"Time flies so fast" – a very true statement once said by a wise person.

And just like that, amid the chaos of everyday life, the rollercoaster of monotonous days and the ups and downs of emotions, more than six months had passed. And now, the month of November had arrived, bringing with it the chill of winter and the warmth of blankets.

Life went on.

Ira's final exams ended, the results came, and she graduated. Navya's mother, Swarnika, didn't crack NET but got a transfer to her hometown. Thus, the family shifted permanently to Patna. And Ira, once again, became alone, aloof, without friends.

Vaidehi, though she couldn't cross the cut-off for NET, managed to crack two exams – Headmaster of a high school and Head Teacher of a middle school. But the happiest of all seemed to be Raghav. It was quite clear that his joy didn't stem entirely from his wife achieving her long-held dream, but rather from the fact that she would now be earning. He could finally breathe easier – free from the hurdles, burdens, and responsibilities that had once rested solely on his shoulders.

And was there anything wrong with that?

Maybe... not. After all, a vehicle runs more smoothly when both of its wheels move evenly on the road.

Though, was he really present for his family?

Well... if bringing money into the house, then fighting over petty things, throwing tantrums, beating his wife and children, hurling food-laden plates, and using abusive language as a form of stress relief counts, then yes.

Anyway, as the saying goes – a dog's tail, even if buried in the earth for years, will still not straighten once pulled out.

The fights between the couple continued, now over new topics – expenditures, time management, and the constant interference of in-laws... Raghav's in-laws. They never missed a chance to fill Vaidehi's ears against her husband. As a result, Vaidehi would argue, and Raghav would retaliate in his not-so-pleasant language, never missing an opportunity to belittle his wife – even in front of his friends. To him, it was a joke that earned laughter and praise from his friends for putting his wife in her place. But in truth, he was only bringing his own dignity down before everyone.

And Ira, though tucked in one corner of the room, making study timetables and planning her competitive exam syllabus, couldn't help but watch.

Nakul, however, would never stay quiet. He would first try to make his parents understand the gravity of the situation, telling them how their fights were affecting everyone's lives. But when they didn't listen, he would use the same language as them, or even worse, which would only escalate the chaos into more fights, more insults, and endless sessions of getting offended and then persuading.

Ira often called her house a circus, and its people, jokers – acting hazardously because they were never paid well.

Well… Raghav had been an absent father and not a very good husband in the past, but he had learned a few things over time. Or rather, responsibilities and his son had made him see things in a slightly better, more mature way, instead of throwing tantrums and losing his childish temper every five minutes.

Still, as they say, it takes two to clap.

Neither was Vaidehi a very present mother nor a very patient wife. She, too, would start arguing with her husband the moment he stepped into the house after work. Or even in the middle of the night, when he was asleep and bitter memories came swirling back into her mind.

Truly made for each other – deaf and dumb.

But what could one expect from someone who had been constantly tortured by in-laws, relatives, and neighbors – people who had absolutely nothing to do with her life, yet seemed determined to treat her suffering as a form of entertainment that should never end.

Nevertheless, despite everything, the vehicle still managed to find its way forward. And now, Raghav, neglecting his own duties, had been roaming from office to office, officer to officer, with his wife, for the documentation and formalities related to Vaidehi's job counseling.

And the officers – creatures molded by hard work and greed – couldn't help but drool the moment the glimpse of money crossed their vision.

"Wah." Vaidehi shook her head as she stepped out of the Block Resource Centre. "First, study hard, pass the exam, and then fight for your rights before these officials. All my documents are in order, but they still aren't letting me pass." Her voice carried the weight of frustration, fading into the hum of distant conversations inside the building.

She turned around, scanning the area for her husband.

Raghav stood a few steps away near the gate, phone pressed to his ear, scratching his forehead as his eyebrows knitted together. He looked both tense and oddly relieved, his posture slightly hunched under the fatigue of the day.

Adjusting the black shawl tighter around her shoulders, Vaidehi approached him. "What happened?"

Raghav lifted his eyes from the ground and met her gaze. Raising his hand, he gestured for her to come closer.

Furrowing her eyebrows, Vaidehi followed the gesture. "Huh?"

