As the teacher stepped out, students rushed to pack their bags, the sound of zippers and laughter filling the room. Like everyone else, Sara was focused on stuffing her books into her bag. She wasn't paying attention to the noise around her—her mind was already home, imagining the delicious food her mom had likely cooked for lunch.

Just as Sara zipped up her bag, a soft voice pulled her out of her daydream.

A boy her age stood beside her desk, looking a little uncertain.
"Sara, can you help me?" he asked gently.

Sara looked up and raised her eyebrows ,"Yess... tell me, what is it?" she asked him gently, her voice calm and kind. 

The boy took out his notebook and pointed to the paragraph he couldn't understand.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," he said quickly, "but Saransh had some work and left early, and sir was busy in a teachers' meeting... so I had to ask you. You always answer correctly in class and you—"

He faltered, words trailing off awkwardly.

Sara gently cut in before he could finish.
"It's okay," she said, her voice calm and reassuring. "It's not a big deal. Don't give explanations, pleasee."

She looked at him and smiled softly, her expression warm and understanding.

He looked at her and nodded his head.
"Okay. Thank you so much for the help," he said, his tone sincere.

There was a quiet gratitude in his eyes—he appreciated her kindness, especially since they weren't really friends.

"See, it's actually pretty simple," Sara said, pointing to the line in his notebook.
"We use may when we're unsure whether what we're saying will turn out to be true—or when it's just an assumption. Like the classic example: 'May I go to the washroom, sir?' We're not sure if the teacher will allow it or not, so we use may."

The boy nodded, following along carefully.

""But in the case of can, we're about 70 percent sure that something will happen," she continued. "It shows more confidence or possibility. This whole chapter is about possibility."

She looked up at him and asked gently, "Do you understand now?" 

He pointed to the line she had just explained.
"Yes, I understand," he said, "but how can we be sure when to use may or can in a sentence? That part still confuses me..."

He looked at her, genuinely hoping she could clear up his doubt. 

""You can understand this better if you do more practice questions," Sara said. "I have a reference book my brother gave me. You can borrow it and return it when you're done."

He hesitated for a moment. "But won't you need that book?"

"Oh, that book?" Sara smiled warmly. "I've already finished practicing with it. You can use it."

She grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder. He looked at her in surprise .

"You're a genius, Sara!" he exclaimed, clutching his notebook dramatically.

Sara laughed softly ,"Oh, it's nothing like that. I was just getting bored during summer vacation, so I practiced the questions from that book," she explained gently. 

"Do you have that reference book with you now?" he asked as they walked out of the classroom.

"No, I didn't bring it. The book's at my house," Sara replied.

"Oh no, how can I get it from you? I'll be absent tomorrow, and I need it today because the test is the day after. I'm gonna cry now—mummy maregi mereko," he said, making a dramatic crying face as they descended the stairs to the ground floor.

Sara smiled thoughtfully.
"If you want, you can come to my house and get it," she offered.

"But your house..." he hesitated, looking at her. "I don't know where your house is."

Sara smiled and asked,
"Do you know where the cafe near the school is? My house is just past that."

He nodded slowly, relief washing over his face.
"Oh, okay! That's not too far. I think I can find it." 

"By the way, thank you for your help," he said sincerely. "And if you ever need anything—any help at all—you can come to me anytime."

He handed her a small slip of paper. "This is my number."

Sara took it with a smile. "Thanks. Here, I'll give you mine too."

They exchanged numbers, a small but meaningful step in a new friendship.

"You're like a sister to me, Sara," he said with a gentle smile, lightly patting her head. "If you ever face any problem—at school or outside—just remember, you've got a brother."

Sara blinked in surprise, then let out a soft laugh.
"Hehe... thank you," she said, a little awkwardly. "But... I don't even know your name."

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, "Oh right! I totally forgot to introduce myself." He smiled. "I'm pranav , pranav singh "

Sara repeated his name softly. "Pranav.. nice name."

He grinned. "Thanks."

She laughed, shaking her head. "Welcome bhai, now let's get going before the school gate locks us in."

They walked toward the school gate together, the beginning of a simple, unexpected friendship forming between them.

As they reached the school gate, Pranav glanced at her curiously.
"How are you getting home?" he asked.

Sara shrugged. "I'll walk. It's not too far from here. What about you?"

Pranav smiled and said, "Ohh, my driver will be here to pick me up."
He gazed at her warmly, his hands tucked into his pockets.
"But honestly, walking sounds a lot more peaceful... but my house is a bit too far from here."
He sighed just as his driver approached.

The man, dressed in simple yet crisp attire, gave a small bow before speaking.

