23-10-2025, 02:22 AM
CHAPTER – 68
By evening, the haveli’s quiet was broken by the sound of Danish’s car pulling into the courtyard. He entered the living room, his face etched with concern as he saw Kavya’s red-rimmed eyes. He crossed to her, pulling her into a gentle embrace. “I’m here,” he said softly, his voice steady. “I’ve booked two tickets to Delhi for tomorrow morning. We’ll go see your father, together.” He glanced at Feroz, giving him a nod of gratitude for being there in his absence. Kavya leaned into Danish, her heart heavy but steadied by his presence, the weight of her father’s illness and her mother’s call still pressing on her.
Feroz stepped back, his expression one of quiet support. “I’ll take care of things here,” he said, his voice calm. “You both focus on what you need to do.” The photographs lay scattered on the divan, the storm outside growing louder, its thunder a low rumble that mirrored the uncertainty in Kavya’s heart. The haveli stood as a quiet anchor, holding them in its embrace as Kavya and Danish prepared to face the past in Delhi, the weight of family and choices looming large.
The evening passed in a blur of quiet preparations. Danish sat with Kavya at the dining table, his laptop open as he confirmed the flight details for their early morning departure to Delhi. Kavya watched him, her hands clasped tightly, the weight of the impending trip settling over her. “I booked us on the 7 a.m. flight,” Danish said, his voice steady but gentle as he reached for her hand. “We’ll be at the hospital by noon. You’ll see him, Kavya. We’ll face this together.” His fingers squeezed hers, a quiet promise of support.
Kavya nodded, her throat tight with emotion. “I just… I never thought I’d hear from them again,” she said softly, her voice thick with the pain of years of estrangement. “And now, to know he’s asking for me…” She trailed off, her eyes distant, the photographs on the divan a reminder of the family ties she’d once thought lost.
Feroz, who had been quietly preparing tea in the kitchen, returned with a tray, setting it down on the table. “You’ll need your strength for tomorrow,” he said, his tone warm but unobtrusive, offering a steaming cup to Kavya. She took it, her fingers brushing the cup’s warmth, grateful for his quiet care. The haveli felt like a cocoon, its walls holding them in a moment of shared purpose as they faced the uncertainty ahead.
Outside, the storm began to break, rain pattering softly against the windows, the thunder a distant echo now. Kavya sipped her tea, her heart heavy but bolstered by Danish’s resolve and Feroz’s steady presence. The haveli stood as a quiet anchor, its warmth a contrast to the turmoil within her. As she and Danish prepared to leave for Delhi to confront her past, the weight of her father’s illness and the fragile hope of reconciliation loomed large, a new chapter waiting to unfold.
The next morning, Kavya and Danish arrived at Delhi’s Indira Gandhi International Airport, The flight had been quiet, Kavya’s thoughts swirling with memories of her childhood home and the pain of her parents’ rejection. She wore a simple salwar kameez, her dupatta dbangd carefully over her shoulders, her face pale with exhaustion and worry. Danish walked beside her, carrying their small suitcase, his presence a steady anchor as they navigated the bustling terminal. The familiar chaos of Delhi—taxi drivers calling out, the hum of voices, the faint smell of diesel and street food—hit Kavya like a wave, stirring a mix of nostalgia and dread.
They took a cab to the hospital, the city blurring past in a haze of honking cars and crowded streets. Kavya stared out the window, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, the weight of seeing her father after years of silence pressing down on her. Danish reached for her hand, his touch gentle but firm. “We’re here together,” he said softly, his voice cutting through her anxiety. “Whatever happens, I’m with you.”
