Maiyaan = Mother
Bahu = Daughter-in-law
Aarti = flames use in prayers
Prasad = sweets offered to the God during prayers

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The first light of dawn crept across the horizon, brushing the sky in shades of amber. A soft chime rose from the courtyard of the three-tiered government bungalow, each note folding into the hush of morning.

A woman stood there, bell in one hand, aarti thali in the other. With each ring, her eyelids sank shut, her lips moving soundlessly, the rhythm of her breath joining the early call of birds.

She lifted her face toward the rising sun. Her hand circled the flame in the shape of ॐ - the holy sign of Hinduism. The ancient words of the Gayatri mantra slipped from her lips into the morning air, steady and unbroken, until the prayer itself seemed to belong to the light:

"𝑶𝒎 𝑩𝒉𝒖𝒓 𝑩𝒉𝒖𝒗𝒂𝒉 𝑺𝒗𝒂𝒉𝒂
𝑻𝒂𝒕 𝑺𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒓 𝑽𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒚𝒂𝒎
𝑩𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒐 𝑫𝒆𝒗𝒂𝒔𝒚𝒂 𝑫𝒉𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒉𝒊
𝑫𝒉𝒊𝒚𝒐 𝒀𝒐 𝑵𝒂𝒉 𝑷𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒅𝒂𝒚𝒂𝒕."

Bowing one last time before the Almighty, she turned away. Her steps carried her toward her mother-in-law's room, the aarti's flame trembling faintly with each step she took.

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Inside, the old woman sat upright on her bed, eyes closed; a tulsi mala slipped bead by bead through her fingers. Her lips moved in steady rhythm, the chant soft enough to mingle with the faint rustle of the curtains. Each pass of the beads left her face calmer, as though the prayer had carried her somewhere far beyond the four walls.

When the chanting stilled, she opened her eyes. A smile rose slowly, lighting her face as her gaze settled on her daughter-in-law.

The younger woman bent low, touching the older one's feet.

The old woman's hands rose instinctively, resting on her head with the lightness of a blessing. Her voice, quiet yet firm, drifted into the room. "May the Divine guide and protect you, Anusuiya. May your path be filled with love, peace, and harmony."

Anusuiya's lips parted, but her voice broke before the words could gather strength. "Just let my child return to me. I ask for nothing else."

The old woman brushed her palm across the aarti's glow, then looked into her daughter-in-law's eyes. "Do not let faith slip away, bahu. He will return."

Anusuiya's mouth trembled. She pressed it shut, blinking rapidly before she managed, "It has been more than two weeks, maiyaan." The words fell heavy, refusing to move past the silence that followed.

The old woman's gaze held steady, her fingers still curled around the mala.

Anusuiya turned at last, her steps careful, as though each one carried more weight than she could bear.

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She entered her bedroom, the aarti still clutched in her hands, its gentle glow lighting her path.

Inside, a man in his mid-fifties, dressed in a plain white kurta and pyjamas, was pacing beside the bed. Lines of fatigue and worry had carved themselves deep into his face.

Inhaling deeply, Anusuiya approached him, offering the aarti. Her eyes darted occasionally between the flame and his stern expression, as he accepted the aarti with a quiet nod, passing his hand over the flame.

"Has your precious prince finally awoken?" His words were clipped and sharp, eyes lingering on his wife.

Anusuiya shook her head, lowering her head.

He gave a slow nod in return. "Of course not. Why would he? The elder one is roaming God knows where, and the younger-" he tapped the prasad against his palm, "-buried in favorite past time - sleep."

Anusuiya's eyebrows drew together, her grip on the aarti's plate tightened. "Must you always speak of them this way? They are your own blood." She glared at him. "Your sons."

He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, drawing in a long breath before looking back at her. "Anusuiya, it's because they are my sons that I cannot stop fearing for what lies ahead."

Anusuiya looked at him, face contorting.

"You're too soft on them," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder, trying to sound calm. "Always making excuses. I know you love them, but they need to learn from their mistakes-not be shielded from them."

His eyes searched her face, asking for agreement she couldn't give. She lowered her gaze, the flame between them flickering in the draft.

"They will learn with time," she murmured, her words halting, strained by a quiet desperation. "But you also need to understand-"

"-that they are not children anymore." His reply came sharp, cutting across hers. "We've been saying 'they will learn with time' for years. When do we stop repeating it and start holding them accountable?"

Anusuiya's eyebrows knit together, and she blinked quickly as though to steady herself. "You're not giving them enough credit. They are trying... in their own ways." Her eyes dropped to the floor, her lips trembling as she added, "And... and it's not as if he was always here with us. Why does it matter so much when he doesn't listen to us now?"

