23-07-2026, 09:30 PM
Chapter 5 – A Change in the Way She Lived
Nearly six months had passed since the funeral.
Life had never returned to what it had once been, but it had slowly settled into a rhythm that no longer felt unfamiliar. The sadness inside Abhi's house was still there, woven quietly into everyday life, yet it no longer silenced every conversation. Work had resumed, the fields demanded attention again, children returned to college, and festivals quietly found their way back into the calendar.
Grief hadn't disappeared.
It had simply learned to live beside everyone else.
My Sunday visits had become a part of that rhythm.
No one called anymore.
I simply arrived.
One Sunday morning, as I parked my bike outside the gate, Abhi looked up from the courtyard.
"I was beginning to think you'd skipped this week."
I laughed.
"You'd complain if I did."
"Obviously."
Before either of us could say anything else, a familiar voice came from inside.
"Tea is almost ready."
It was Pooja.
There was no formal greeting anymore.
No hesitation.
She had simply assumed I would be there.
That simple assumption stayed with me longer than I expected.
A moment later she walked into the courtyard carrying a tray.
For the first time since the funeral...
something looked different.
She was wearing a light blue printed salwar instead of the plain, faded colours she had worn for months. It wasn't expensive or fashionable. Just a simple cotton outfit with tiny floral prints.
Yet the colour itself seemed enough to brighten the courtyard.
Her mother noticed me looking.
"I finally convinced her."
Pooja looked embarrassed.
"Aai wouldn't stop insisting."
Her mother smiled.
"I told her enough was enough. Life doesn't stop because colours disappear from your wardrobe."
Pooja simply shook her head.
"I only wore it because she wouldn't let me leave the house otherwise."
Everyone laughed softly.
I didn't say anything.
Some victories deserved silence.
Over the following weeks...
the changes continued.
The colourful salwars appeared more often.
A soft pink one.
A pale green one.
A cream kurta with small blue flowers.
Nothing flashy.
Nothing that drew attention.
Just enough colour to remind everyone that she was slowly allowing herself to live again.
A few Sundays later I noticed another small difference.
Instead of the loose churidars she had always worn after the funeral, she had paired her kurta with simple black leggings.
They were modest and comfortable, yet they gave her movements the confidence she had slowly begun to recover.
She caught me noticing.
"They're easier while working around the house," she explained.
Her mother immediately smiled.
"I told her that too."
Pooja rolled her eyes.
"Aai has an opinion about everything."
"I do."
Abhi laughed.
"She's not wrong."
The changes didn't stop with her clothes.
Earlier...
she answered questions.
Now...
she asked them.
One afternoon, while Abhi repaired the water pump outside, she walked into the veranda carrying two cups of tea.
"How's work going?"
"Busy."
"Still working late?"
"Most days."
She nodded thoughtfully.
"And your son?"
"He started college."
"So soon?"
"He already thinks he's the principal."
She laughed.
"I can imagine."
We spoke about colleges.
Traffic.
The rains.
Village roads.
Electricity cuts.
Cricket.
The rising price of vegetables.
By the time Abhi returned wiping grease from his hands, almost twenty minutes had passed.
I suddenly realised...
we had probably spoken more that afternoon than we had during the previous eighteen years.
Another Sunday arrived with heavy rain.
The electricity disappeared shortly after lunch.
Abhi and his father hurried outside to cover the farming equipment.
His mother disappeared into the kitchen.
That left only the two of us sitting on the veranda while rain fell steadily beyond the courtyard.
She handed me a cup of tea.
"I think the roads are finally going to disappear this year."
"They've been trying for years."
"So what's your solution?"
"Buy a tractor."
She smiled.
"Instead of your bike?"
"It'll probably be faster."
"I'll tell Abhi."
"He'll actually do it."
She laughed.
The conversation drifted from one ordinary topic to another.
Children.
colleges.
Monsoon.
Village gossip.
Nothing important.
Yet for the first time...
the silence between those conversations didn't feel awkward.
It felt comfortable.
One afternoon her daughter came running into the hall carrying a drawing book.