The hospital loomed ahead, a stark white building with the antiseptic smell of disinfectant greeting them as they entered. Kavya’s heart pounded as they approached the reception, her mother’s words echoing in her mind—her father’s stroke, his critical condition, his request to see her. The nurse directed them to the ICU, where Kavya’s mother stood waiting, her face etched with exhaustion and grief. The sight of her mother after so long sent a jolt through Kavya, the years of estrangement hanging heavy between them. Her mother’s eyes filled with tears as she saw Kavya, stepping forward hesitantly. “You came,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
Kavya nodded, her throat tight, unable to find words as Danish stood beside her, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. The hospital corridor stretched ahead, cold and clinical, leading to the room where her father lay, a fragile thread of hope and reconciliation pulling her forward amidst the uncertainty of what awaited.
They stood like that for a long moment, crying softly, their embrace a fragile bridge over the chasm of their past. Kavya’s mother pulled back slightly, her hands cupping Kavya’s face, her eyes searching. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice choked with regret. “I never should have let you go.”
Kavya’s throat tightened, words failing her as she nodded, tears still falling. Danish stood quietly nearby, his presence steady but unobtrusive, giving them space. When Kavya’s mother finally noticed him, her eyes widened slightly, a mix of surprise and uncertainty crossing her face. Kavya stepped back, wiping her tears, and turned to Danish. “Ma, this is Danish,” she said softly, her voice steadying. “My husband.”
Danish stepped forward, his expression warm but respectful, offering a small nod. “I’m here for Kavya,” he said gently, his voice calm. “And for you, if you’ll let me.” Kavya’s mother hesitated, her eyes flickering with the weight of past judgments, but then she softened, a tearful smile breaking through. “Thank you,” she said, her voice trembling. “For bringing her.”
The hospital corridor stretched ahead, cold and clinical, leading to the room where Kavya’s father lay. Kavya took a deep breath, her mother’s hand in hers, Danish’s steady presence at her side, the fragile hope of reconciliation pulling her forward amidst the uncertainty of what awaited.
The nurse approached, her expression kind but firm, gesturing toward the ICU door. “You can see him now, but only two at a time, and please keep it brief,” she said. Kavya’s mother took Kavya’s hand, her grip tight, and they stepped through the heavy glass doors into the ICU. The sterile hum of machines filled the air, monitors beeping softly as Kavya’s eyes found her father. He lay in the hospital bed, frail and pale, tubes and wires snaking around him, a shadow of the stern but loving man she remembered. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, and the sight of him—so vulnerable, so changed—tore through Kavya. She couldn’t hold back, tears spilling over as she approached his bedside, her mother beside her, their hands still clasped.
“Papa,” Kavya whispered, her voice breaking, the word a mix of love and pain. She reached out, hesitating, then gently touched his hand, its warmth a fragile reminder of the man who had once carried her on his shoulders. Her mother’s quiet sobs echoed her own, the weight of years of silence and regret filling the small space. Kavya’s tears fell faster, her heart aching with the sight of her father’s frailty, the unresolved pain of their estrangement crashing over her.
The nurse, standing nearby, stepped forward gently. “I’m sorry, we need to keep him stable,” she said softly, her tone compassionate but firm. “You can come back later, but please, let’s step outside for now.” Kavya nodded, her vision blurred with tears, and her mother guided her out, their steps slow, reluctant. Danish was waiting in the corridor, his face softening with concern as he saw Kavya’s tear-streaked face. He opened his arms, and she stepped into his embrace, her mother standing nearby, wiping her own tears. The hospital’s cold, clinical air pressed around them, but the warmth of their shared grief and fragile reconnection held them together, a tentative step toward healing as they faced the uncertainty of her father’s condition.
Danish held Kavya gently, his voice steady as he spoke. “Kavya, you and your mom should go home for a bit. You haven’t rested since we left Hyderabad, and you need to take care of yourself.” He glanced at Kavya’s mother, his expression kind but resolute. “I’ll stay here with your dad, keep an eye on things. You both go, get some rest, and come back when you’re ready.”
Kavya hesitated, her eyes searching his, the weight of leaving her father tugging at her heart. But she saw the exhaustion in her mother’s face, the strain of days spent at the hospital, and nodded slowly. “Okay,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “But you’ll call me if anything changes?”
