The pandit clears his throat, prompting us back to the ritual. Together, we release the grains into the flames. They crackle, flare, and die, the smoke curling upwards as though carrying prayers we haven’t spoken.
I don’t know what she wishes for.
I know what I do: peace. For her. For me. For whatever fragile thing it is we’re building between us.
The chanting resumes, and she leans forward slightly to adjust the plate of offerings. A strand of hair slips free from beneath her dupatta, brushing against her cheek.
Before I can stop myself, my hand moves.
I tuck it back behind her ear, fingers grazing her skin for the briefest moment. She stiffens, her breath catching audibly, and I feel her pulse thrum beneath the delicate shell of her ear.
I shouldn’t. Not here. Not like this. But something in me aches to.
Her eyes lift to mine, startled, and for a heartbeat the world around us fades—the priest’s voice, the clinking of bells, even Maa sa’s presence somewhere behind. It’s just us. Her breath. My hand still lingering too close. The fire crackling like it knows secrets I don’t dare speak.
Then she looks away. The connection breaks, leaving behind a silence louder than the chants.
We continue with the rituals. Camphor burns, filling the room with its sharp, clean scent. The pandit places a thread in my hand, gesturing for me to tie it around Poorvi’s wrist.
Her wrist is delicate, bones fine beneath skin. My fingers brush against her as I secure the knot. She doesn’t look at me. Not once. But her pulse beats fast, insistent, against my touch.
When the rituals end, the aarti begins. We both stand, holding the heavy brass lamp together, our fingers overlapping on the handle. The flames sway as we circle them before the idol, the warmth kissing our faces. Her specs fogging slightly.
I hear her whisper something under her breath. A prayer, perhaps. She doesn’t realize her lips move.
I do. And it unsettles me.
Because in that moment, I want to ask her what she’s asking for. I want to know if it’s freedom. Strength. Or if, in some corner of her guarded heart, it has anything to do with me. And if shecan trust me enough to tell me her wishes, I would fulfill them, even if it costs me everything.
We return the lamp to the pandit. Maa-sa steps forward, blessing us both, pressing her hand gently to Poorvi’s head first. I watch carefully, half-expecting her to falter, to hesitate the way she once did with Bhabhi. But she doesn’t. Her palm lingers longer than I imagined, her voice low as she whispers a blessing I can’t hear.
Poorvi bows slightly, murmuring a soft “Thank you, Rajmata.”
My mother’s lips twitch at the title, but she says nothing, only shifts to bless me next.
The ceremony concludes, and the pandit begins to pack his things. Staff move about quietly, carrying away the plates and flowers.
But my focus remains on her.
She exhales deeply once it’s over, her shoulders relaxing as though some invisible weight has been lifted. I should look away. I don’t.
She turns, catches me watching. For a second, something flickers in her eyes—annoyance? Embarrassment? Or something else entirely?
“What?” she asks, her voice soft but edged, as if she expects criticism.
“Nothing,” I reply, perhaps too quickly.
Her brows lift slightly, unconvinced. She adjusts her dupatta again, her movements sharper now. “You keep looking at me like—” She cuts herself off.
“Like what?” I press.
Her lips press into a line, and she shakes her head. “Forget it.”
But I don’t.
Because the truth is, she’s right. I do keep looking at her.
And I don’t know how to stop.