Raghav handed her the phone, lowering his voice. "Dwarkanath ji."

Vaidehi's eyes widened, and her lips parted slightly as a nervous smile began to form.

"Talk, talk."

With trembling fingers, Vaidehi took the phone, pressing it gently to her ear. :J–Ji, pranam, sir!" Her voice was polite, layered with excitement and restraint.

Raghav stepped back a little, watching her speak.

She kept shifting her weight from one foot to another, her free hand clutching the edge of her shawl. Now and then, her words broke into nervous laughter that fluttered into the air like shy confessions.

He walked beside her slowly as they made their way toward the exit, his pace unhurried, expression unreadable.

After about ten minutes, Vaidehi ended the call. Her face glowed with quiet satisfaction as she handed the phone back to him

Raghav's lips curved into something between a smile and a smirk. "See? My connections?" He wriggled his eyebrows, pride lacing his tone. "Your father just keeps bragging – I know this minister, that legislator. Huh." He scoffed lightly, straightening his jacket.

"Okay, okay!" Vaidehi waved her hand in front of his face, laughing under her breath. "Don't start flying too high now. Papa deserves equal, maybe even more, credit than you for my success."

Raghav shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Okay... that's true. I never disagree. But your family always makes it sound like I'm some jerk who's done nothing for you or our children, and the sole reason behind all their troubles."

"There is no smoke without fire," Vaidehi said, side-glancing sharply at her husband, her tone suddenly clipped.

Raghav's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching near his temple. He looked away, eyes narrowing as a crease deepened on his forehead.

A suffocating silence settled between them, broken only by the faint honking of auto-rickshaws, the chatter of people passing by, and the Chhath songs being played in the market. They walked side by side along the pavement, the trees' branches swirling overhead audibly.

The loud ringtone of Raghav's phone sliced through the stillness.

"Yeah, beta!" Raghav answered quickly, stepping aside to lean against the boundary wall, the rough cement cool against his back. "Hmm, how's Ira?"

Vaidehi stopped beside him, her shawl fluttering in the passing breeze as she strained to catch Nakul's voice from the other end.

"Umm… how many more shots will she have to take?" Raghav asked, his voice low, almost cautious.

There was a pause – only the faint hum of traffic filling the gap.

"Okay, okay. Take care, hmm? And mummy will be there by tomorrow evening." Raghav's tone softened toward the end. He hummed briefly before ending the call and turned to face Vaidehi.

"How's Ira?" she asked immediately, the concern etched clearly on her face.

Raghav exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck before sliding the phone into the pocket of his thin black jacket. "A couple more injections to go."

A weary sigh escaped Vaidehi. Her shoulders dropped, nostrils flaring slightly as she stared at the closed ice-cream parlor ahead by the roadside. "She needs a full body check-up. How can her immune system be this weak?"

The faint clang of a bicycle bell and the temple bells from across the street mingled in the distance. Vaidehi drew her shawl tighter, her gaze unfocused as she watched the slow rhythm of people passing by – each one absorbed in their own small battles. Beside her, Raghav stayed silent, the weight of unspoken worries pressing between them like the chill that refused to leave the air.

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Ira's eyes shut tight, jaw clenched, chin tucked into the hollow of her neck as his grandfather emptied the injection vial into the IV fixed to the front vein of her left arm. The cold had thickened the blood near the needle; it had jammed slightly, and now it ached sharply as the medicine forced its way through the blocked vein.

The grandfather held her wrist in place with his calloused yet steady fingers, his silver-rimmed glasses slipping slightly down his nose as he watched the flow of the liquid. His eyes flicked between the vein and his granddaughter's pinched expression. "Is it painful?" he asked, his tone stern yet wrapped in the softness that only emerged a few times.

Ira shook her head quickly, her lips pressed tight. The fingers of her free hand, resting on her thigh, curled into a small trembling fist.

"Just two more – this evening and tomorrow morning." He tapped the IV shut, the plastic clip making a faint click, and straightened with a grunt, collecting his old leather doctor's bag from the low stool beside him. "And eat your medicine and food on time!" His voice thundered across the open rooftop, echoing off the concrete walls.