“Of course,” Danish said, squeezing her hand. “I’m here. Go with your mom.” He gave her mother a reassuring nod, his presence a quiet anchor in the sterile hospital corridor.
Kavya’s mother took her hand, her grip warm but trembling, and they left the hospital together, stepping into the late afternoon light of Delhi. The cab ride to her childhood home was quiet, the city’s familiar streets passing in a blur—bustling markets, honking rickshaws, the faint scent of roasted corn from street vendors. Kavya stared out the window, her heart heavy with the image of her father in the ICU, the fragile reconnection with her mother a bittersweet comfort. Her mother sat beside her, her silence heavy with unspoken words, her hand still holding Kavya’s tightly.
They arrived at the modest house in a quiet Delhi neighborhood, its faded yellow walls and small garden a flood of memories for Kavya. The front door creaked as her mother pushed it open, revealing a home that felt both achingly familiar and strangely distant. The living room was unchanged—same floral curtains, same old sofa, the faint scent of turmeric and her mother’s sandalwood soap lingering in the air. Kavya’s mother gestured toward the kitchen. “Let me make you some tea,” she said softly, her voice still raw from crying. Kavya nodded, sinking onto the sofa, her body heavy with exhaustion and emotion.
As her mother busied herself in the kitchen, Kavya’s eyes wandered to the framed photos on the wall—her childhood, her parents’ smiles, a life before the rift that had torn them apart. The weight of her father’s condition, the hospital, and the years of silence pressed down on her, but the warmth of her mother’s presence, tentative and new, offered a glimmer of hope. The clink of teacups from the kitchen pulled her back, and she took a deep breath, preparing to navigate this fragile reunion in the home she’d once thought she’d never see again.
Kavya’s mother returned with a tray, two steaming cups of chai filling the air with the comforting aroma of cardamom and ginger. She set the tray on the small table and sat beside Kavya, her hands trembling slightly as she handed her a cup. The silence between them was heavy, but softer now, the shared grief of the hospital loosening the years of distance. Her mother took a deep breath, her eyes searching Kavya’s face. “Kavya,” she began, her voice tentative, “is Danish… is he good to you? Does he take care of you?”
Kavya’s throat tightened, the question stirring a mix of warmth and lingering pain. She nodded, clutching the warm cup in her hands. “He’s wonderful, Ma,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the emotion. “He’s been my rock, always there, even with his work keeping him so busy. He loves me, and he’s here for me now, for this.” Her eyes glistened, thinking of Danish’s quiet strength in the hospital, his willingness to stand by her side despite her parents’ past rejection.
Her mother’s eyes softened, a tear slipping down her cheek as she listened. “When you married him,” she said, her voice breaking, “we were so angry, so caught up in tradition, in what we thought was right. Your father… he was heartbroken, but too proud to admit it. I was scared for you, Kavya, worried you’d be alone, that he wouldn’t understand you, your roots. We were wrong to push you away.” She paused, her hands trembling around her cup. “Seeing Danish today, the way he stood by you, so calm, so kind… he seems like a decent man. A good man. I can see why you chose him.”
Kavya’s heart ached, the words a balm to the wound of her parents’ rejection, yet tinged with the pain of lost years. “I wish you’d seen that then,” she whispered, her voice thick. “But I understand… I know it wasn’t easy for you either.” She reached out, her hand covering her mother’s, the touch tentative but warm, a small bridge across the chasm of their past.
Her mother squeezed her hand, tears falling freely now. “I’ve missed you every day,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Your father did too, even if he couldn’t say it. Seeing you now, knowing you’re happy with Danish… it means more than I can say.” The room was quiet, the only sound the soft clink of their cups and the distant hum of Delhi’s evening traffic. The weight of her father’s condition lingered, but in that moment, the fragile reconnection with her mother offered a flicker of hope, a chance to heal old wounds as they sat together in the home that had once been Kavya’s whole world.