"Uncle!"
"What happened now?"
"I made drawing!"
She proudly opened the page.
"This is Mama."
She pointed at a smiling stick figure.
"This is Uncle."
Then another.
"And this is Mamma."
At the bottom of the page...
three colourful figures stood together holding hands while a little girl smiled beside them beneath an oversized yellow sun.
The room became quiet.
Abhi looked at the picture and smiled.
"I think your Uncle has become part of every drawing."
She nodded confidently.
"Because he comes every Sunday."
Everyone smiled.
Nobody thought anything more of it.
Children measured love differently.
To them...
it simply meant someone who kept coming back.
As the months passed...
small pieces of the old Pooja quietly returned.
She no longer tied her hair into the hurried knot she had worn for months.
Some Sundays it was neatly braided.
Sometimes she left it open until the afternoon before tying it back while working.
The tiredness beneath her eyes had begun to fade.
One weekend she appeared wearing a simple peach-coloured kurti with dark blue jeans while helping her daughter get ready to visit a nearby fair.
Nothing about it felt unusual.
It wasn't fashionable.
It wasn't glamorous.
It was simply practical.
Comfortable.
Normal.
Her mother looked at her approvingly.
"There..."
"Now you finally look your age again."
Pooja smiled shyly.
"It's only jeans, Aai."
"Exactly."
Abhi laughed.
"I was beginning to think you'd forgotten they existed."
She picked up a cushion and threw it at him.
"You talk too much."
For the first time in months...
the house echoed with the sound of everyone laughing together.
One afternoon Abhi misplaced his motorcycle keys.
"I know I left them here."
Pooja folded her arms.
"You've said that every time you've lost them."
"They were definitely on the table."
She reached into his shirt pocket.
"You mean these?"
Abhi stared.
"I've been looking for them for fifteen minutes."
She handed them over.
"Maybe next time start with your own pocket."
Everyone burst into laughter.
Abhi shook his head.
"There she is."
She looked confused.
"Who?"
"My sister."
For just a moment...
she smiled exactly the way she used to years ago.
This time...
the smile stayed.
A few Sundays later everyone was busy, so I volunteered to make tea.
Five minutes later...
the kitchen smelled suspiciously burnt.
Pooja hurried inside.
"What happened?"
"I think the tea resigned."
She looked at the saucepan before trying very hard not to laugh.
"You really shouldn't quit engineering."
"Good."
I sighed dramatically.
"Cooking clearly isn't my backup career."
This time she couldn't stop laughing.
Even Abhi shouted from outside,
"What did you burn now?"
"Only the tea."
"Then we're safe."
As the seasons changed, another habit quietly formed.
If I arrived early...
she would already have tea prepared.
If I was delayed...
someone always noticed.
One Sunday work kept me nearly two hours late.
When I finally walked through the gate, she looked up from the veranda.
"We thought you weren't coming."
"Office."
She nodded.
"Your tea got cold."
"I'll drink it anyway."
She picked up the kettle.
"No."
"I'll make another."
It was such a small exchange that no one else paid attention to it.
But I did.
Someone had begun expecting me.
By the time winter arrived, I realised something had quietly changed between us.
We no longer searched for things to talk about.
The conversations happened naturally.
Sometimes we discussed work.
Sometimes our children.
Sometimes nothing more meaningful than the weather.
And sometimes...
we simply sat together while everyone else moved around the house.
The silence no longer demanded words.
It had become familiar.
As I rode home that evening, I found myself smiling without knowing why.
Somewhere along the way, my Sunday visits had stopped feeling like an obligation.
They had become something I looked forward to.
And although neither of us ever spoke about it...
I had begun to suspect...
I wasn't the only one.
Looking back now...
I often wonder which moment changed everything.
Was it the first smile she didn't hide?
The first cup of tea she made only because she knew I was coming?
Or was it the day I caught myself noticing not just the woman she had been...
but the woman she was slowly becoming?
At the time, I called it friendship.
Life would eventually teach me that some friendships have a habit of crossing lines neither heart ever intended to draw.