"Could anyone believe she's twenty-two years old?!" He turned sharply, scanning the semicircle of family members – his wife with her pallu draped carelessly over her head, his younger daughter rubbing her arms for warmth, both daughters-in-law standing with lowered eyes, and Nakul with his hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. Panchhi leaned on the parapet wall, her shawl draped carelessly, while an almost eight-months-pregnant Jheel stood near the water drum, one hand pressed on her aching back, face contorted.

As the old man opened his mouth to scold the already crimson-faced Ira further—

"Nana!"

Purav burst up the narrow staircase, his footsteps thudding against the stone, an old Nokia phone clutched in his outstretched hand. His breath came in quick bursts, his cheeks flushed from the cold. "Call," he exhaled, bending slightly as he tried to catch his breath.

"Who's it?!" The grandfather's deep voice cracked through the chatter, startling even the sparrows chirping on the railing.

Purav straightened, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, and placed the small, buzzing device into his nana's open palm. "Some… Professor Bhushan."

A flicker of curiosity crossed the old man's face. His eyebrows knitted for a second before softening into recognition. He adjusted his glasses, pressing the phone to his ear. "Hello!"

Every pair of eyes on the roof turned toward him instinctively, as though a verdict was being awaited.

"Aha…" The grandfather's mouth curved open slowly, his lined face lighting up with the warmth of memory. "What are you saying, Bhushan babu? Of course I remember you! What you did for the government school in our village—everyone is still so fond of you!"

He chuckled heartily, his occasional laughter ringing like an old song against the fading afternoon light.

Then, suddenly, his face changed. The laughter died, replaced by the sharp furrow on his forehead.

Everyone unconsciously leaned a little closer, anticipating the words that would follow.

"Oh my God, Bhushan ji, of course! This is your home—please come with your family! We'll be so pleased to host you! And since it's such an auspicious festival for Bihar, we'll always be ready to lend a hand!"

Panchhi nudged Ira with her elbow, the shawl slipped off her shoulder. She squinted, trying to read her cousin's face, then raised her eyebrows in silent question.

Ira gave a tiny shrug, her lips pushing out in a wordless sign.

"Of course, of course! Your wife can definitely observe the Chhath vrat here!" The grandfather's booming voice carried across the winter sky again, making the family even more curious than before.

As soon as he hung up the call, Devki, his wife, stepped forward, chin lifted to meet her husband's gaze. With one hand on her waist and the other resting limply over her head, she squinted, lines deepening around her sharp eyes. "Who, Bhushan?"

Her husband bobbed his head, blinking a few times as though rummaging through old memories. "He…?" The same nostalgic smile lingered on his lips, softening the stern angles of his face. "Remember that high school principal who renovated the whole school building and brought so many changes?"

Devki's eyes narrowed into slits, the faint crease between her brows deepening as she tried to fish out the half-buried recollection. For a moment, her attention drifted away from the rooftop. The rising sun peeked from behind the dense grey clouds, offering its creatures a moment of warmth against the seeping chill.

"Umm…" Her squinted eyes shifted back to meet her husband's expectant gaze. She brought a hand near her chin, thumb pressing lightly against the skin as she thought. "Is it the same Bhushan who told us about the… false letter for Vaidehi?" she asked in a whisper, as though the old scandal might still sting the air.

The old man nodded. "Hmm. The same Bhushan." Then, with a small, pleased smile, he added, "He's coming over to celebrate Chhath puja with us, along with his wife and son!"

"Why?!" Devki asked bluntly.

A quick round of laughter rippled through her children standing nearby, their voices bouncing off the open terrace walls.

Her husband's face contorted, a mix of surprise and mild irritation flickering across his wrinkled features. He leaned back slightly, straightening his shawl around his shoulders. "What why?" He looked at her sternly, yet there was still warmth tucked behind the glance.

Devki shook her head, palm raised in the air in a placating gesture. "I mean, they don't celebrate there in their city with their family—what was the name… umm… Darbhanga?"

