Tulsi plant stood tall in the center of the courtyard.

Fresh marigold garlands clung to its base, wilting slightly from the dew. The earth below was still damp with Gangajal and a delicate ring of rice paste encircled it- a silent halo of devotion.

The priest moved slowly, arranging ritual items with care, his lips murmuring mantras under his breath whispers meant for the gods.

Prakhar sat motionless.

A plain white dhoti clung to his frame.
Back straight. Arms resting on his knees. Fingers barely curled. He looked less like a man and more like a sculpture carved in stillness.

A stillness that wasn't peace.
It was containment.

His face bore no expression. But something cracked beneath the surface.

A dam he refused to let burst.

And his eyes... those eyes that never gave anything away but today, they just looked tired.

A soft rustle above drew his gaze upward.
Clouds drifted slowly across the sky as if careful not to disturb him..

As if they'd seen this grief before, and knew its edges too well.

He stared.
Unblinking.
And then, slowly like it hurt to do so he closed his eyes.

And for a moment, just one, his mask slipped.

A crease formed between his brows.
A twitch at the corner of his mouth as if something rose inside him but he swallowed it whole.

His throat clicked.
His jaw clenched.

Then he straightened his spine again blinking away grief just to take enough air to survive the day without choking on everything he never said..

But his right thumb moved inside of his left wrist.

His gaze flicked down for just a moment.

He stared at the spot as if searching for something that used to live beneath it.

But there was nothing..

Just skin- warm, empty, and hollow.

And that absence made his soul bleed..

Because he wasn't touching his wrist.
He was holding his Dadaji's absence.

He had let go of the only thing he'd never taken off- not for eleven years.
It wasn't just a bracelet..

A quiet, constant weight against his skin- whispering that his grandfather was still somewhere near.

For him, just the feel of it on his wrist had always been enough - a silent anchor in a world that kept shifting.

The Ritual Begins.

The priest laid out the banana leaves, the sesame seeds, and the pind daan mix-warm rice, ghee, barley flour, black gram.

"Aapka haath... shraddha ka saadhan hai. Isse prem se pinda taiyar kariye."

Prakhar's hands hovered over the offering then he bent forward and began rolling.

He had done this for a decade now.

Every year-the same mantras.
The same offerings.
The same ache.
And still- his hands shook when he rolled the first pinda.

From guilt.
Because somewhere in his mind, it was still his fault.
He still remembered that day like a curse carved in his skull.

The breath he didn't know would be the last.

Beside him, Dev sat in his wheelchair, his eyes alive with unsaid pain. He knew this wasn't just a ritual for Prakhar.

It was punishment.

The priest began chanting louder now-

"Pavitrena manasa snatah, pindam grihnatu pitamahah."
(Purified by faith and devotion, may the ancestor accept this offering.)

As Prakhar placed each pinda, he repeated softly-

"Idam pindam mama pitamahasya Dharam Singh Rathod triptim yantu. Om Namo Bhagavate Vasudevaya."

(This pinda is offered for my grandfather, Dharam Singh Rathod. May his soul be satisfied and attain peace. I bow to Lord Vasudeva.)

The words trembled out of him.

He placed the second.

Then the third.

Each pinda placed like a stone on his own chest.

Dev kept watching him with eyes full of forgiveness he refused to take.

The priest turned and softly placed the Tarpan Lota- a copper vessel with sacred water into his hand, along with three black sesame seeds resting gently in the crook of his palm.

"Dakshina disha ki aur mukh kar ke, tarpan arpan kariye, beta." the priest instructed.
(Face south, and offer the water, son.)

Prakhar held the pot. And for a moment, he couldn't move. Until Rudra placed a hand lightly on his back. Just for a second.

And then pulled it away.

He stood facing south.

Prakhar cupped the water in his palm, turned it downward letting it flow slowly through his fingers..

"Tilodakam dadasva pitamahaya Dharam Singh Rathodaya yatha sukham."
(May this water bring peace to Dharam Singh Rathod.)

He repeated it thrice. And in that moment, he didn't know if he had sent peace to his grandfather or just unearthed the grief his father never let anyone see.

Rida kept glancing at him in intervals.

She pressed a kiss into Aarav's hair, her own lips trembling. She felt the moment his shoulders dropped half an inch. Because even though he looked like a man performing a ritual...

He didn't look alive.

The lota was empty now.

But his silence?
Fuller than any chant.

He took back his seat without looking at anyone. Everyone bowed their heads.

The mantra rose in tempo.
His voice deepened, vibrating against the cold courtyard stones,

"Idam pinda pradhaanam Dharam Singh Rathod pitamah ke liye-samarpit, samarpit, samarpit."

And then-
The final chant,

"Om shanti... shantih... shantih..."

Everyone sat still in the silence..
Hands folded.
Heads bowed.
Breath held.

For the first time during the entire ceremony, Prakhar looked up.
Slowly.
Heavily.
And his eyes settled- on her.

