened around me, her own breath faltering. She bent her head to kiss my hair again and again, murmuring soft words of comfort I couldn’t even fully hear. All I heard was the steadiness of her love, the unwavering presence of someone who refused to let me break apart. And then, another warmth pressed against me. 

Vanya.

She knelt beside us, her own arms encircling me from the other side. Her cheek pressed against mine, her tears mixing with mine as she whispered, “I’m here, Nishi. Always. You don’t have to bear it alone.”

The three of us clung together, a circle of trembling bodies bound by love, grief, and unspoken promises. The marble floor beneath us was cold, but I didn’t feel it. All I felt was their warmth—the safety I had craved for so long, the belonging I had been denied, now cradling me like the most fragile treasure.

Time blurred. I don’t know how long we stayed like that—minutes, hours? All I knew was that, for the first time in years, my tears weren’t falling into emptiness. They were falling into love, into arms that refused to let me fall apart alone.

When my sobs finally softened into hiccups, Bua pulled back just enough to look at me. Her eyes were red, glistening with her own tears, but they held nothing but love. She cupped my face in her hands, wiping at my cheeks with her thumbs.

“No more hiding, Nishi,” she whispered. “No more suffering in silence. I’m here, I’m here baccha.”

Her words struck deep, and for a moment, I almost believed her completely. Almost. But the bruises of the past still lingered inside me, whispering doubts. Still, hearing her say it aloud, seeing the fire in her eyes—it lit something fragile but real in my heart: hope. 

Vanya’s hand slid into mine, squeezing it tightly. She didn’t speak this time, but her presence was enough. She had been my sister in every way that mattered, and now, here she was, holding me in my most broken moment, reminding me that I was never as alone as I thought.

Eventually, Bua helped me to my feet. My legs were still unsteady, but her arm stayed firmly around my shoulders, supporting me as we walked through the hall. Servants glanced at us with quiet sympathy, but no one dared say a word. I clung to Bua’s hand like a child afraid of being lost again.

She led me to my room, where the maids had already placed our luggage. “Go, freshen up, beta,” she said softly, brushing my hair back from my face. “Then come. We’ll have lunch together. And after that… we’ll talk. Slowly, gently. Everything will be okay.”

Her voice carried a certainty I couldn’t yet feel, but I wanted to. Desperately.

Vanya and I retreated to our rooms, where I washed away the traces of tears, though the redness around my eyes refused to fade. The water was cool, refreshing, but even as I splashed it against my face, I felt the ache of exhaustion settle into my bones. Still, there was a lightness in me now, fragile but undeniable, the kind that comes when a burden is finally shared.

When we returned to the dining hall, Bua was already waiting. The table was set with steaming dishes, fragrant with spices and comfort. For the first time in weeks, I felt hunger stir in my stomach—not just for food, but for warmth, for belonging.

We sat together, and as I tasted the first bite, tears threatened to rise again—not from sadness this time, but from the strange, overwhelming comfort of it all. Eating in silence, with love surrounding me, felt like healing.

I glanced at Bua, at Vanya, and for the first time in a very long while, I let myself believe it: maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t as unloved as I thought. Maybe, in the arms of the right people, I could find the family I had always longed for.

Author’s POV

The hospital smelled faintly of antiseptic, sharp and sterile, like every memory Vayansh had carved into these white walls. The corridors hummed with urgency—nurses’ hurried footsteps, the steady beep of monitors, the faint rustle of surgical gowns. 

He and Shaurya had arrived together, like they always did, but soon split into their respective cabins. Shaurya, with his own responsibilities, vanished into another wing. And Vayansh… he walked into his cabin with shoulders heavy, yet his mind wasn’t on the files stacked neatly on his desk.

It was on her. 

Lavanya. 

The young woman who, with trembling but sincere hands, had tied a rakhi on his wrist. That thin thread now rested carefully in his drawer, preserved like treasure. One gesture, one bond. In a world where his life had been defined by absences—no mother’s hug, no sister’s protection—she had given him something priceless. A belonging.

Sinking into his chair, he leaned back, covering his eyes with one hand. If only I could see her again. Just once more. To ask why my chest feels lighter when she smiles. To ask if this is what it means to have a sister.  But his thoughts broke when a knock rattled his door.

“Come in,” he said, his voice cool, professional, already pulling on the mask of Dr. Vayansh—the mask the world expected.

A junior doctor stepped inside, holding a file. “Sir, an urgent case. Nine-year-old male, congenital heart defect. They need you in the operation theatre immediately.”

The shift was instant. Longing folded itself neatly into a corner of his heart, replaced by unshakable focus. He rose, sliding his white coat over his shoulders. His stethoscope hung around his neck like a warrior’s sword. His mask, gloves, glasses—all part of the armor he wore when stepping into the battlefield where lives were won and lost every hour.

With a firm nod, he left the cabin. His footsteps echoed down the sterile corridor, growing heavier, more deliberate, as he neared the place where miracles were demanded of him.

                                             ________________________________________

[INT. OPERATION THEATRE – ]

The doors swung open. Bright, almost blinding white light spilled over him. The room hummed with machines: ECG monitors, ventilators, suction tubes. Stainless steel instruments lay aligned in perfect rows, gleaming coldly under the lamps. 

The patient was already there—a small boy, barely nine. His tiny chest rose and fell under the rhythm of anesthesia, machines breathing for him. 

At the scrub sink, Vayansh rolled up his sleeves. His movements were methodical, precise. Soap foamed against his skin as he scrubbed his hands, not once distracted, not once careless. This wasn’t just ritual—it was discipline, control, the one place in his life where he never faltered. 

The nurse spoke softly. “Dr. Vayansh, anesthesia is stable. The patient is ready.”

He nodded. “Thank you.” 

Drying his hands, he slipped into the sterile gown and gloves. The mask hid most of his face, but his eyes… his eyes burned with focus. For a second, though, he closed them, whispering a silent prayer:

Stay with me, little one. I won’t let you go.

                                                                  ________________________________________

The Surgery Begins

“Scalpel,” he ordered, voice calm but unyielding.

The nurse placed it in his palm, metal cold against the warmth of his gloves.

The first incision was clean, precise. The faint scent of cauterized tissue filled the air as he worked with electrocautery, sealing blood vessels with sharp, sizzling sounds. The team moved in sync, each person a note in the orchestra he conducted.

“Retractors.”

The ribcage opened, metal arms holding it apart, until the child’s small, fragile heart came into view. Its beat was irregular, uneven, struggling against its own flaw.

For a second, his breath caught. That fragile rhythm reminded him of his own life—beating, always beating, but with an emptiness no one ever repaired. No one had fixed my broken heart. But today, I will fix his.

“Bypass ready. Cannulation.”

Tubes slid into the heart’s vessels. The machine whirred alive, taking over the child’s circulation. The heart slowed… then stopped. The silence was crushing.

“Heart’s arrested, doctor,” the nurse whispered, her voice trembling.

“Good,” he said firmly, though his chest tightened. “Now we fix him.”