"Umm-hmm," her husband made a disapproving sound, lips pressed together in that familiar way that said he wasn't really angry, just mildly dramatic. "They do. But they've already arrived in Patna and just found out that one of their distant relatives passed away this morning. His wife still wishes to observe this year's Chhath puja. So, since they can’t celebrate it there, and they share strong, almost familial ties with us and this village, why not celebrate it here?”

"Yeah…" Devki's voice trailed off as she looked toward the open sky.

The low hum of traffic drifted faintly from beyond the fields, gesturing at the arrival of the evening bus.

"Hmm!" The old man nodded firmly, snapping her from her thoughts. "And don't ask such silly questions in front of them. They're big people – both husband and wife are professors now, and their son holds a barrister's degree from abroad," he warned, eyes widening slightly for emphasis.

He glanced around the terrace, surveying his clan like a captain taking stock of a distracted crew.

The younger ones – Nakul leaning against the railing with his arms folded, Panchhi stifling a yawn behind her hand, and Purav lazily rolling a pebble with his foot – looked half-bored, half-amused. The women exchanged knowing looks, the corners of their lips twitching in silent laughter at the old man's habitual commanding tone.

"Everyone!"

The sudden bark of his voice startled everyone, and all the sleepy heads jerked upright, expressions rearranging themselves into hurried attentiveness.

The grandfather cleared his throat, eyes shifting between Nakul, Panchhi, and Purav. "Prepare one of the downstairs rooms properly. Make sure all the arrangements – blankets, heater, mosquito net, everything – are set up neatly." His tone softened only slightly before turning toward his daughter and daughters-in-law.

"And… the first day of vrat begins tomorrow, so tonight make good, tasty food." He nodded approvingly as the women exchanged glances and murmured quickly "Ji, papa," in agreement. Then he added, "Vaidehi will also arrive by tomorrow. So… do things that make them feel comfortable, not awkward."

He turned next toward his other two granddaughters – Ira, and Jheel.

Ira looked as though sleep had claimed her right there on the rooftop, her back curved slightly, head drooping forward, lips parting faintly as she breathed through the exhaustion. Beside her, Jheel stood with one hand supporting the small of her back, her rounded belly pressing lightly against the folds of her shawl.

"Ira! Jheel!"

"Ha!" Ira startled, eyes flying open as she blinked rapidly, trying to wash the haze of drowsiness from her gaze.

Jheel murmured a low "Ji?" shifting her weight from one foot to the other, pressing her palm lightly against her abdomen.

"You both go and rest," the grandfather instructed softly, one wrinkled hand gesturing toward the bedroom on the far side of the roof.

Both girls nodded wordlessly.

Ira gathered her black jacket, draped it over her head like a ghoonghat, and followed Jheel’s slow steps toward the doorway. The two disappeared behind the half-open wooden door, seeking a little peace and rest before the chaos of the festival, and the responsibilities of simply being present would soon descend upon their shoulders.

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"Yeah, yeah, papa," Siddharth spoke into the phone pressed between his palm and ear, his voice half-drowned in the hum of arrivals. The sliding glass doors behind him parted and closed in a rhythm, letting in waves of cold air tuned with Chhath songs being played everywhere. Balancing the strap of his hand bag on one shoulder, he squinted against the mild chill of the evening spilling over the parking lane.

A taxi driver waved a hand somewhere in the crowd, urging the flyers to choose his vehicle, but Siddharth brushed past, distracted.

"Yeah, Vardhaman's uncle and his cousin sister had come to escort him," he added, adjusting his grip on the phone as he switched it to his other ear. His eyebrows furrowed faintly in a habitual crease as he listened to the voice on the other end. The corner of his mouth twitched – half a smile, half an attempt to mask impatience – while his footsteps slowed near the cab stand, feeling the radiating heat of the engine.

Hanging up the call and sliding the device into the pocket of his brown leather jacket, he glanced at the number plate of the white cab parked a few steps away. Straightening his posture, he scanned the parking lane for any trace of the driver, eyes narrowing against the fading twilight that painted the airport curbside in shades of orange and grey.

"Sir, sir!" A man jogged toward him, slightly overweight, his sweater stretched over his belly.

