Samaira’s pov
 
For the first time, my grandmother’s words feel as sweet as any dessert, melting softly in my heart rather than sitting heavy on my chest. I smile to myself, relieved that I have nothing to defend or complain about, nothing sharp weighing down the moment. For once, I can simply breathe and relax.
Before I can linger too long in that warmth, my elder sister’s voice rings out, clear and commanding, summoning us to the dining table. “It’s almost one,” she reminds us. Chairs scrape against the polished floor as everyone rises, the quiet chatter of the hall shifting into a stream of footsteps and laughter making its way to the dining room.
I follow along, my pace unhurried, taking in the familiar sight of family gathering, the gentle hum of anticipation before a shared meal. The maids step forward with practiced grace, setting down platters that send up curls of steam and the unmistakable aroma of comfort. As expected, the spread is made up of all his favorite dishes.
Once, that might have stirred a flicker of irritation in me—an old habit of tallying whose preferences mattered most. But today, I surprise myself. I don’t mind. I’m completely fine with it now. Maybe it’s because my heart still carries the sweetness of Grandmother’s words. Or maybe it’s because peace, once tasted, lingers longer than any flavor on the tongue.
While the maids carefully served dish after dish, I couldn’t help but notice how quickly Father and Surya slipped into their world of business talks. Numbers, markets, contracts—their voices rose and fell in a rhythm that felt almost foreign to me. I nodded politely, pretending to listen for a while, though most of it passed right over my head. Their conversation belonged to another realm, one I had no entry to, and I was perfectly fine with that.
Soon enough, the plates were filled, and the moment I’d been waiting for arrived. I picked up my spoon and reached for the kadi chawal. Just the aroma itself made me smile—it was, without question, my favorite. The first bite carried all the comfort in the world, tangy and warm, soft rice sinking into the rich, golden curry.
They say no matter what a person achieves in life, no matter how high his status climbs, the food made by his mother’s hands will always remain his truest comfort. And I am no exception. Each mouthful reminded me of that simple truth, grounding me in a way no grand conversation or luxury ever could.
For a while, the table dissolved into the clinking of spoons, the hum of quiet satisfaction, and the kind of silence that only good food can bring.
After we finished our meal, Surya informed me that he would be leaving for his office and would come to pick me up in the evening. I smiled and assured him that I would be ready on time. He touched my parents’ feet, took their blessings, and with a gentle smile, walked out of the house. The sound of the door closing behind him echoed softly, leaving me with a strange quietness.
I slowly made my way towards my old room—the one that used to be mine before marriage, but which no longer felt like mine anymore. My mother always used to tell me that after marriage, a woman’s true home becomes her husband’s home. Back then, I would laugh it off, thinking she was either joking or trying to make me more obedient through her words. But now, standing at the doorway of my old room, I realized how true her words were.
The room felt different, almost hollow. The walls that once held my posters and memories now looked bare. A few boxes were stacked in the corner, filled with things I once considered part of my world. My family had already started packing for their move abroad. I walked in slowly, running my hand along the furniture, remembering the countless evenings I had spent there—studying late at night, chatting with friends, or simply dreaming about the future.
Years ago, we too had planned to leave India.