                                                                   ________________________________________

The Repair

Magnifying glasses lowered over his eyes. His gloved hands hovered over the small heart, steady, delicate, almost reverent.

The defect—a hole in the wall dividing the chambers—was small, but deadly. Each stitch had to be perfect, or the child would not survive.

“Fine forceps,” he commanded.

The instruments were passed into his hands. Thread thinner than hair looped delicately through muscle. His movements were careful, precise—no wasted gesture, no hesitation.

Beads of sweat gathered under his cap, but he didn’t stop. His voice cut through the tense silence. 

“More suction here. Hold it steady. Yes… that’s it.”

And then, softer, almost to himself:

“You deserve more than this hospital bed, little one. You deserve to run in gardens, to laugh without pain, to hold your mother’s hand without wires and tubes tying you down. I won’t let fate steal that from you.”

The nurse glanced at him briefly. They had seen brilliant surgeons before, but not many who spoke to their patients like this—even unconscious ones. It wasn’t just medicine with Dr. Vayansh. It was something deeper, something achingly human.

Every suture he placed wasn’t just stitching flesh—it was stitching hope.

                                                        ________________________________________

Restarting the Heart

The defect was closed. The heart, repaired, waited silently in his hands.

“Remove the clamp,” he instructed. His voice was steady, but his own heartbeat raced. “Let’s see if he comes back to us.”

Blood flowed back into the chambers. For seconds that felt like eternity, there was nothing. No sound, no rhythm.

The ECG line remained flat. 

“Doctor…” the nurse whispered, her voice cracking.

“No,” he said firmly, eyes locked on the small chest. “Not yet. Come on, little fighter. Don’t give up now. Breathe for me. Beat for me.”

And then—

BEEP.

The line spiked. Once, faint. Twice, stronger. Then steady.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. 

The boy’s heart beat again. 

The whole room exhaled as though they had all been holding their breath with him. The anesthesiologist smiled under his mask. “Rhythm’s good. He’s stable. You did it, doctor.” 

Vayansh’s shoulders dropped. For the first time, his gloved hands trembled—not from fear, but from overwhelming relief. His throat tightened, his eyes burned. 

“You did it,” he whispered, voice breaking just slightly. “We did it.”

                                                           ________________________________________

Closing

He stitched the chest back, careful, layer by layer, until the boy’s body looked whole again. His movements were slow now, almost tender, as though returning what he had borrowed. . The clock showed past 6pm.

When it was done, he stepped back. “Good work, everyone. He’ll make it.”

The team nodded, quiet pride filling the sterile air. 

At the scrub station, he peeled off his gloves. His palms were red, faintly indented from hours of gripping instruments. He stared at them for a moment. 

“These hands,” he murmured softly, almost in disbelief. “Once empty… now they carry lives. I can’t afford to fail.”

And yet, under the exhaustion, under the professional calm, one thought still whispered in his chest—

Lavanya called me brother. Maybe… someday… these hands won’t just hold lives. Maybe, they’ll hold family too.

Author P.O.V – Shaurya’s Side

Shaurya sat alone in his cabin, his chair creaking faintly as he leaned back. The white coat he wore smelled faintly of antiseptic, his stethoscope hanging loosely around his neck. His eyes weren’t on the stack of medical reports or the laptop glowing in front of him. They were on something far simpler.

A rakhi. 

The thread lay across his palm, delicate yet powerful, the way an anchor feels to a drowning sailor. He had taken it off only minutes ago — carefully, respectfully — placing it on his table, because inside an operation theatre no jewelry, no thread, no symbol was allowed. But before putting it in the drawer, he touched it once more. His thumb traced the knots, his lips curved into a faint smile. 

Tanishi.

The name pulsed in his mind with warmth. He had known her only for moments, yet those moments had woven themselves deep inside him. The way her eyes had looked at him — hesitant, broken, searching for a place to belong — he had felt it. He had carried that emptiness once, too. A man who had no family suddenly finding a sister… it was as if fate had filled the hollowness in his chest with a single gesture of hers. 

Shaurya (murmurs, to himself):

"Agar zindagi ne mujhe kuch bhi diya hai… toh yeh rishte ka vardaan. Bhagwan kare phir se milun tumse, behen. Ek baar aur… bas ek baar tumhari muskaan dekh loon."

His phone vibrated, pulling him back to the present.

The OT nurse on the line informed him that the neuro-surgery he had been scheduled for earlier that morning was now ready. The patient, a young woman, had been prepped.

Duty called.

He sighed, lifted the thread with gentle fingers, which is placed it in his drawer as if laying down something sacred at a temple. 

Shaurya:

"Bas thodi der ke liye. Phir se pehnunga, wada karta hoon."

Then he rose, white coat sliding perfectly against his shoulders. He picked up his surgical cap, mask, and glasses, and walked out of his cabin, every footstep echoing in the sterile hallways.

                                                                     ________________________________________

[INT. OPERATION THEATRE – NIGHT]

The neurosurgery wing carried a silence that wasn’t silence at all — it was tension wrapped in cotton, muffled yet sharp.

The OT doors opened, and Shaurya entered. His presence immediately shifted the air. Not loud, not flamboyant — but steady, controlled, like gravity itself. 

On the table lay the patient — a young woman, not more than twenty-two, her head fixed in a three-point clamp, scalp marked for incision. Tubes ran from her nose and mouth, machines beeped softly. She was unconscious, but her life trembled in the balance. 

The team was already in place — anesthesiologists, scrub nurses, assistants. Everything gleamed under fluorescent white. 

Shaurya scrubbed in at the sink. The rhythm of his hands scrubbing — fingers, palms, wrists, elbows — was precise, practiced, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of thought. He could still feel the phantom weight of the rakhi on his wrist. A sister’s blessing… todayt, it will guard me. 

Nurse (softly):

“Dr. Shaurya, anesthesia stable. Patient ready.”

Shaurya (calm, firm):

“Good. Let’s begin. Parietal approach. Scalp incision first.”

                                                                 ________________________________________

The Opening

The scalpel glided in his hand, sharp as fate. He made the incision with elegance, cutting through layers of skin and muscle. Blood welled, but the cautery sizzled it away.

Shaurya (commanding, calm):

“Suction. Retractors. Keep the field clear.”

The bone drill whirred — a chilling, high-pitched sound. He created a burr hole, then another, connecting them into a flap. The skull piece lifted with a delicate crack. Beneath it, the dura mater shimmered faintly.

Shaurya (whisper, reverent):

“Open it gently… this is where life speaks.”

He incised the dura, exposing the living brain. Pink, pulsating, fragile.

                                                                   ________________________________________

The Tumor

The scans had shown a malignant tumor, hugging the motor cortex — the region controlling movement. Every millimeter was danger. One wrong touch, and the girl would never walk again. 

Shaurya (low, steady):

“Microscope. Bipolar cautery. Fine suction.”

The surgical microscope descended, magnifying the battlefield. His gloved hands moved into the corridor of brain tissue with godlike precision.

For hours, he danced a slow war — dissecting tumor from nerve, artery, vein. Sweat collected under his surgical cap. His eyes narrowed, focused like a hawk.

