Page 86 of Scars and Crowns

When she opens them again, she's no longer looking at me. She's looking only at Sara. "Oh, sweetheart . . . " Sara immediately shakes her head. "I'm okay."

"I know why you're saying that."

"No . . . "

"You don't have to feel bad."

"I just . . . " Sara's voice grows very small. "I wanted you to have fun." My chest tightens. Children shouldn't know sacrifice this early. They certainly shouldn't feel responsible for it. Before either of us can say anything else, Maa appears in the doorway.

She pauses only long enough to understand what's happening. Then she walks straight over. "I'll stay." She lowers herself onto the cushions beside Sara as though she'd planned to spend the afternoon there all along.

Anamika looks up immediately. "I don't think—"

"I raised two boys." Maa smiles. "And a palace full of stubborn people." She gently strokes Sara's hair. "I think I can manage one little stomach ache."

"But—" She looks directly at Anamika.

"Go."

"I'll only worry."

"You'll worry whether you're here or at the fair." That earns the smallest reluctant smile. "At least let me give you something else to think about for half an hour."

Anamika still hesitates. Maa reaches over and takes her hand. "So many years," she says softly. "You've carried everything alone."

"Let someone carry one afternoon." The room grows quiet. Sara looks hopefully between the two women. Then, deciding diplomacy has failed often enough, she joins in.

"Mumma . . . " She smiles weakly. "Dadi's here." The word slips out naturally. Without thought. Without effort.

Maa's entire face lights up for just a second before she hides it behind a composed smile. Sara doesn't even notice. "Go." She nudges Anamika's hand. "And bring me something sweet."

That finally earns a laugh. A small one. But a real one. Anamika looks at me. Then back at Sara. Then at Maa. I can almost see the battle happening inside her. Every instinct she's built over years is telling her not to leave. Every instinct she's slowly learning here is asking her to trust.

It's harder than people realise. Learning to accept help. Sometimes it's much harder than surviving without it. Finally . . . She nods. "Half an hour." She looks directly at me. Not at the room. Not at anyone else. Just me. There's trust in that look. Still fragile. Still careful. But real.

"Half an hour," she repeats.

"I promise." I don't hesitate. "We'll be back before then." She kneels one last time in front of Sara, brushing a kiss across her forehead before whispering something only the two of them hear. Sara smiles instantly. Whatever she says is enough.

Anamika stands slowly. She smooths the front of the borrowed kurta with nervous fingers before taking one deep breath. "Okay." The word comes out quietly. " . . . Let's go."

I reach for her hand without thinking. She lets me. As we walk toward the door, I glance back once.

Maa is already halfway through what appears to be an extremely dramatic story involving a monkey, three laddoos and an angry priest.

Sara is laughing. Actually laughing. The hand she'd been pressing against her stomach moments ago is now waving animatedly through the air as she interrupts with questions.

I smile to myself. Sometimes children don't only need medicine. Sometimes they need distraction.

Love.

The certainty that the people they love will come back. I tighten my fingers around Anamika's hand ever so slightly as we step outside into the afternoon sunlight.

Thirty minutes. That's all she'd agreed to. Thirty minutes to remind a woman who's forgotten how that feels . . . that she's allowed to be someone's priority too.

THE FAIR

YUVAAN