Rida
Her head slightly bent, one hand resting protectively on Aarav's chest.

And something inside him screamed painfully.

"You look just like your mother... I won't love you even if I ever want to.. I will never let myself soften for you.."

He didn't say it.

But they burst behind his eyes with pure, soul-wrecking sorrow.

The kind of sorrow that never healed, only hardened.

Rida felt it..

Like something in him wasn't just broken- it was bleeding just by watching her.

His eyes dropped again.

His fingers curled slightly into his knees.

His chest tightened until it hurt to breathe.

And still, he did not flinch.
Because Men like him didn't show pain.

They carried it in their spine.
They stitched it beneath their ribs.
They let it rot quietly in the corners of their soul.

The moment ended.

The courtyard emptied.
The priests had been guided toward the bhoj.

The family had dispersed inside, tending to hospitality, rituals, and the quiet hum of duty.

But Prakhar hadn't moved.

He stood alone, staring at the three pindas nestled beneath the Tulsi.

He lifted his face slowly to the sky.

"My delay, my helplessness caused your end... I am to blame. I do not seek my own redemption. I only beg for your peace. You no longer scold. No longer bless. No longer speak And I... I miss you. So much."

A breath caught in his throat and a sob escaped him- "I'm the reason. I'm sorry."

✨

The Brahmins, dressed in spotless white dhotis and angavastrams, sat in disciplined rows-their backs straight, eyes lowered in quiet dignity.

Before them, banana leaves were placed.

Just beyond the sacred line, the Rathod family stood. And there... at the very front... stood Prakhar.

The mukhya purohit, standing beside the idol, spoke with solemn clarity_

"Pehla bhojan, yathavidhi, Shree Hari ko samarpit kiya jaaye."

(Let the first offering, as per tradition, be dedicated to Lord Vishnu.)

From the kitchen threshold, Mansi emerged, holding the first thali.

A fresh banana leaf lined the surface, adorned with ghee-laced rice, aloo sabzi, puris, kheer, and a single fresh tulsi leaf resting atop.

She walked forward with steady hands and a lowered gaze and placed it gently in Prakhar's hands.

He took it. Automatically.
For years, this moment... this sacred offering... belonged to him alone.

He stepped forward toward the deity like every time before.

"Rukiye, Baba..."

The purohit raised a gentle hand to stop him.

"Pehle aap kuware the, isliye pratham bhojan aap akele samarpit karte the. Par ab aap grihasth jeevan mein pravesh kar chuke hain... Toh ab yeh kriya... aap dono pati patni ko saath milkar sampann karni hogi. Dampatya ki pehli pehchaan yahi se hoti hai-saanjha bhojan, saanjha sankalp."

Rida's breath caught.

Prakhar's jaw clenched, but not from surprise.

The moment the priest spoke, a deep stillness took hold of him.
Not because he was told to perform the ritual with her. But because for the first time... the sanctity of this ritual-his ritual-felt contaminated.

This ritual-this offering-wasn't just about tradition.
It was personal.
But now... now he had to share it.
With her.
With the woman whose last name he couldn't say without feeling something cold sink into his spine.

He didn't look at her. Not because of hate for her but because the blood she carried, the one he could never forgive.

Before Prakhar could even react, Badi Dadi's voice cut through the air from behind, gently resolute, "Rathod ghar ki bahu banna ek zimmedaari hai. Aur har zimmedaari... poori shiddat se nibhaayi jaati hai..ummeed krti hoon tum apna frz samjhogi."

The moment stretched.

Rida's feet barely moved but still she stepped forward.. She stood beside him-not close enough to touch, but near enough to feel.

Her heart thudded so hard it echoed in her ears..

She risked a glance.
He didn't look at her, but the subtle flare of his nostrils said enough. He was aware of her. Every inch.

Still, with trembling fingers, she reached toward the thali. Her pallu, modestly draped over her head, shifted ever so slightly- brushing his shoulder, just near his bicep. A fleeting touch.

Together, they bent to place the first thali at the feet of Shri Hari. A stray strand of her hair grazed the fabric of his shirt.

As they did, tthe back of his knuckles accidentally brushed against her bangle.

As they rose, the scent of his cologne wrapped around her..

The priest softly guided them into the aarti. Her hand lifted beside his.

The thali began to move in his grasp-slow, deliberate circles.

His arm brushed against her shoulder every time it passed her side.. His arms were simply longer, his stance broader that unintentionally blocked her reach. Her smaller reach faltered struggling to match the same sweep..

She had leaned slightly to align her pace, but her body ended up lightly pressing against his for a moment. Her cheek nearly grazed the curve of his upper arm. The touch was feather-light, accidental.

Irritatipn flickered when she could align to him because of his broad frame and at the way he wasn't cooperating with her..

She adjusted her hand but ended up holding his wrist unintentionally- right above the mauli she had tied him weeks ago.

A sigh escaped from her parted lips as her back pressed lighly against his chest...

It wasn't planned- but something stirred in him the moment she touched him there.