Shaurya (soft, almost to himself):

“You’ve carried this pain too long… I’ll set you free.”

Nurse (nervous):

“Doctor, margin is close to the artery.” 

Shaurya (firm, unshaken):

“Hold suction steady. I can see it. If we rush, she loses everything. And we do not rush.” 

Piece by piece, the tumor began to loosen. Each fragment was lifted, suctioned away, like peeling darkness from light.

                                                              ________________________________________

The Crisis

Then it happened.

A vessel tore. Blood gushed like a river unleashed. The monitors screamed, alarms shrieking. 

Nurse (panicked):

“Doctor! Major bleed!”

Chaos threatened the room. But Shaurya’s voice cut through it like steel.

Shaurya (sharp, commanding):

“Suction HERE! Bipolar cautery, NOW! Clamp steady, no shaking. Look at me — no panic, we control this!”

His hands moved faster than thought. Compressing, cauterizing, clamping. Sweat rolled down his temple, but his eyes stayed clear. Slowly, the flood ceased. The bleeding stopped.

The monitor’s beeps steadied.

Shaurya (exhaling, firm):

“There. She’s safe again.”

The team exchanged relieved glances. They knew — where another surgeon might have faltered, Shaurya stood unshaken.

                                                         ________________________________________

The Victory

At last, the final tumor fragment came free. The cavity was clean. The brain — preserved. 

Shaurya (quiet, relieved):

“Dura closed. Replace bone flap. Sutures.”

Layer by layer, he closed what he had opened, stitching the young woman back to wholeness. His shoulders, tense for hours, finally began to ease.

When the last suture tied, he stepped back. His gloved hands trembled — not from fear, but from the release of holding another’s fate too tightly.

He removed his gloves slowly. His palms bore faint marks, red lines where instruments had pressed into flesh.

Shaurya (whispers, almost a prayer):

“She will wake… she will walk… she will smile again. Tonight, she was born twice.”

                                                               ________________________________________

Aftermath

He walked back to his cabin, exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin. The clock showed past 6pm.

He sat heavily on his chair, exhaled, and reached for the drawer. His fingers brushed the rakhi.

He lifted it gently, gazing at its fragile beauty . His lips curved into a smile — not the tired smile of a doctor, but the tender smile of a brother. 

Shaurya (softly, emotional):

“Tanishi… tumne jo rishta diya hai na, usne mujhe naya janam diya. Aaj main zindagi bachakar aaya hoon… par asli zindagi toh tumhari ek muskaan se mili thi mujhe. Ab chahe duniya hila de… main kabhi akela nahi hoon.” 

He tied the rakhi back on his wrist. The sterile smell of the OT still clung to him, but in his chest, there was warmth. The warmth of family. 

For the first time in years, Shaurya leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and allowed himself to feel something other than duty. He felt love. He felt belonging. He felt like someone’s brother. 

And with that thought, he drifted into a rare, fragile sleep — his hand resting over the rakhi, guarding it as if it were the most precious thing in the world. 

The clock’s soft tick echoed faintly through the whitewashed corridors of the hospital. It was 6:30 in the evening, and the day’s rush was finally ebbing away. The smell of antiseptic still clung to the air, mingling with the fading footsteps of nurses completing their final rounds. 

Shaurya stretched his arms slightly, rolling his shoulders after slipping off his gloves. The single surgery he had performed that day was successful, and though his body was tired, his heart carried a quiet satisfaction. For him, every life saved was a tribute to the years of learning, to his mother’s sacrifices, and to the promise he had once made to himself in the corridors of his childhood orphanage — that he would never let helplessness steal someone else’s smile if his hands could stop it. 

Just down the hall, Vayansh walked out of another operation theatre. His strides were steady, purposeful, though his face held a calm stillness that came only from years of discipline. Yet, beneath that composure lay something Shaurya had always seen — a storm that never quieted, only masked. Vayansh had also done only one operation today, a relatively smooth case, but his mind wasn’t one to rest on ease. He carried every responsibility with a weight that most couldn’t see. 

                                                                ________________________________________

They met at the locker room, their voices light, a soft exchange of professional notes and casual banter. Together, they gathered their things — stethoscopes folded neatly, lab coats slipped into their bags, files stacked away. The day’s work was done, but the bond they carried was not bound to hospital walls.

By the time they walked into the parking lot, the sun had dipped, leaving a faint orange glow dissolving into evening blue. The parking lot buzzed faintly with the noise of shifting cars, the dim hum of engines, the faint smell of petrol. Amidst all of it stood their bike — black, worn yet shining with the polish of loyalty.

Shaurya tossed the keys in the air, catching them with a grin.

“I’ll drive today,” he announced with a confidence that was half challenge, half childlike insistence.

Vayansh raised a brow, a rare curve pulling at his lips. “And what if we land in the hospital again — this time as patients?”

Shaurya laughed, the sound boyish, unburdened. “Don’t worry, bhai. Tumhare saath girke bhi, main jeet jaunga.”

With a short shake of his head, unable to hide his amusement, Vayansh slid onto the seat behind him. For a moment, the years fell away — the long nights of part-time jobs, the hardships, the world’s rejection. Right here, on this bike, it was just two boys who had once shared a plate of food when they couldn’t afford two. Two boys who had found family in each other’s shadows. 

                                                   ________________________________________

The engine roared to life, vibrating under them, breaking the silence of the lot. As the bike sped forward, the cool evening breeze rushed past, carrying with it the scents of the city — roasted peanuts from a street stall, incense wafting faintly from a roadside temple, dust rising from passing rickshaws.

Vayansh sat back, his face tilted slightly toward the wind. His eyes softened as the lights of the city blurred past, each lamp post flickering like memories — some harsh, some tender. The air against his face felt like a momentary freedom, a pause from the suffocation he never admitted to.

Shaurya’s laughter rang out again when they overtook a car. “Dekha, I told you — safe hands!”

Vayansh didn’t answer immediately. He was lost in the quiet rhythm of the ride, in the way the world seemed to fade into motion. But then, leaning slightly closer so his voice could carry, he murmured, “Safe hands? Maybe. But stubborn hands too.”

Shaurya only grinned wider, tilting his head with mock arrogance. “Zid bhi toh tumne hi sikhayi hai.”

They fell into a comfortable silence after that, one where words were not needed. The sound of the wind filled the gaps, and the beating of their hearts — steady, alive, and in sync — said more than conversation ever could.

                                                                        ________________________________________

As they crossed a bend, the tall spire of a temple appeared, its bells faintly audible in the distance. Without warning, Vayansh tapped Shaurya’s shoulder. 

“Stop here.”

The bike screeched gently to a halt in front of the temple gates. Shaurya turned to him, brows lifted. “Mandir? Abhi kya yaad aaya?” 

For a brief second, a shadow flickered in Vayansh’s eyes. He looked away, up at the fluttering saffron flags against the twilight. “Bas… laga jaana chahiye.” 

They walked up the marble steps, removing their shoes at the entrance. The temple was alive with evening aarti — the rhythmic clang of bells, the low hum of conches, the priest’s voice chanting mantras that rolled like waves of devotion. The air was thick with incense and the warmth of diyas placed along the steps. 