"Chote Hukum, Bade Hukum has asked you to come directly to the farmhouse," he said respectfully.
"There's a pooja being held... for Chote Baba and Bahurani's souls to rest in peace."

Pranav's expression shifted. His smile faded, replaced by a quiet seriousness.
He nodded slowly, his voice softer now. "I understand. Tell Bade papa I'll be there."

Sara watched silently, surprised by the sudden weight in his tone.

He turned to her, forcing a small smile. "Looks like duty calls."

Sara tilted her head slightly, concern flickering in her eyes. "Everything okay?"

He hesitated for a second, then gave a short nod. "Yeah... just family stuff."

Without saying more, he stepped into the car. The door closed gently behind him, and the vehicle pulled away—leaving Sara standing at the gate, curiosity and concern stirring in her mind.

Sara then started walking home, her steps slow and thoughtful.
The warm glow of the setting sun bathed the streets in a soft orange hue, and a light breeze played with the ends of her dupatta.

Her mind wandered—not just to Pranav and his sudden change in mood, but to something much more comforting:
What has Mom cooked today? she wondered, her stomach growling slightly.

She imagined the familiar aroma of her mother's cooking drifting through the house—maybe dal tadka, jeera rice, and that mango shake she loved so much. Or maybe something sweeter, like rasgullaa, if her mother was in a good mood.

A small smile crept across her face.

Finally, she reached her house—a modest, two-story home with flowerpots lining the entryway. She pushed open the gate, the metal creaking softly, and called out as she stepped inside.

She looked into the hall, expecting to see her mother, but it was empty.
The TV was off, the cushions a bit scattered—clear signs someone had been here recently.

Frowning slightly, she made her way to her room, unhooking her school bag from her shoulder as she pushed the door open.

There, sprawled across her bed, one leg hanging off the edge and a phone in hand, was her brother.

"Bhaiyaaa!" she groaned. "What are you doing in my room?!"

He looked up lazily, not moving an inch. "Your bed is more comfortable," he said, yawning dramatically. "And my room's too hot."

She rolled her eyes and walked over, tossing a pillow at him. "Ugh, apne room mein jao na! Tumhare room mein bhi toh AC hai. Jaooo!"
She grabbed his wrist and started pulling him.

He caught the pillow with zero urgency and flopped right back down. "Bola toh, tera bed comfortable hai."
He snuggled into the pillow like it was his own.

"Chiiiii!" she snapped, snatching the pillow back. "Mere pillow ko touch mat karo, gandee! Aur jao, mujhe change karna hai."

Kabir, still unfazed, looked at her with a smug grin. "Mere room mein karle. Main nahi jaaunga."
With that, he dramatically flopped back onto the bed like a stubborn child.

Sara narrowed her eyes dangerously. "Do you want me to tell Mom you broke her crockery set last week?"

That got him moving. He sat up quickly. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

With a groan and a muttered, "Chudail," Kabir finally shuffled off the bed and out of the room, phone still in hand.

Sara smirked to herself, finally reclaiming her space. She sank into the bed with a sigh of victory. The familiar scent of home—spices from the kitchen, fabric softener from her blanket, and the faint trace of her brother's shampoo—drifted around her.

Food, comfort, and just the right amount of sibling chaos.

ara glanced at the door for a moment, shaking her head.
"Kaun bolega ye 21 ka hone wala hai... harkate toh bachhon wali hai iski. Gaddha..." she muttered under her breath.

With an annoyed sigh, she picked up her change of clothes, walked to the washroom, and shut the door behind her with a click, locking it firmly.

After freshening up, I made my way to Mataji's room. The door was slightly open, so I peeked inside.

There she was—Mummy, fast asleep, her arm resting gently on her forehead, the folds of her saree slightly crumpled from the day's work.

I walked in quietly and sat down on my knees beside the bed. Reaching out, I gave her a gentle shake.

"Mummy... bhookh lag rahi hai," I whispered, trying not to startle her. "Khaana khila do naa..."

She stirred, blinking slowly, her voice thick with sleep. "Agyi meri laddo , chal aaja ."
Then, with a tired smile, she pushed herself up, her love always stronger than her need for rest.

"Tu baith, main garam karti hoon roti."

I smiled, heart full. There was something about that moment—the simplicity, the warmth, the way home never changed no matter how much the world outside did.

She started heating the food while I sat on the kitchen slab, quietly admiring her and absentmindedly playing with the pallu of her saree.

Looking up at her mother warmly, I began my chatter.
"Mummy, aapko pata hai aaj kya hua?" My eyes lit up as the words tumbled out.