It didn't feel wrong.
It didn't feel foreign.
It felt like it belonged.
Even he refused to accept, he didn't hate it.

Neither of them looked at the other.

They didn't need to.

When they bent slightly to place the thali down, the back of his knuckles knocked against her bangle again..

They looked like a couple offering peace together.

Not broken. Not bound by compulsion.

But united-deliberate, together.

Even if everything between them was still chaos...

✨

Rathod Mansion - 7:05 PM

The rituals had ended. The house was finally quieter.

Prakhar was nowhere to be seen after the barsi rituals ended..

Rida sat beside Akansha on the couch, her posture straight, eyes occasionally scanning the room but not obviously. Not desperately. Just...wandering. Her fingers played with the hem of her dupatta as if they sought distraction from a question she wasn't sure she had the right to ask.

She parted her lips slightly closed them instantly biting down on the urge and let the silence wrapped around her like an armor.

Sensing her hesitation Akansha let out a sigh,
"Bhai won't come down until everyone's asleep. It's been like that every year...So don't worry about him.."

Rida nodded faintly and asked again hesitantly..

"Why does he always go strange when the topic is his grandfather? I mean... he become distant only when it's about his grandfather. And Badi Dadi... she never speaks to him."

"Bhabhi. No one talks about it anymore. Not even Maa. Because we know if we do, he'll punish himself all over again. For something that never was his fault."

"Bhai believes he's the reason Dadaji died."

Rida didn't reply. But something flickered in her eyes - not affection... but a raw kind of empathy that comes from one broken soul recognizing another.

Just then, Shivansh entered quietly. He didn't joke around like usual, didn't bring that boyish charm. Today, his face bore a seriousness unusual for him.

He walked over, sat near them, and looked at Rida, "Take care of my Bhai, Bhabhi. Please. Especially tonight..."

Rida blinked. The word 'Bhabhi' felt too heavy today. She wanted to ask why he said that but instead just gave a soft, questioning look.

Shivansh understood and leaned forward, clasping his hands, "Actually... he lost his bracelet a few months back. It was Dadu's gift to him. He never took it off. Not even once in the past eleven years. And now that it's gone, he's more lost than he lets on."

A lump crawled up her throat in guilt from keeping it from him..

Then shivansh spoke again,"He would probably be at his penthouse."

✨

She sat on her bad, closet door still half-open.

Her eyes were fixed on the bracelet resting in her palm.

His bracelet.

The one he'd lost to her long ago..
Yes... she had found it the day they visited her home..

She had found it- tucked carefully in her drawer but pretended not to find it because he had disrespected her parents kindness like it was an inconvenience.

She had thought of returning the bracelet the very next morning.

But that night, he had tossed her guitar into the pool like it was nothing. The next moment she boarded to Karnataka- in chasing broken strings, chasing something that could be fixed even if it wasn't them.

Now she was waiting.

Because withholding something that means so important to him It felt like tightening a rope around her own throat.

She heard the click of the door.

Her spine stiffened. Her heart skipped. She just clutched the bracelet harder.

He was here.

Minutes passed.
Or seconds. She couldn't tell.

Then... silence.

She finally rose and stepped into the main room.

But it was empty.

Her brows furrowed.

His phone lay on the nightstand-lit briefly by a notification before dimming again. She stared at it. Her gaze flicked to the watch placed beside it. And his tie-still crumpled, tossed on his bed. As if he had come in and discarded the weight of his day without a second thought.

He was here.

But not here.

She frowned, her feet slowly carrying her to the open the door to pool. The air from outside slipped in-cool, sharp, and heavy with the scent of smoke.

She took a hesitant step back. Her eyes wandered, scanning the room with rising unease- until she noticed the terrace door.

Slightly ajar.

She reached the doorframe and paused.

He stood motionless near the edge of the terrace.

One hand buried in his pocket.
The other... raised to his lips.

A slow drag.
A breath not meant for relief, not for addiction... just silence.

He was speaking to the sky in a language only the quiet could understand..

A thin curl of smoke rose from the cigar, burning low between his fingers until he felt the faintest pull of the air behind him.

He didn't exhale.

He just let the smoke linger on his lips, slipping into the night in a slow, silent line-as if even the smoke knew not to make a sound.

He could feel her gaze pressing into his back..

For a moment, she just... watched.
And then it hit her.

He smokes?

She had never seen it. Never even imagined it.
But somehow... it suited him.

That dangerous kind of calm-the sort that didn't ask for attention, but commanded it without effort.

The moment he felt her approaching, his hand came down intentionally lowering the cigar between his fingers.

He just held it loosely by his side keeping it out of her sight.

She came closer & stood a few steps behind him. She stared at his back with a feeling of hurting someone over something she still had.

Her fingers, trembling, brushed against his palm as she lifted his hand gently, her gaze barely meeting his.

His eyes dropped down to her hand then traveled up to her face.

Nervous..

She always gets nervous when she got too close to him.

And then-

✨

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