Standing before the deity, both folded their hands, heads bowing deeply. Shaurya prayed with the quiet innocence he always carried — for his mother’s health, for the children in the orphanage, for strength to keep healing lives. His lips moved in a silent promise, “Main kabhi unki ummed nahi toduga.”

Beside him, Vayansh’s stillness held a different weight. His eyes were closed, but his fists clenched slightly. He didn’t pray for himself; he never did. Instead, his mind whispered names — of the people who had once called him unwanted, and of the few who had embraced him anyway. He prayed for strength not to fall, for courage to fight, and for protection over those he loved — Shaurya, Vasudhara Maa, and… a name he dared not say aloud, the one hidden in the corners of his heart. 

When they stepped out, the evening had deepened into night. The moon was rising faintly above, silvering the temple steps. They sat for a moment on the stone boundary wall outside, watching devotees light more lamps, watching children laugh as they chased each other across the courtyard. 

Shaurya nudged him lightly. “Kya soch rahe ho?” 

Vayansh exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Kuch nahi. Bas… hawa le raha hoon.” 

But Shaurya knew. He always knew. There was more behind that pause, more in the heaviness of his friend’s shoulders. Yet, like always, he didn’t press. He simply sat there, shoulder brushing against his brother’s, silent in solidarity. Sometimes, love meant not asking questions, only waiting for the day the answers would be given freely.

The bike slowed, its engine humming low as the evening air turned cooler. Vayansh leaned forward, his voice calm but certain. 

When they stepped out again, the temple courtyard had grown quieter. The crowd had thinned, leaving only a few women lighting more diyas, their faces glowing in golden halos. A faint breeze stirred, carrying with it the rustle of leaves and the sound of water from somewhere nearby. 

his eyes drifted to the far corner of the courtyard, where an old stone path led down toward a pond. The moonlight shimmered faintly on the water’s surface, silver and soft. 

“I’ll just… get some air,” he murmured, almost to himself. 

Shaurya didn’t stop him. He knew when to let silence do the work. So he only nodded, watching his brother’s figure retreat down the worn path. 

Vayansh P.O.V

Shaurya didn’t stop me. He never did, especially here. He knew me too well—knew that whenever we came to the temple, I always wandered off, away from the chants, away from the noise, away from the eyes of gods carved in stone. I sought my own silence. I sought the pond. 

It was never just water to me. That pond had been my quiet refuge for years, a mirror where I poured the noise of my heart and waited until it softened. The faint fragrance of lotus flowers always lingered, not overwhelming, but gentle enough to soothe me. Their petals, floating like pieces of the moon, always felt like whispers from a world far more   peaceful than mine.

I liked sitting there, watching their delicate faces turn with the wind, inhaling their soft scent that carried something I could never name. That pond was not just water—it was memory, prayer, and escape all at once. 

My footsteps slowed as I approached, familiar gravel crunching underfoot. My eyes instinctively flicked to my watch. 7:00 PM. I don’t know why I noticed the time, maybe because stillness had its own clock, and I wanted to remember the exact second I let go of the world. 

But tonight—the world didn’t let me let go.

Because tonight, the world had prepared a surprise.

Because when I lifted my gaze from the ticking hands of my watch, my eyes collided with something that made the pond, the lotus, even the air itself, fall into insignificance.

A woman.
Not just a woman.
A vision.

She was there, standing at the edge of the clearing where the golden-orange sunlight touched the earth one last time before surrendering to night. That light—it didn’t scatter randomly the way sunlight usually does. No. It sought her. It poured itself onto her as though the day had waited, all its hours gathering into this single spill of honey-colored glow just to meet her skin. It didn’t just touch—it worshipped. It traced her shoulder’s curve, slid across the folds of her yellow suit—soft, flowing, neither too bright nor too pale. That fabric bloomed with tiny pink and white flowers, each of them catching light like they had been painted only for her. 

She wasn’t moving yet.

She was still.

And even in stillness, she shimmered. 

Her face was veiled. A dupatta rested lightly, soft against her skin, hiding just enough. But her eyes—oh, her eyes. Two small windows uncovered, as though the universe had conspired to say: you don’t deserve to see all of her, not yet. But you may see this—just this. 

And those eyes were not simply eyes. They were stories.

Stories too old to be told in words, too young to be written in books. They held silences so powerful that they made me forget every sound I had ever known. They glowed—yes, glowed—like embers that had been asleep for centuries, now awake, alive, and unafraid to burn. 

In that single glance, I felt stripped of every noise within me.

I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until she moved.

                                                           ________________________________________   

Her long hair, untied and wild, swayed with her first step. There was no rush, no urgency. She raised her hands slowly, like she was not just moving them but drawing something unseen out of the air. Something sacred. Something meant only for her. 

Her feet followed. Bare, delicate, and sure. Each step pressed into the earth not with force but with reverence, as if the ground itself had been waiting for her touch. And when she moved, the earth didn’t resist. It answered.

Her shadow stretched across the soil, golden-edged, alive. It didn’t simply follow her. It danced with her. Every curve of her body, every tilt of her head, every rise of her arm—it mirrored them faithfully, like the ground itself wanted to keep her shape forever. 

Then came the music—though no instrument played.

The soft silver sound of anklets rang out. Not loud, not insistent, but delicate—as if laughter had decided to echo in a temple. Her bangles chimed, glassy and fragile, each note a heartbeat. The rhythm was not of performance. It was something else.

Prayer. Poetry. Something in between. 

Her body wasn’t asking to be watched. It was asking to be remembered.

Birds wheeled above, but not in chaos. They circled gently, as though her rhythm had summoned them without a word. Even the pond seemed to shift. Ripples spread lazily, catching fragments of light and flinging them upward, so that it looked as if the water itself was applauding her.

And I… 

I stood there. Watching.
Not as a stranger.
Not even as a man.
But as someone who had stumbled into a sacred place where no language could follow.

   I wasn’t watching a dance. I wasn’t watching a girl.
I was witnessing a moment the universe had been waiting to remember.

                                                  ________________________________________

I don’t know why my eyes dropped to the ground, but when they did, I saw her shadow.

And for the first time in my life, I realized the ground could look alive. 

Her shadow was not just a shape on the dust. It fell gently, reverently, as though the earth had begged to keep a piece of her. The sunlight didn’t erase it; it kissed its edges, gave it depth, and made it shimmer faintly.

Every detail was there—the folds of her suit, the curve of her lifted arm, the tilt of her bowed head. But it wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t flat. 

The shadow followed her like memory follows emotion: slow, deliberate, loyal.

There was something sacred in it. As if the earth itself had decided: I will hold this shape, not just reflect it. I will remember her. 

Even when she paused, the shadow didn’t go still. It breathed.

It pulsed faintly, keeping rhythm with her heartbeat, a silent companion etched not in darkness but in light and dust.

And I—I couldn’t breathe at all.
Because she wasn’t just beautiful.
She was ethereal.

Ethereal in the way heaven sometimes lends its light to earth for only a few seconds, just to remind us that the divine is real, even if fleeting.