Her husband's jaw tightened. He clasped his hands behind his back, the knuckles whitening. Lifting his chin, he spoke without meeting her eyes. "I know. They are trying. But trying isn't enough. They need guidance, and consequences. Without that, they'll never grow."

The aarti thali clinked softly as Anusuiya turned away, the diya swaying with her steps. Its fragile light traced her face, catching the uncertainty she could no longer hide.

He watched her leave, his gaze fixed on the door long after it closed. A sigh escaped him, low and heavy, carrying the weight of words left unsaid, and the knowledge that a mother's love often refused to see what a father could not ignore.

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The first light of dawn unfurled across the horizon, washing the beach in soft gold. The shore lay quiet, broken only by the gentle lap of waves against the sand and the faint rustle of coconut leaves stirred by the breeze.

Rudraksh, Siddharth, and Karan - three friends bound by years of unshaken loyalty - slept in a rough crescent, their bodies sprawled on the cold sand. The weight of last night's turmoil still clung to them, etched into their slumped shoulders and restless poses.

Siddharth stirred first. He rubbed his eyes in a futile attempt to push away the heaviness of exhaustion. When his lids finally lifted, the sun's brightness cut into his gaze, forcing him to squint. The warmth on his brown skin contrasted sharply with the night's lingering chill.

He glanced at his friends. Rudraksh's face, even in sleep, carried the shadow of heartbreak; his breath rose and fell in quiet rhythm, the faint tang of salt and sweat still clinging to him. Karan's expression was softer, the stillness of deep fatigue smoothing away every trace of worry.

"Wake up, guys." Siddharth's voice cracked. The sound carried with the ocean breeze, weaving into the distant cries of seagulls.

He rose, the sand shifting beneath his weight, releasing the damp, earthy scent of the shore. A stretch loosened his stiff back, a reminder of their impromptu bed beneath the stars.

Rudraksh stirred, pushing himself up slowly before collapsing back onto the sand. His half-lidded eyes squinted into the morning light. For a long moment, he said nothing, letting the rhythm of the waves and the birdsong fill the silence. Then, in a low, velvety voice roughened by sleep, he asked, "What time is it?"

Siddharth tilted his head toward the open sky, the pale blue spread wide above them. "Around... eight, maybe."

Rudraksh grunted low, and pushed himself to his feet. He brushed sand clung stubbornly to his clothes with brisk swipes, leaving wrinkles and creases behind on the fabrics.

"Karan, wake up." His voice softened as he nudged his friend's leg with his foot.

Karan stirred, stretching like a drowsy cat before rubbing at his eyes. "Hmm?"

His lids barely lifted before they fell shut again. He sagged back into the sand, limbs sprawling, surrendering to sleep's pull.

Rudraksh's patience frayed, and he kicked Karan's leg, harder this time. "Hey! This isn't your bedroom. Get up!"

Karan yelped, clutching his shin. "Dude!" His voice came sharp, now fully awake.

Siddharth laughed, the sound scattering into the breeze. "He's paying you back, Karan." The lightness in his tone felt like a throwback to those careless days of theirs.

Karan shot Rudraksh a glare, his mouth twisting. "Cruel, man!" He stood slowly, brushing sand from his clothes with exaggerated care, as if to nurse the injury.

Rudraksh's lips pressed into a scrunched expression of impatience before one brow arched, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. "Don't be a sloth."

Karan rubbed his face, the friction pulling him further into wakefulness. His eyes, still heavy, finally settled on Rudraksh. "Where exactly are we going?" His words stretched around a yawn as his arms reached skyward.

Siddharth folded his arms across his chest. "To Rudraksh's house." His tone carried the weight of an elder brother, leaving no space for debate.

Karan's eyes widened, and he turned to Rudraksh, searching his expression. "Are you serious? You've been holed up for over two weeks, man."

Rudraksh gave the smallest of nods, his gaze falling to the ground. The morning light slid across his face, outlining the fatigue still etched into his features.

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Anusuiya stood at the stove, the rich aroma of aalo parathas filling the kitchen, when the doorbell rang. A flutter rose in her chest, hope tangled with unease, clinging to the faint possibility that it might be the one she had longed to see for two weeks.

She wiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron and walked toward the main door. Her anklets chimed softly against the quiet of the living room.

With a breath caught between anticipation and dread, she pulled the door open.

Her gaze lifted... and stilled.

For a heartbeat, her eyes shimmered with the impossible, caught between joy and disbelief, as though she were afraid the vision might dissolve if she blinked.

"Rudraksh..."

A/N: Hey, guys!

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