I stare at the rumpled sheets, at the faint indentation where he had been lying, and feel something unsettling flutter in my chest.
This marriage was supposed to be simple. Practical. A solution.
So why does it feel like I’ve just stepped onto very thin ice—and I’m not entirely sure I want to get off?
Borrowed Warmth
SITARA
I’m still adjusting to the idea that this place—this palace that smells faintly of incense, old wood, and something warm I can’t name—is supposed to beminenow.
Not owned. Not ruled. Just… held.
I sit in the small sitting area adjoining my room, knees tucked under me, fingers wrapped around a cup of chai that Yagini insisted I drink before I did anything else. The morning light filters in through tall windows, softer here than it was back home, almost kind. Everything feels quieter, slower, like the palace itself is holding its breath, waiting to see what I’ll do next.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Yagini says suddenly, plopping down beside me with the kind of careless confidence only younger sisters have.
I blink at her. “Am I that obvious?”
She grins. “Painfully.”
Before I can retort, the door opens and Rajmata steps in. She’s dressed simply today—no heavy jewellery, no stiff formality—just a light saree and that composed, steady presence that makes you feel like things will be okay even if they’re not.
“Sitara,” she says warmly, and my spine straightens on instinct. Old habits. She notices. Of course she does.
“Rajmata,” I whisper.
“Relax,” she adds gently. “And… call me Maa.”
The word lands somewhere deep in my chest, heavy and strange.
Maa.
I’ve said that word my entire life, but never like this. Never without bracing myself for disappointment. Never without calculating my tone, my posture, my timing.
I swallow. “Maa,” I repeat, softly, testing it like fragile glass.
Her smile widens—not triumphant, not possessive—just… pleased. Like she’s been waiting for that moment, but would’ve accepted it whenever I was ready. Something inside me tightens.
It’s only been a few days. A few days, and she already feels warmer than my own mother ever did.
The thought makes guilt prick at my skin, sharp and uncomfortable. My mother isn’t a monster. She has her issues—deep ones—but she’s trying now. She sends gifts. Calls occasionally. Asks how I’m doing in that careful, distant way people do when they don’t know how to bridge the gap they created.
But the look of disappointment… that never really left her face. Not when I was growing up. Not when I struggled. Not even when I tried my hardest.
She never hugged me when I was at my lowest. Not once. She wasn’t there for me when I needed her, when I wanted her to tell me that I was okay the way I was and that no matter what people said, I wasn’t weak or ugly or…unwanted. But instead of holding me, she became one of the reasons why I started hating myself. I’d even started despising Veeraj and Vihaan bhai-sa because she always had a soft spot for them; while she’d been a good mother to them, she’d always point out flaws in me and Devraj bhai-sa.
I know now thatit isn’t my fault. Years of therapy taught me that. I was a child. Her inability to show warmth, to protect instead of criticize, was never on me. And if she wants reconciliation, it will take more than gifts wrapped in guilt and silence.
“You okay?” Yagini asks, nudging my knee with hers.
I realize my grip on the cup has tightened. I loosen my fingers, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just… adjusting.”
Maa nods, like she understands exactly what I’m not saying. “You don’t have to become anything overnight,” she says. “This house will move at your pace.”
My throat burns.
Yagini claps her hands suddenly. “And just so you know,” she adds dramatically, “I will always support you over my overprotective, annoying, very-perfect brother.”