And tonight, that divine had chosen her.

                                                              ________________________________________

I don’t know how long I stood there. Time didn’t move in minutes anymore. It moved in heartbeats, in the soft chime of her anklets, in the rise and fall of her hands.

For a man like me—born in absence, raised in shadows, hardened by rejection—beauty had never been a safe thing. Beauty was often cruel, often fleeting, often a mirage that left you thirstier than before.

But this—this was not cruelty. This was not fleeting.

This was the kind of beauty that broke you to remake you.

As I watched her, I forgot my name.

I forgot my pain.

I forgot the weight I had carried in my chest for as long as I could remember. 

All I knew was her.
Her light.
Her silence.
Her dance that was not a dance, but a prayer written in motion. 

And in that moment, I wasn’t Vayansh, the boy who had lost parents, the man who had fought the world, the soul who had learned to live without being wanted.

I was just a witness. 
A believer.
A worshipper.
And she—
She was not a girl.
She was not a stranger.
She was the proof that the heavens sometimes bend low to remind us: you were made for light, too.

She didn’t notice.

She didn’t notice how the world bent itself around her, how silence thickened into reverence, how even the air seemed to pause so that she could breathe undisturbed. She was lost, absorbed, consumed entirely by her own rhythm. Engrossed in her dancing, she surrendered herself so wholly that the world surrounding her ceased to exist. With her eyes closed, she belonged only to the music of her soul.

And I—helpless, motionless—I felt that even blinking was a sin. One blink, and I could lose her. One blink, and she might vanish like a dream, dissolving back into the mist of memory. My heart rebelled against the natural act of my body, whispering fiercely: Don’t look away, not even for a heartbeat. Don’t lose her.

I watched her with a devotion I didn’t understand, yet couldn’t resist. 

And then—something strange. My gaze fell upon her shadow, stretched faintly on the ground, trembling like it too was swaying to her dance. Just then, a child, unknowing, innocent, stepped on that shadow. It should have meant nothing—it was only a shadow—but the moment his little foot pressed into the dark outline of her form, something unbearable jolted through me. 

A pang struck my chest. A different ache, one I had never known before. It wasn’t just pain—it was like someone had reached inside me with an invisible knife, stabbing once, pulling it out, and stabbing again, endlessly, mercilessly. My breath hitched, my chest tightened, and I wanted to scream. 

Why does it hurt so much? Why should it matter that someone stepped on her shadow?

And yet it did. It felt like that child had stepped on my very heart. Like the sanctity of her essence, even in shadow, had been violated. And I—someone who had lived through blood, surgeries, loss, and countless wounds—felt powerless before this new kind of pain. 

For the first time in my life, I understood fear in its rawest form: fear of the world touching her, hurting her, staining her purity. In that instant, a truth settled in me with terrifying clarity— I wanted to protect her not just from this world, but even from the trespass of shadows. I wanted to shield her essence, her presence, everything that belonged to her, even if it meant keeping guard against the very air that touched her. 

My legs moved without my permission, carrying me closer. And then—suddenly—a scent. 

It came to me like an uninvited storm, a fragrance so soft, so achingly delicate, that it eclipsed every smell I had ever known. The air carried her essence into me, and I inhaled sharply, helplessly. My mind told me not to—told me to resist, to not let myself drown in her—but my body refused to listen.

I breathed her in like the only air that had ever mattered. 

It wasn’t perfume. No. It was more. It was something eternal, something that clung to memory, something that could outlast seasons and time. A fragrance woven of jasmine and earth, of rain and sunlight, of everything that belonged to the word home. And in that moment, I knew—I would never forget this smell. Even if the world burned to ashes, even if every flower turned to dust, even if my lungs refused to breathe again, I would remember this scent. Hers. Only hers.

I closed my eyes for a second, against my own will, just to hold the memory tighter. To imprint her into the deepest layers of me. 

When I opened them again, I could no longer stand still.

I knelt. Right before her shadow, I sat down on the earth as if it were an altar, as if I were the devotee and she the deity. My hands trembled, not from weakness, but from the sacred weight of the moment. Slowly, carefully, I took out the small pouch I always carried in my bag. Not many knew this about me—I was a doctor, yes, but I was also a man who, in his quiet hours, loved to draw, to paint, to leave colors on lifeless things and watch them bloom. 

My bag always carried two worlds—the sterile tools of medicine and the messy tools of art. Scalpel and stethoscope beside brushes and colors. The healer and the dreamer, both breathing inside me.

And now, with her before me, I reached for the colors. 

I pressed the chalk gently to the earth, tracing a line. A circle began to emerge, a large, complete circle surrounding her shadow, enclosing her and every movement of her dance within it. My hand moved with a devotion I didn’t know I possessed, shaping a sanctuary on the ground, a barrier between her and the rest of the world.

Inside that circle, both she and her shadow fit perfectly. Even when she moved—spinning, swaying, arching—the shadow danced with her, but never left the circle I had drawn. I widened it carefully, ensuring that no matter how far her steps stretched, she would remain inside, untouched. 

The circle wasn’t enough. My heart wanted more.

So, I began to fill it. One flower after another bloomed under my hand, sketched in colors, soft petals spilling into life. Reds, yellows, violets—every shade my trembling fingers could manage. The circle turned into a garden. And with each flower I drew, I added a smile too—a tiny curve of joy, as though I could whisper to the ground itself: Protect her. Hold her safe. Keep her joy alive. 

When I finished, I sat back, gazing at the circle. But something in me protested—it wasn’t beautiful enough. Not for her. Not for someone who carried the kind of grace that made time itself bow.

So I stood and searched. And there—in the grass nearby—flowers bloomed, real and alive, their colors richer than anything I could paint. I plucked them gently, reverently, and placed them on the circle, tucking them among the painted petals. My hands worked like a worshipper decorating a shrine, turning art into offering.

When I stepped back at last, the sight stilled me.

The circle glowed. The painted flowers blended with the real ones, and as if the heavens themselves blessed my devotion, butterflies fluttered down, perching delicately on the petals. Birds, curious and trusting, landed on the rim of the circle, their tiny feet pressing into the earth like little blessings.

It no longer looked like something I had drawn. It looked divine. Ethereal. Like the earth itself had decided to worship her. 

And yet—she didn’t know. She danced on, unaware of the sanctuary I had built, unaware of the prayers I had painted at her feet. 

The spell was breaking for me. My time had ended.

It was my moment to go.

I turned, forcing my body away, but my heart rebelled. My steps faltered. I looked back—just once more.

There she was. Dancing within the circle of flowers, a vision so delicate, so untouchable, that even memory would feel unworthy of holding her. My chest tightened again. I inhaled deeply, greedily, desperate to steal her scent one last time. I wanted to carve it into me, etch it into my veins, so that even if every fragrance in the world faded, I would always remember hers. 

I knew this was dangerous. I knew I was losing myself. But I couldn’t stop.
One last glance. One last breath. One last ache.
Then I forced myself to turn again.
This time, I did not look back.

