Covered by…
Anjali took her in—simple churidar , no makeup, a faint scent of sandalwood. But her eyes were sharp. They had seen grief. Anjali knew that look.
Anjali smiled without looking up. “And let the washerman see how you fold? No. Not till you bring home a wife.”
One night, unable to sleep, Anjali sat on the verandah. Vikram found her there.
Over the next few weeks, Sahiti visited often. She helped Anjali in the kitchen, not with fake enthusiasm but with quiet competence. She sang Annamacharya kirtans while cutting vegetables. She never once asked Vikram for his full attention—she gave him space to be a son first.
Anjali cried then. Not from sadness, but from the strange relief of being seen—not as a mother, but as a woman who had once loved, and deserved to be part of a new love too.
“Thinking about your father,” she said, surprising herself.