She bursts out laughing, fully unrepentant. “What? I didn’t say anything wrong.”
I glance helplessly at Dhruv, who—may the universe curse him gently—is now blushing.
Actually blushing.
Maa-sa notices immediately. “Arre, look at him. Even Dhruv is red.”
“Please,” I mutter, burying my face briefly in my hands. “You’re all conspiring against me.”
“No,” Maa-sa says fondly. “We’re celebrating you.”
She reaches over, squeezing my hand. The warmth of it steadies me, grounds me. “You deserve happiness, beta. Both of you.”
Dhruv’s fingers brush mine under the table, a silent question.
I don’t pull away.
Yagini grins at us like she’s won something. “So,” she says, popping another biscuit into her mouth, “where are you going?”
Dhruv clears his throat. “We haven’t—”
“Anywhere,” I blurt out, surprising myself. “Anywhere is fine.” My hands clamp my mouth.What the hell is wrong with me!
He turns to me, eyes soft, something unspoken passing between us. “Anywhere you want,” he corrects gently, noticing my unease.
My heart does that thing again—stumbles, then settles somewhere warm and certain.
Maa-sa smiles into her tea. “Good,” she says. “Then it’s decided.”
Dhruvtara
DHRUV
6 MONTHS LATER
Birthdays stopped meaning much to me a long time ago.
They turned into dates on a calendar where people shook my hand a little longer than usual, smiled a little wider, said things that sounded rehearsed. Dinners I hosted. Toasts I endured. Obligations wrapped in silk and good intentions.
So when Sitara tells me we’re not doinganyof that today, I don’t argue.
I just follow. Anyways if my wife says something, I usually follow.
We drive out of the palace early, before the sun climbs too high, before the world wakes up properly. She’s unusually quiet, fingers laced together in her lap, lips pressed into a small smile she keeps trying—and failing—to hide. Every few minutes she glances at me, then looks away just as quickly.
Suspicious.
I don’t say anything. I’ve learned that when Sitara plans something, it’s better to let it unfold in its own time, at herown pace. She likes moments the way she likes stories—slow, intentional, meant to be felt rather than rushed through.
We stop near a stretch of land where the city fades into something softer. Trees scattered like they chose this place deliberately. Grass that hasn’t been trimmed into obedience. A small lake catching the morning light like it’s holding onto secrets.
“This,” she announces, stepping out of the car and turning to face me with a satisfied smile, “is perfect.”
I step out too, the air immediately different here—lighter, quieter. When I turn back to her, I forget whatever response I was about to give.
She’s wearing a sundress. Not anything dramatic. No jewelry meant to make statements. Just soft fabric that moves with the breeze, light in color, brushing against her knees. Her hair is loose, falling over her shoulders in the way it always does when she wants to feel free. Comfortable. Herself.
She looks like she belongs to this morning.