Nearly six months had passed since the funeral.
Life had never returned to what it had once been, but it had slowly settled into a rhythm that no longer felt unfamiliar. The sadness inside Abhi's house was still there, woven quietly into everyday life, yet it no longer silenced every conversation. Work had resumed, the fields demanded attention again, children returned to college, and festivals quietly found their way back into the calendar.
Grief hadn't disappeared.
It had simply learned to live beside everyone else.
My Sunday visits had become a part of that rhythm.
No one called anymore.
I simply arrived.
One Sunday morning, as I parked my bike outside the gate, Abhi looked up from the courtyard.
"I was beginning to think you'd skipped this week."
I laughed.
"You'd complain if I did."
"Obviously."
Before either of us could say anything else, a familiar voice came from inside.
"Tea is almost ready."
It was Pooja.
There was no formal greeting anymore.
No hesitation.
She had simply assumed I would be there.
That simple assumption stayed with me longer than I expected.
A moment later she walked into the courtyard carrying a tray.
For the first time since the funeral...
something looked different.
She was wearing a light blue printed salwar instead of the plain, faded colours she had worn for months. It wasn't expensive or fashionable. Just a simple cotton outfit with tiny floral prints.
Yet the colour itself seemed enough to brighten the courtyard.
Her mother noticed me looking.
"I finally convinced her."
Pooja looked embarrassed.
"Aai wouldn't stop insisting."
Her mother smiled.
"I told her enough was enough. Life doesn't stop because colours disappear from your wardrobe."
Pooja simply shook her head.
"I only wore it because she wouldn't let me leave the house otherwise."
Everyone laughed softly.
I didn't say anything.
Some victories deserved silence.
Over the following weeks...
the changes continued.
The colourful salwars appeared more often.
A soft pink one.
A pale green one.
A cream kurta with small blue flowers.
Nothing flashy.
Nothing that drew attention.
Just enough colour to remind everyone that she was slowly allowing herself to live again.
A few Sundays later I noticed another small difference.
Instead of the loose churidars she had always worn after the funeral, she had paired her kurta with simple black leggings.
They were modest and comfortable, yet they gave her movements the confidence she had slowly begun to recover.
She caught me noticing.
"They're easier while working around the house," she explained.
Her mother immediately smiled.
"I told her that too."
Pooja rolled her eyes.
"Aai has an opinion about everything."
"I do."
Abhi laughed.
"She's not wrong."
The changes didn't stop with her clothes.
Earlier...
she answered questions.
Now...
she asked them.
One afternoon, while Abhi repaired the water pump outside, she walked into the veranda carrying two cups of tea.
"How's work going?"
"Busy."
"Still working late?"
"Most days."
She nodded thoughtfully.
"And your son?"
"He started college."
"So soon?"
"He already thinks he's the principal."
She laughed.
"I can imagine."
We spoke about colleges.
Traffic.
The rains.
Village roads.
Electricity cuts.
Cricket.
The rising price of vegetables.
By the time Abhi returned wiping grease from his hands, almost twenty minutes had passed.
I suddenly realised...
we had probably spoken more that afternoon than we had during the previous eighteen years.
Another Sunday arrived with heavy rain.
The electricity disappeared shortly after lunch.
Abhi and his father hurried outside to cover the farming equipment.
His mother disappeared into the kitchen.
That left only the two of us sitting on the veranda while rain fell steadily beyond the courtyard.
She handed me a cup of tea.
"I think the roads are finally going to disappear this year."
"They've been trying for years."
"So what's your solution?"
"Buy a tractor."
She smiled.
"Instead of your bike?"
"It'll probably be faster."
"I'll tell Abhi."
"He'll actually do it."
She laughed.
The conversation drifted from one ordinary topic to another.
Children.
colleges.
Monsoon.
Village gossip.
Nothing important.
Yet for the first time...
the silence between those conversations didn't feel awkward.
It felt comfortable.
One afternoon her daughter came running into the hall carrying a drawing book.
"Uncle!"