I launched into my usual rant about the day—small annoyances, funny moments, and, of course, what happened with Pranav. Because until I got everything off my chest, I knew I wouldn't be at peace.

Mummy listened patiently, smiling softly as she stirred the pot, her presence calming me in a way only she could.

"Kya hua?" she asked gently, taking out a bottle of mango shake from the refrigerator.

I jumped off the kitchen slab and began following her around like a shadow, continuing my rant as she moved from counter to stove to fridge.

"Aaj meri class mein ek ladke ne mujhse question poocha," I said, my voice animated with the memory.

She looked at me, an amused smile on her face. "Tune help kar di na?"

I nodded proudly. "Haan, maine usko samjha diya... pehle toh voh akward ho rha tha but then uska nature achha  tha."

She chuckled softly, pouring mango shake into a glass. "Achha kiya. Dusron ki help karna achhi baat hoti hai."

Her words, simple and warm, settled something in me. I kept following her, still talking, while she placed the warm chapatis into a casserole.

Everything suddenly felt lighter.

"Aur pata hai, Mummy?" I said, my eyes twinkling with excitement. "Usne mujhe apni behen bhi bulaya... bola ki main uski behen jaisi hoon."
There was something in my voice—half surprise, half joy.

Mummy smiled, handing me the glass of mango shake. "Achha, ye toh bahut acchi baat hai," she said warmly, proud of how naturally I connected with people.

We moved out of the kitchen together, and I began helping her set the dining table—more out of habit than need, but it always made me feel closer to her before dinner.

As I placed the plates, I added, almost casually, "Par Mummy, jab hum school ke bahar jaa rahe the, tab mujhe pata chala... voh royal family se belong karta hai."

Mummy paused, her hand mid-air with the spoon, and looked at me with wide eyes.
"Kya? Sach mein?" she gasped.

I paused only for a breath before launching into more details, my hands gesturing as I spoke.
"Par Mummy, unhone ye bhi bola tha ki pooja 'chhote bete aur bahurani' ke aatma ki shanti ke liye hai... aur jo bade Hukum hain na, unko Pranav 'bade papa' bula raha tha. Aur jo driver uncle the, voh Pranav ko 'chhote Hukum' keh rahe the."

I kept talking, connecting dots aloud without fully realizing what I was saying.

"Toh jo chhote bete aur bahurani... matlab... voh toh Pranav ke—"

I stopped mid-sentence, my voice suddenly catching.
My eyes widened slightly as the meaning hit me like a quiet wave.

The pooja wasn't just some family ritual. It was for his parents.
The chhote beta and bahurani the driver mentioned... they were Pranav's mother and father.

Everything inside me stilled for a second.
His soft smile. The sudden change in his tone. The way he said "just family stuff."
It all made sense now.

Mummy, sensing the shift in me, gently placed a hand on mine.
"Shaant ho ja beta," she said softly. "Kabhi kabhi jo sabse zyada haste hain, wahi sabse zyada dard chhupa ke rakhte hain."

I looked down, nodding slowly, the weight of the moment sinking in.

ON THE OTHER SIDE :- 

"Shaant ho ja, Pranav bacha... kitna roge?" His Badi Maa whispered gently, holding his face in her hands.

"Agar aapki maa ko pata chale ki Pranav, unki aankhon ka tara, apni Badi Mumma ke hote hue bhi rota hai... toh woh apni badi didi se naraz ho jaayegi na?"
Her voice trembled slightly, but she forced a soft smile for him.

"Aap chahte ho kya, ki apki maa apni badi behen se naraz ho jaaye?"

Pranav didn't respond. His eyes, red and swollen, brimmed with unshed tears as his lips quivered. A low sob escaped him as he leaned into her, and she pulled him into a tight, protective hug—one filled with the strength of a woman who had lost her sister and was now trying to hold her sister's world together.

She held him close, her palm gently cradling the back of his head as he cried against her shoulder, silently, brokenly. 

"Badi Mumma..." his voice cracked as his lips wobbled.

And then—he broke.

Tears burst forth like a dam undone, and he collapsed to the floor, knees buckling under the weight of sorrow he'd been carrying for far too long. His shoulders shook violently as he wept—loud, broken sobs echoing in the quiet room.

"Why did they leave me, Badi Mumma?" he choked, looking up at her with desperate, swollen eyes. "Didn't they love their Pranav? Then why did they leave me all alone?"

He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, as if trying to hold together something shattered deep within him.

"Why didn't they take me with them?" he cried out, his voice raw, barely human. "Every day, even when I'm surrounded by people, I still feel... alone. Empty."

He sniffled harshly, gasping between sobs. "I need them, Badi Mumma. I need my Maa... my Baba. Why don't they understand that their Pranav can't live without them?"