By evening, the haveli’s quiet was broken by the sound of Danish’s car pulling into the courtyard. He entered the living room, his face etched with concern as he saw Kavya’s red-rimmed eyes. He crossed to her, pulling her into a gentle embrace. “I’m here,” he said softly, his voice steady. “I’ve booked two tickets to Delhi for tomorrow morning. We’ll go see your father, together.” He glanced at Feroz, giving him a nod of gratitude for being there in his absence. Kavya leaned into Danish, her heart heavy but steadied by his presence, the weight of her father’s illness and her mother’s call still pressing on her.
Feroz stepped back, his expression one of quiet support. “I’ll take care of things here,” he said, his voice calm. “You both focus on what you need to do.” The photographs lay scattered on the divan, the storm outside growing louder, its thunder a low rumble that mirrored the uncertainty in Kavya’s heart. The haveli stood as a quiet anchor, holding them in its embrace as Kavya and Danish prepared to face the past in Delhi, the weight of family and choices looming large.
The evening passed in a blur of quiet preparations. Danish sat with Kavya at the dining table, his laptop open as he confirmed the flight details for their early morning departure to Delhi. Kavya watched him, her hands clasped tightly, the weight of the impending trip settling over her. “I booked us on the 7 a.m. flight,” Danish said, his voice steady but gentle as he reached for her hand. “We’ll be at the hospital by noon. You’ll see him, Kavya. We’ll face this together.” His fingers squeezed hers, a quiet promise of support.
Kavya nodded, her throat tight with emotion. “I just… I never thought I’d hear from them again,” she said softly, her voice thick with the pain of years of estrangement. “And now, to know he’s asking for me…” She trailed off, her eyes distant, the photographs on the divan a reminder of the family ties she’d once thought lost.
Feroz, who had been quietly preparing tea in the kitchen, returned with a tray, setting it down on the table. “You’ll need your strength for tomorrow,” he said, his tone warm but unobtrusive, offering a steaming cup to Kavya. She took it, her fingers brushing the cup’s warmth, grateful for his quiet care. The haveli felt like a cocoon, its walls holding them in a moment of shared purpose as they faced the uncertainty ahead.
Outside, the storm began to break, rain pattering softly against the windows, the thunder a distant echo now. Kavya sipped her tea, her heart heavy but bolstered by Danish’s resolve and Feroz’s steady presence. The haveli stood as a quiet anchor, its warmth a contrast to the turmoil within her. As she and Danish prepared to leave for Delhi to confront her past, the weight of her father’s illness and the fragile hope of reconciliation loomed large, a new chapter waiting to unfold.
The next morning, Kavya and Danish arrived at Delhi’s Indira Gandhi International Airport, The flight had been quiet, Kavya’s thoughts swirling with memories of her childhood home and the pain of her parents’ rejection. She wore a simple salwar kameez, her dupatta dbangd carefully over her shoulders, her face pale with exhaustion and worry. Danish walked beside her, carrying their small suitcase, his presence a steady anchor as they navigated the bustling terminal. The familiar chaos of Delhi—taxi drivers calling out, the hum of voices, the faint smell of diesel and street food—hit Kavya like a wave, stirring a mix of nostalgia and dread.
They took a cab to the hospital, the city blurring past in a haze of honking cars and crowded streets. Kavya stared out the window, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, the weight of seeing her father after years of silence pressing down on her. Danish reached for her hand, his touch gentle but firm. “We’re here together,” he said softly, his voice cutting through her anxiety. “Whatever happens, I’m with you.”