Siddharth's gaze, sharp and assessing, traveled over him before settling on his face. "Iqbal?" he asked, his tone flat, expression controlled.

The driver bent forward, palms on his knees as he caught his breath, then looked up with an eager smile. "Ji, sir! You're—Siddharth Solanki?"

Siddharth gave a slow nod, his face unreadable.

Iqbal straightened up and broke into a loud, friendly laugh. "The weather was getting colder, and you were taking a while to come out, so I went to have a hot masala chai!" he said, still chuckling as he hurried to the cab, and pulled open the back door, gesturing for Siddharth to get in.

Siddharth slid into the seat, the worn leather dipped faintly under his weight.

Iqbal shut the door with a soft click before circling around to the driver's side. Another click echoed as he got in, the key turning with a mechanical hum. Headlights sliced through the dusk, and soon, the taxi merged into the slow-moving traffic, disappearing into the blur of city lights.

Inside, Siddharth sat in a relaxed manner, one arm resting loosely on the window edge, eyes drifting over the passing shops and vendors. Outside, the air shimmered with movement and noise – honking vehicles, bursts of laughter. Everyone seemed busy and alive with the excitement of the coming Chhath festival.

Men stood in front of vegetable and fruit stalls, sleeves rolled up, arguing with vendors over the last rupee, their voices rising above the crowd. Women huddled together in clothing shops, fingers brushing through stacks of colorful sarees, murmuring softly as they compared textures and shine, deciding which one would be worthy for the fast.

Children clung to their mothers’ sarees, eyes wide and pleading at toy stalls, while some threw tantrums on the pavement when their wishes were ignored. A group of teenagers leaned against a Chhola Bhatura cart, biting into the food and laughing over shared jokes, their conversations weaving through the hum of traffic and noise of the public around.

Siddharth's gaze softened slightly as the taxi rolled past it all – the blur of sugarcane bundles, coconuts, Pomelo, Batasha, and so many other things. After all, it was Chhath Puja.

For most of India, the end of Diwali meant the curtain had fallen on festivity, but here in Bihar, it marked the beginning of its grandest, most sacred celebration – a festival of devotion, discipline, and gratitude toward the sun and the nature that sustained them.

The sudden ring of the phone snapped Siddharth out of his drifting thoughts. His hand moved instinctively to his jacket pocket, fingers brushing against the smooth surface of the phone before he brought it to his ear.

"Yeah, Papa," he answered, his tone casual at first, eyes still absently following the stream of headlights ahead.

Within seconds, a faint crease formed between his eyebrows, his posture straightening. "Why? What happened?" His voice rose slightly, trying to cut through the blaring honk of a nearby truck that rattled the windowpane.

"Yeah... okay," he muttered finally, the reluctance clear in his tone before he lowered the phone and ended the call. He exhaled through his nose, the tension still etched across his face, and glanced up to find Iqbal watching him curiously through the rearview mirror.

"Take the route to Danapur bus stand, bhai," Siddharth said, tilting his chin toward the turning ahead. "I'll pay the extra charges."

"Sure, sir," Iqbal replied quickly, hands tightening on the steering wheel as he adjusted the direction with a smooth turn.

And once again silence returned to the car, but, this time – dense and uneasy.

Siddharth leaned back, the leather seat dipped softly under his shoulder, his gaze fixed on the blur of streetlights sliding past the window.

Outside, the city refused to sleep: vendors called out prices in half-sung tones, auto-rickshaws weaved through narrow gaps, and the honking of impatient drivers blended with the distant rhythm of folk song beats somewhere deep within the festive crowd.

A/N: This part is more about building the plot, so it might feel a bit slow or even boring.

Did it feel that way to you?

Also, something that has been on my mind lately—at its core, this story is not exactly a romantic novel. It's a work of general fiction with contemporary settings that flows wherever the plot takes it. But yes, romance will appear in the backdrop. After all, along with the struggles of career and ambition, love, relationships, and marriage are parts of life too. And we're getting closer to that phase. In the next part, you might catch a glimpse of its foundation.

I just wanted to make things a little clearer about what to expect and what not. Do share your thoughts. I truly love hearing your perspective.