"What happened now?"
"I made drawing!"
She proudly opened the page.
"This is Mama."
She pointed at a smiling stick figure.
"This is Uncle."
Then another.
"And this is Mamma."
At the bottom of the page...
three colourful figures stood together holding hands while a little girl smiled beside them beneath an oversized yellow sun.
The room became quiet.
Abhi looked at the picture and smiled.
"I think your Uncle has become part of every drawing."
She nodded confidently.
"Because he comes every Sunday."
Everyone smiled.
Nobody thought anything more of it.
Children measured love differently.
To them...
it simply meant someone who kept coming back.
As the months passed...
small pieces of the old Pooja quietly returned.
She no longer tied her hair into the hurried knot she had worn for months.
Some Sundays it was neatly braided.
Sometimes she left it open until the afternoon before tying it back while working.
The tiredness beneath her eyes had begun to fade.
One weekend she appeared wearing a simple peach-coloured kurti with dark blue jeans while helping her daughter get ready to visit a nearby fair.
Nothing about it felt unusual.
It wasn't fashionable.
It wasn't glamorous.
It was simply practical.
Comfortable.
Normal.
Her mother looked at her approvingly.
"There..."
"Now you finally look your age again."
Pooja smiled shyly.
"It's only jeans, Aai."
"Exactly."
Abhi laughed.
"I was beginning to think you'd forgotten they existed."
She picked up a cushion and threw it at him.
"You talk too much."
For the first time in months...
the house echoed with the sound of everyone laughing together.
One afternoon Abhi misplaced his motorcycle keys.
"I know I left them here."
Pooja folded her arms.
"You've said that every time you've lost them."
"They were definitely on the table."
She reached into his shirt pocket.
"You mean these?"
Abhi stared.
"I've been looking for them for fifteen minutes."
She handed them over.
"Maybe next time start with your own pocket."
Everyone burst into laughter.
Abhi shook his head.
"There she is."
She looked confused.
"Who?"
"My sister."
For just a moment...
she smiled exactly the way she used to years ago.
This time...
the smile stayed.
A few Sundays later everyone was busy, so I volunteered to make tea.
Five minutes later...
the kitchen smelled suspiciously burnt.
Pooja hurried inside.
"What happened?"
"I think the tea resigned."
She looked at the saucepan before trying very hard not to laugh.
"You really shouldn't quit engineering."
"Good."
I sighed dramatically.
"Cooking clearly isn't my backup career."
This time she couldn't stop laughing.
Even Abhi shouted from outside,
"What did you burn now?"
"Only the tea."
"Then we're safe."
As the seasons changed, another habit quietly formed.
If I arrived early...
she would already have tea prepared.
If I was delayed...
someone always noticed.
One Sunday work kept me nearly two hours late.
When I finally walked through the gate, she looked up from the veranda.
"We thought you weren't coming."
"Office."
She nodded.
"Your tea got cold."
"I'll drink it anyway."
She picked up the kettle.
"No."
"I'll make another."
It was such a small exchange that no one else paid attention to it.
But I did.
Someone had begun expecting me.
By the time winter arrived, I realised something had quietly changed between us.
We no longer searched for things to talk about.
The conversations happened naturally.
Sometimes we discussed work.
Sometimes our children.
Sometimes nothing more meaningful than the weather.
And sometimes...
we simply sat together while everyone else moved around the house.
The silence no longer demanded words.
It had become familiar.
As I rode home that evening, I found myself smiling without knowing why.
Somewhere along the way, my Sunday visits had stopped feeling like an obligation.
They had become something I looked forward to.
And although neither of us ever spoke about it...
I had begun to suspect...
I wasn't the only one.
Looking back now...
I often wonder which moment changed everything.
Was it the first smile she didn't hide?
The first cup of tea she made only because she knew I was coming?
Or was it the day I caught myself noticing not just the woman she had been...
but the woman she was slowly becoming?
At the time, I called it friendship.
Life would eventually teach me that some friendships have a habit of crossing lines neither heart ever intended to draw.
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