But even as I walked away, the truth carved itself into me like scripture: I would remember her. Always. Delicate. Untouchable. Infinite.

      ________________________________________

Tanishi P.O.V

The music stopped.

My body stilled, breath soft and uneven, as though it had forgotten the rhythm that guided it moments ago. Slowly, hesitantly, I opened my eyes, expecting to see only the silence of nature around me. But instead—there he was. A man.

He was walking away. His back to me, fading into distance. I had not seen his face, only the outline of his figure, the surety of his steps, and the strange heaviness in the air that clung to him. Something about him made me pause. Something told me he had been here longer than I realized. 

And then—my eyes caught something.

At first I thought I was imagining it. But when I looked down, when I looked around me, I saw it clearly. A circle. A large one.

The ground beneath me was marked, decorated with colors and shapes, delicate strokes that formed a perfect ring. Flowers bloomed along its edge—some painted, some real, their petals carrying both fragrance and imagination. And there, upon those petals, butterflies had settled, their wings trembling with light. Birds perched gently on the rim, as though this space were holy, untouchable.

I stood frozen inside it, my heart racing. The circle wasn’t small—it was vast, stretching wide enough that not only I but even my shadow fell entirely within it. I turned my head, watching the lines curve gracefully around me. No matter how I moved, no matter how I twirled or spun, my shadow could not escape it.

This circle is so large that both I and my shadow remain within it; no matter how I move, no matter how I dance, my shadow cannot escape from it.

For a moment, the thought frightened me. It looked like a prison, like an invisible hand had built walls around me. But as I looked again, as I let my heart speak instead of my mind, the fear dissolved.

It did not feel like a prison.
It felt like protection.

It felt as though someone had drawn this not to bind me, but to shield me. To keep me safe. To protect not just me, but even my shadow—because perhaps, to that someone, even my shadow deserved to be guarded from this cruel, unforgiving world.

I could not describe it. Words failed me. But something deep within whispered that whoever had made this circle… had understood me. My fragility. My unspoken fears. My need for safety in a world that had only ever hurt me.

For the first time in so long, I felt seen. 

I stepped out of the circle, my anklets chiming softly as if protesting. I walked forward, carrying that strange warmth in my chest. But for one last time, I turned back. I looked at the circle again, at the flowers and butterflies, at the sanctuary left behind for me. A sanctuary I hadn’t asked for, yet someone had given.

And then I turned away.

                                                  ________________________________________ 

Vanya and I spent some precious time with Bua. Her presence was always my comfort, my escape from the harshness of the family that called itself mine but never truly claimed me. She asked about our college studies, her eyes lighting up with every detail we shared. We

told her of our offices too, about the endless projects and sleepless nights. She listened patiently, with the kind of attention that was rare in my world.

I told her that after ten months of being buried under one demanding project, my boss had finally granted me a month’s holiday. And college, too, was on break for Rakhi. Perhaps the universe had aligned itself for me, to give me this one pocket of time, this one chance to breathe freely thinking I came towads them. 

Bua, Lavanya, and I. The bells chimed above us, echoing through the marble corridors, as the fragrance of incense wrapped around our senses. We offered our prayers with folded hands, and Pandit ji placed warm prasad in our palms. Its sweetness lingered on my tongue, but the real sweetness was in standing there, with the two people who made me feel like I belonged somewhere. 

When we walked back to the car, Lavanya could not resist her jokes. The entire ride was filled with her laughter, her teasing, her silly comments that made us laugh until our eyes watered. I smiled until my cheeks hurt, watching the beauty of Ajmer through the window. 

Life outside was alive. Children ran barefoot on the streets, their laughter louder than the horns of passing scooters. Women balanced pots on their heads, wrapped in bright dupattas that fluttered like flags of resilience. Shops glowed with lanterns, and as evening slipped into night, the city lights began to twinkle, gently pushing back the darkness. It was beautiful. Everything was beautiful in that moment. 

When we reached the palace, we stepped into the grand hall, our footsteps echoing against the stone floor. We offered prasad to the servants, sharing blessings with those who served us quietly, unseen.

Dinner followed, filled with Bua’s warmth and stories. Fufa ji wasn’t there—he had gone to Mumbai for important work. And so, tonight, it would just be the three of us. 

That night, the palace did not feel like a palace. It felt like a home.

We decided to sleep together. Bua lay between us, her lap becoming our pillows. I rested my head on her right side, while Lavanya curled against her left. Bua’s right hand stroked my hair with such tenderness that my heart trembled, while her left hand caressed Lavanya’s head in the same rhythm.

And then, softly, she began to sing. 

Her voice was melodic, soothing, like the lullabies I had never truly known but always longed for.

Teri mein balayein loon

Tujhe mein duaayein doon

Tujhko mein…

Her voice wrapped around me like a shawl in winter, and I felt every word seep into me. It was as though she was giving me all of her blessings, pouring into me the warmth I had craved all my life.

Khushiyon ke saaye doon

Khwaabon ko sajaaye tu

Aankhon mein basaaye tu

Tujhko mein…

At these words, tears burned behind my eyes. I remembered Baba. His harsh voice, his hurting words, the sting of rejection, the sting of his hand against my cheek. The memory rose unbidden, cruel and sharp. A single tear slipped down, trailing across my skin. 

But in Bua’s lap, I felt heaven. The warmth of a mother. The love that my own mother had never given me.

Doon sab jo chaahe tu

Saari raat ye pehra kare

Keh doon chand taaron ko…

And I remembered more. Chachu, Bhai, Baba—locking me in that dark room. I remembered gasping for air, terrified of the suffocating blackness. They hadn’t known—how could they, when they never asked—that I was afraid of the dark. How could they care, when they never even saw me? 

Chaoro chaoro

Icha paari chaoro

Chaoro chaoro

Icha paari chaoro…

The words hummed through me, filling the cracks of my pain.

Jaag jaaye na tu

Jaagu raaton mein

Jhoole jhoola tu

Mere haathon mein…

I tried to let go of the pain. Tried to forget. To simply exist in this moment, to surrender to the song, to the safety of Bua’s embrace. My fingers clenched her saree tightly, desperately, like a child holding on to the only anchor she had.

What if she left too? What if she slipped away like everyone else had? 

But then she felt it. My grip. My silent plea. 

Her hand pressed against me, holding me tighter, her touch saying what words never could: I am here. I will not leave you. When you open your eyes, I will still be here.

Chaoro chaoro

Icha paari chaoro…

Her voice lulled me, the words becoming softer, like whispers of protection, like shields against every nightmare.

And then, slowly, sleep consumed me. Not the restless, shallow sleep of fear, but a gentle, healing one.

Just before darkness claimed me, I felt the softest brush of her lips on my forehead. A kiss. A blessing. A promise.

Her tappki. 

And in that moment, even in half-dreams, I believed: maybe love wasn’t gone from my life after all.

                                                         ________________________________________

Vayansh’s POV 

When Shaurya and I returned home that evening, the first thing we did was change out of our formal clothes into something comfortable. The house carried the same warmth it always did — the faint smell of Maa’s cooking drifting from the kitchen, the soft hum of ceiling fans, the quiet safety of a place that was more than just four walls. To me, it was the closest thing to heaven, because this house held Maa. 