The hospital loomed ahead, a stark white building with the antiseptic smell of disinfectant greeting them as they entered. Kavya’s heart pounded as they approached the reception, her mother’s words echoing in her mind—her father’s stroke, his critical condition, his request to see her. The nurse directed them to the ICU, where Kavya’s mother stood waiting, her face etched with exhaustion and grief. The sight of her mother after so long sent a jolt through Kavya, the years of estrangement hanging heavy between them. Her mother’s eyes filled with tears as she saw Kavya, stepping forward hesitantly. “You came,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
Kavya nodded, her throat tight, unable to find words as Danish stood beside her, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. The hospital corridor stretched ahead, cold and clinical, leading to the room where her father lay, a fragile thread of hope and reconciliation pulling her forward amidst the uncertainty of what awaited.
They stood like that for a long moment, crying softly, their embrace a fragile bridge over the chasm of their past. Kavya’s mother pulled back slightly, her hands cupping Kavya’s face, her eyes searching. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice choked with regret. “I never should have let you go.”
Kavya’s throat tightened, words failing her as she nodded, tears still falling. Danish stood quietly nearby, his presence steady but unobtrusive, giving them space. When Kavya’s mother finally noticed him, her eyes widened slightly, a mix of surprise and uncertainty crossing her face. Kavya stepped back, wiping her tears, and turned to Danish. “Ma, this is Danish,” she said softly, her voice steadying. “My husband.”
Danish stepped forward, his expression warm but respectful, offering a small nod. “I’m here for Kavya,” he said gently, his voice calm. “And for you, if you’ll let me.” Kavya’s mother hesitated, her eyes flickering with the weight of past judgments, but then she softened, a tearful smile breaking through. “Thank you,” she said, her voice trembling. “For bringing her.”
The hospital corridor stretched ahead, cold and clinical, leading to the room where Kavya’s father lay. Kavya took a deep breath, her mother’s hand in hers, Danish’s steady presence at her side, the fragile hope of reconciliation pulling her forward amidst the uncertainty of what awaited.
The nurse approached, her expression kind but firm, gesturing toward the ICU door. “You can see him now, but only two at a time, and please keep it brief,” she said. Kavya’s mother took Kavya’s hand, her grip tight, and they stepped through the heavy glass doors into the ICU. The sterile hum of machines filled the air, monitors beeping softly as Kavya’s eyes found her father. He lay in the hospital bed, frail and pale, tubes and wires snaking around him, a shadow of the stern but loving man she remembered. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, and the sight of him—so vulnerable, so changed—tore through Kavya. She couldn’t hold back, tears spilling over as she approached his bedside, her mother beside her, their hands still clasped.
“Papa,” Kavya whispered, her voice breaking, the word a mix of love and pain. She reached out, hesitating, then gently touched his hand, its warmth a fragile reminder of the man who had once carried her on his shoulders. Her mother’s quiet sobs echoed her own, the weight of years of silence and regret filling the small space. Kavya’s tears fell faster, her heart aching with the sight of her father’s frailty, the unresolved pain of their estrangement crashing over her.
The nurse, standing nearby, stepped forward gently. “I’m sorry, we need to keep him stable,” she said softly, her tone compassionate but firm. “You can come back later, but please, let’s step outside for now.” Kavya nodded, her vision blurred with tears, and her mother guided her out, their steps slow, reluctant. Danish was waiting in the corridor, his face softening with concern as he saw Kavya’s tear-streaked face. He opened his arms, and she stepped into his embrace, her mother standing nearby, wiping her own tears. The hospital’s cold, clinical air pressed around them, but the warmth of their shared grief and fragile reconnection held them together, a tentative step toward healing as they faced the uncertainty of her father’s condition.
Danish held Kavya gently, his voice steady as he spoke. “Kavya, you and your mom should go home for a bit. You haven’t rested since we left Hyderabad, and you need to take care of yourself.” He glanced at Kavya’s mother, his expression kind but resolute. “I’ll stay here with your dad, keep an eye on things. You both go, get some rest, and come back when you’re ready.”
Kavya hesitated, her eyes searching his, the weight of leaving her father tugging at her heart. But she saw the exhaustion in her mother’s face, the strain of days spent at the hospital, and nodded slowly. “Okay,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “But you’ll call me if anything changes?”