He reached out, grasping the edge of her saree like a child again, lost in a world far too cruel for his soft heart.

"Please... bolo na unse. They always listened to you, didn't they? Tell them, Badi Mumma... please... please tell them to come back. I'll be good, I promise. Just bring them back..."

His cries grew quieter but no less painful—hoarse, breathless, like he was pouring out every drop of love and loss he'd locked inside since the day they were taken from him.

Badi Mumma's eyes filled with tears as she knelt beside him. She gathered him into her arms, holding him tightly, protectively—like a mother holds her own child when words fail.

"Mujhe maaf karna, Pranav," she whispered into his hair, her voice trembling with her own ache.
"Aapke Maa aur Baba aapko kabhi chhodke jaana nahi chahte the. Woh aapse bahut pyaar karte the."
She paused, her breath catching as her heart weighed every word.

"Bas... waqt ne zulm kar diya," she said softly, stroking his back. "Varna aap hi batao, kya koi apne praan ko chhod ke jaa sakta hai?"

Pranav clung to her tightly, his body still shaking with the sobs he had buried for years. And still, she held him—not with strength, but with understanding. With the quiet endurance of a woman who knew what it meant to lose a sister, and to raise her sister's son as her own.

She didn't speak again. She didn't need to.

She just let the silence stretch between them, soft and heavy—not to fill the space, but to hold it.

Because some pain doesn't need fixing.
Some grief doesn't need answers.

It only needs to be heard.
And he was finally being heard.

As Pranav wept into Badi Mumma's arms, her soothing voice wrapped around him like a lullaby made of loss and love. The room was still—save for his soft, broken sobs and the rustle of her hand moving gently across his back.

At the doorway, Bade Papa stood silently.

He hadn't meant to overhear. But as he approached, the sound of Pranav's voice—so raw, so fragile—had stopped him in his tracks. Now, he stood rooted to the spot, his hand resting lightly on the doorframe, his eyes heavy with an ache too old and too deep to name.

He didn't say a word.
He couldn't.

Because sometimes, the gravity of grief is heavier than language.
And what he saw—his brother's son collapsed on the floor, mourning like a boy lost in a storm—was too sacred to interrupt.

His throat tightened, and his eyes burned. But he didn't wipe the tears that silently slipped down. He let them fall, like Pranav's, because in that moment, they were no longer Bade Papa and Chhote Hukum—they were just two men, grieving the same people in different ways.

And though the silence held them apart, it also held them together.

He just walked away . 

Badi maa aka shruti manas singh entered in her room after made pranav sleep after an half and hour and saw her husband looking at balcony blankly  attached to their room .

 The night was quiet, but inside him, a storm still churned. He hadn't spoken a word since he saw Pranav break down. Not even when shruti gently closed the door after helping Pranav into bed, his tear-stained face finally calm from exhaustion.

She walked out to the balcony now, a light shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and stood beside him. For a while, neither said anything.

Then, softly, shruti spoke.

"Aaj pehli baar usne apna dard zubaan se nikala hai," she said, her voice tired but tender. "Saalo se sab kuch andar daba ke rakha tha usne... aur hum sab bas dekhte rahe."

Manas didn't look at her. His jaw clenched slightly, his hands folded behind his back like always.

"Main uska baap nahi ban paya," he said, barely above a whisper. "Mujhse nahi ho paya... jitna pyaar usse chahiye tha, main de nahi paya."

She turned to him, her eyes softening. "Kya har zakhm ka marham pyaar ke lafzon se hi lagta hai?" she asked gently. "Kabhi kabhi bas saath dena, khamoshi mein uska dard baant lena bhi kaafi hota hai."

He exhaled, the weight of guilt and helplessness etched deep in his face. "Woh mere bhai ka beta hi nahi mera bhi beta . Mujhse sirf zimmedaari hi nahi usko ek baap ka pyaar bhi dena tha par nahi de paaya"

She placed a hand on his arm, grounding him. "Aur aapne diya , apne tareeke se."

They stood there together in silence, two people stitched together by shared loss, doing their best to keep the pieces of a broken family from falling apart.

The night breeze blew gently through the veranda, and somewhere in the house, the floor creaked softly—perhaps Pranav turning in his sleep.

Manas finally whispered, "Bas itna chahta hoon ki ek din woh mujhse sirf 'bade papa' na kahe... 'papa' keh de."

Shruti looked at him—not with pity, but with hope. "Ek din ayega. Dard ka dariya kabhi na kabhi sukh jaata hai. Bas, use behne do."

And for once, Manas allowed himself to believe it might be true.