After changing, we both headed toward the hall, and as expected, Maa was there waiting with dinner. Her dupatta was neatly tucked at her waist, hair tied in a bun, and her hands busy placing steaming bowls of curry and stacks of chapatis on the table. The sight of her, so simple yet filled with grace, pulled an instinctive smile on my lips. Shaurya and I walked up to her at the same time and hugged her from both sides. She laughed, her soft laugh that always reminded me of flowing water, and patted our cheeks. 

“Bas, bas… let me serve you first, then hug as much as you want,” she said, pretending to be strict. But we didn’t let go immediately — her warmth was too precious to release so quickly. 

Finally, we sat down, and Maa began serving us. We started talking randomly — about hospital shifts, about how Shaurya was trying a new system for patient data, about how I had taken on a tricky surgery schedule for next week. Nothing unusual, just everyday chatter. But as Maa ladled daal into my bowl, she suddenly paused. Her eyes fell on our wrists. 

Her brows furrowed as she placed the spoon down and asked, “Today you both are looking so happy. What happened? And… who tied rakhi on both your wrists?” 

I froze, my hand stopping midway as I tore a piece of roti. I had completely forgotten about the rakhi tied earlier. For a moment, I just looked down at it, the threads delicate against my skin, and a strange rush of emotions filled me again. Shaurya, who was sitting opposite, noticed my hesitation and smirked faintly. He leaned back and said, “Tell her, You first.” 

I sighed, knowing he wouldn’t let me escape. Maa’s eyes were still on me, curious and soft, the way only a mother’s eyes can be. I took a deep breath, leaned my back against the chair, and began.

“Maa,” I said slowly, almost as if I was confessing, “when I was standing at the temple today, leaning against a pillar, a woman came towards me.”

I paused, the memory still fresh — too fresh. “She was beautiful. Not in a grand or obvious way, but in a way that struck me deep inside. She was short, maybe five-one, but her presence… it filled the space like fire. She looked fragile, yet there was something unshakable about her. A quiet strength that burned softly, like an ember refusing to die.” 

Maa tilted her head slightly, listening intently. I continued, my voice lowering as if the words were meant only for myself. 

“The way she asked me to be her brother… Maa, I can’t explain it. She didn’t just speak; she read me. She looked into my eyes as though she could see every layer of me — the loneliness I never admitted, the void I carried but never spoke about. And I couldn’t ignore her eyes. There was a hope in them, a desperate kind of hope, as if she too was fighting her own battles and still chose to trust me in that moment.” 

I stopped, swallowing hard. Maa’s eyes softened, her lips curving with both concern and pride. I knew she was trying to piece together the weight behind my words. 

“I noticed everything about her,” I said, my tone softening into something almost reverent. “Her smile… it was small, controlled, as if she didn’t allow herself to smile freely often. But when she did — even for a second — it lit her face in a way I can’t describe. She carried herself like fire, yes, but inside she was soft… so soft. Like a child who still wants to be held, who still believes that love exists, even if the world told her otherwise.” 

I let out a breath, pressing my palm lightly on the table. “Maa, I don’t even know her properly, but I felt like… she needed that bond as much as I did. And today, when she tied that rakhi — I felt like maybe, just maybe, the hole in my heart finally had something to hold onto. For the first time, I felt what it might be like to be someone’s brother. To matter to someone in that way.”  

Maa’s eyes shone with unshed tears. She reached across the table and touched my cheek gently. No words came from her lips, but she didn’t need to say anything. Her touch was enough.

I leaned back again, a faint smile tugging at my lips. “She looked like fire, Maa,” I murmured softly, half to myself. “But when I looked closer… I realized she was more like poetry. Fragile, fleeting, yet eternal in her essence.”

Shaurya had been silent all this while, arms crossed as he leaned against the chair. But now, he straightened, flashing me a mischievous grin. “Well said, brother Very poetic. But don’t get too carried away. Maa, wait till you hear my story.”

Maa chuckled, shaking her head. “So both of you have stories today? Then I suppose I should listen to both before I decide who tells it better.”

Shaurya smirked at me, clearly enjoying this little competition, and leaned forward to start his part.

Shaurya leaned back in his chair with that self-satisfied grin he always wore when he was about to one-up me. He cleared his throat dramatically and said, “Alright, Maa, now listen to what happened with me. My story is no less than his.”

I rolled my eyes. Maa, amused, simply folded her hands and waited.

Shaurya began, “When I went toward the temple pond, I saw a woman sitting alone on the steps. She was crying, whispering to herself, almost as if she was asking questions the world had refused to answer. I didn’t want to intrude at first, but something in the way her shoulders trembled… it broke me. So I sat near her, quietly.”

His voice grew softer as he remembered. “She was complaining — to herself, to God maybe — asking why her father, her brother, her family no longer loved her like they used to when she was a child. She kept repeating, ‘Was it my mistake? What did I do wrong?’ Maa, I swear, every word cut me like a blade. I couldn’t just sit there and watch.”

Shaurya’s eyes flickered, deep and sincere. “I wanted to give her a reason to smile, even if for a moment. So I asked her to let me be her brother.” 

I saw Maa’s lips tremble slightly, her eyes softening even more. Shaurya continued, his words carrying a rare tenderness.

“She hesitated, you know? Every time I tried to comfort her — when I reached to wipe her tears or held her hand gently — I could see the fear flash in her eyes. She thought I didn’t notice, but I noticed everything. Her hesitation, her   guardedness, her silent resistance. And yet… beneath all that, her eyes betrayed her. Green eyes, deep as the forest after rain, glowing faintly with a smile she tried to hide.

Maa, those eyes… they told me more than her words ever could. They told me that she wanted to trust, wanted to laugh, wanted to believe — but life hadn’t let her.”

He paused for a moment, smiling faintly to himself. “She had a voice too, soft and melodic. When she whispered, ‘I don’t have a rakhi,’ and and her giggled, Maa, I swear… it felt like music. That one giggle, so innocent, so fragile — it was enough to remind me that beauty doesn’t always come from grand things. Sometimes, it’s in the smallest moments, hidden behind pain.”

Maa sighed, shaking her head as if overwhelmed by everything she had just heard. Both her sons, sitting before her, speaking of women they barely knew as if they had glimpsed souls instead of faces. 

Shaurya leaned forward and finished, “Today, Maa, I felt something I’d never felt before. I got what I’ve craved all my life — the love of a sister. That bond, that trust. Something to protect, someone to protect me with their faith.” 

For a moment, silence filled the room. Then, almost as if we had rehearsed it, Shaurya and I said together, “Today, we got something we carved for all our lives — a sister’s love.” 

Maa’s eyes shone as tears finally slipped free. She quickly wiped them away, pretending not to cry. But we both noticed.

Shaurya, in his usual style, broke the heavy air with a smirk. He turned to me and said, “But bhai, let’s be honest — my Tanishi is far more beautiful than your Lavanya.”