“Of course,” Danish said, squeezing her hand. “I’m here. Go with your mom.” He gave her mother a reassuring nod, his presence a quiet anchor in the sterile hospital corridor.
Kavya’s mother took her hand, her grip warm but trembling, and they left the hospital together, stepping into the late afternoon light of Delhi. The cab ride to her childhood home was quiet, the city’s familiar streets passing in a blur—bustling markets, honking rickshaws, the faint scent of roasted corn from street vendors. Kavya stared out the window, her heart heavy with the image of her father in the ICU, the fragile reconnection with her mother a bittersweet comfort. Her mother sat beside her, her silence heavy with unspoken words, her hand still holding Kavya’s tightly.
They arrived at the modest house in a quiet Delhi neighborhood, its faded yellow walls and small garden a flood of memories for Kavya. The front door creaked as her mother pushed it open, revealing a home that felt both achingly familiar and strangely distant. The living room was unchanged—same floral curtains, same old sofa, the faint scent of turmeric and her mother’s sandalwood soap lingering in the air. Kavya’s mother gestured toward the kitchen. “Let me make you some tea,” she said softly, her voice still raw from crying. Kavya nodded, sinking onto the sofa, her body heavy with exhaustion and emotion.
As her mother busied herself in the kitchen, Kavya’s eyes wandered to the framed photos on the wall—her childhood, her parents’ smiles, a life before the rift that had torn them apart. The weight of her father’s condition, the hospital, and the years of silence pressed down on her, but the warmth of her mother’s presence, tentative and new, offered a glimmer of hope. The clink of teacups from the kitchen pulled her back, and she took a deep breath, preparing to navigate this fragile reunion in the home she’d once thought she’d never see again.
Kavya’s mother returned with a tray, two steaming cups of chai filling the air with the comforting aroma of cardamom and ginger. She set the tray on the small table and sat beside Kavya, her hands trembling slightly as she handed her a cup. The silence between them was heavy, but softer now, the shared grief of the hospital loosening the years of distance. Her mother took a deep breath, her eyes searching Kavya’s face. “Kavya,” she began, her voice tentative, “is Danish… is he good to you? Does he take care of you?”
Kavya’s throat tightened, the question stirring a mix of warmth and lingering pain. She nodded, clutching the warm cup in her hands. “He’s wonderful, Ma,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the emotion. “He’s been my rock, always there, even with his work keeping him so busy. He loves me, and he’s here for me now, for this.” Her eyes glistened, thinking of Danish’s quiet strength in the hospital, his willingness to stand by her side despite her parents’ past rejection.
Her mother’s eyes softened, a tear slipping down her cheek as she listened. “When you married him,” she said, her voice breaking, “we were so angry, so caught up in tradition, in what we thought was right. Your father… he was heartbroken, but too proud to admit it. I was scared for you, Kavya, worried you’d be alone, that he wouldn’t understand you, your roots. We were wrong to push you away.” She paused, her hands trembling around her cup. “Seeing Danish today, the way he stood by you, so calm, so kind… he seems like a decent man. A good man. I can see why you chose him.”
Kavya’s heart ached, the words a balm to the wound of her parents’ rejection, yet tinged with the pain of lost years. “I wish you’d seen that then,” she whispered, her voice thick. “But I understand… I know it wasn’t easy for you either.” She reached out, her hand covering her mother’s, the touch tentative but warm, a small bridge across the chasm of their past.
Her mother squeezed her hand, tears falling freely now. “I’ve missed you every day,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Your father did too, even if he couldn’t say it. Seeing you now, knowing you’re happy with Danish… it means more than I can say.” The room was quiet, the only sound the soft clink of their cups and the distant hum of Delhi’s evening traffic. The weight of her father’s condition lingered, but in that moment, the fragile reconnection with her mother offered a flicker of hope, a chance to heal old wounds as they sat together in the home that had once been Kavya’s whole world.
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