I snapped my head toward him, narrowing my eyes. “Excuse me? My Lavanya looked like eternity itself, Shaurya. Eternal, untouchable. Don’t even try comparing.” 

He chuckled. “Eternal? Please. Tanishi is like a dream you don’t want to wake up from. She’s beyond beauty. She’s… untouchable.”

I leaned forward, glaring. “Keep dreaming, brother. Dreams fade when morning comes. But eternity? That remains.”

Shaurya laughed outright now, enjoying this little fight. Maa groaned, rubbing her forehead. 

“Bas, bas! Stop fighting, both of you,” she said firmly. “You’re looking like two mental patients quarrelling over nothing.”

We both fell silent, though Shaurya couldn’t resist shooting me one last glare. I returned it, of course, refusing to back down. Maa shook her head again, muttering, “What will I do with you two?” 

And then, just as silence fell, a voice echoed faintly — not from any of us, not from the house. It was as if it came from the air itself, soft yet steady. 

“I also want to meet my both daughters,” the voice said, calm and filled with longing. “When you meet them again, tell them about me. Give them my blessing.” 

I froze, my skin prickling. Shaurya’s eyes widened as well, and we both turned instinctively toward Maa. She looked startled, but also strangely peaceful, as if she had expected something like this.

The moment passed in a hush. None of us spoke about it further, as though speaking would break the fragile thread that had just brushed against our souls.

After that, we finished dinner quietly. Shaurya and I didn’t let Maa clear the table; instead, we insisted on helping. I washed the plates while Shaurya wiped down the counters and put away the leftovers. Maa stood in the doorway, watching us with that look only a mother has — pride, love, and an unspoken gratitude. 

When the kitchen was spotless, we guided her to her room. She sat on the bed with a tired sigh. Shaurya immediately perched beside her, massaging her head with firm, practiced hands. I sat at her feet and began massaging her legs gently. She closed her eyes, humming softly, as though the weight of years lifted from her shoulders in that simple act.

“Maa,” I whispered after a while, “you work too much. Let us do more.” 

She smiled faintly, eyes still closed. “You already do more than enough, both of you. My sons are my pride. What more could I ask for?”
Her words tightened my throat. I bent down and kissed her forehead gently. Shaurya did the same. “Good night, Maa,” we said together. 

“Good night, my sons,” she whispered, her voice like a lullaby. 

We left her room and went to ours. It had always been our habit to share  room despite having space. Shaurya opened his laptop, already diving into some work — most likely his secret world of codes and data that only I knew about. I, on the other hand, pulled out patient files and began going over reports, jotting notes in the margins.

The night was quiet, filled with the soft tapping of Shaurya’s keyboard and the rustling of my pen. It was an ordinary night, but somehow, after today, it felt extraordinary. 

Because for the first time, we weren’t just brothers to each other. We were brothers to someone else too.

And that changed everything.

                                                                     ________________________________________ 

The night road of Ajmer was quiet, bathed in a soft silver glow from the moon above. The world seemed at peace — the trees swayed gently, the wind whispered across the empty stretches of asphalt, and the faint hum of a single car broke the silence. Inside, a little boy of barely six sat in the back seat, his legs too short to touch the floor, his hands gripping a small toy he refused to part with. 

Beside him sat his father — tall, warm, and gentle — though his eyes carried the tiredness of a long day. He leaned slightly toward the child, every now and then reaching out to ruffle his hair. The boy giggled, feeling safe, as though the entire world outside was irrelevant so long as his baba sat beside him.

The driver, focused and steady, guided the vehicle through the empty road. Ajmer’s nights were usually alive with murmurs of life, but tonight, silence reigned. It was the kind of silence that felt holy, eternal — the kind you only noticed just before it shattered. 

And then, it did. 

A pair of headlights appeared too suddenly, too violently, cutting through the calm like a blade through cloth. Before anyone could react, before a prayer could form on the lips of the father, a car sped toward them with merciless force.

The crash was thunderous.

Metal screamed against metal, glass exploded like rainfall, and the peaceful road was instantly transformed into a graveyard of sound and chaos. The car spun once, twice, before slamming into the roadside barrier with a final, shattering force. 

Inside, the boy was thrown against his seatbelt, his small body jolted harshly. His toy slipped from his hands, clattering uselessly to the floor. His eyes were wide, uncomprehending, his breath caught in his throat as smoke began to curl into the air. 

And then he turned. 

His baba lay slumped, his forehead pressed against the cracked window. Blood poured from a deep gash, dark and terrifying, dripping down his face in cruel streams that stained his shirt. The once warm, steady eyes were closed. His chest rose faintly, but too weak, too shallow. 

The driver, collapsed over the steering wheel, didn’t move. His silence was heavy, absolute.

The little boy’s scream pierced the night. 

“Babaaaaaa!” His tiny hands shook his father’s arm desperately. “Open your eyes, Baba! Please… please, Baba!”

Tears blurred his vision as his small body shook with terror. He clutched his father’s shirt, pulling, begging. “Don’t leave me! Please open your eyes, Baba, please!”

But the man did not stir. His breaths came weaker, the blood heavier.

The child’s cries grew more frantic, more broken. “Baba… you promised… you said you’ll take me to the fair tomorrow! You said we’ll go, remember? You can’t sleep now! Wake up, Baba!”
He pressed his little face against his father’s chest, sobbing uncontrollably, his cries muffled by the blood-stained fabric. His tiny fists pounded helplessly against the man’s body, as if pain could wake him.

The night swallowed his voice, yet it echoed painfully against the hollow road. 

“Please, Baba… don’t go. Please… I’ll be good, I promise! I won’t cry for toys anymore, I won’t trouble you… just wake up. Don’t leave me…”

The words were broken between sobs, trembling and desperate. His small heart couldn’t understand why the man who always lifted him in his arms, always smiled at him, always made the world safe — now lay motionless, slipping away into a silence the boy could not reach. 

He wiped at his own tears with his sleeve, but more kept falling, faster, burning against his skin. “Babaaaaa!” His cries cracked, his voice hoarse, each plea more desperate than the last. He tried again and again, shaking his father, holding his face between tiny hands sticky with blood. 

The metallic tang of iron filled the air, thick and suffocating. Smoke rose from the engine, sparks flickered in the broken hood, but none of it mattered to the boy. His world was in his father’s stillness. 

In that moment, time seemed cruel. Seconds stretched into eternities, each tick of silence stabbing at the boy’s heart. He couldn’t understand why no one came, why the road was so empty, why the world didn’t hear his cries. 

Finally, exhausted, he collapsed against his father’s chest, clutching him tightly, sobbing until his little body shook with the weight of grief too heavy for a child. His whispers grew weaker, his voice breaking. 

“Please, Baba… open your eyes… just once. Look at me. Please…”

"ba...ba....babaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"

"to be continued"

                                                                ________________________________________ 
"Tell me who get who met with an accident?"

"which parts you loved the most"

"How was the Vayansh P..O.V.? you like his P.O.V"

I hope you enjoyed the chapter Roses, and I truly hope I didn't let you down.

This chapter have 22k words i'm late for update but i try to give a long parts.

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