The moment Amma stepped out of the car, her eyes lingered on the gates and wide verandah. Her brows furrowed—this wasn’t her house. Hers was different. She couldn’t remember much—just a neem tree, and the sound of children playing under it. But still… this place didn’t feel like hers. And yet, her fingers quietly found Ira’s and held on, as if that one touch was enough to feel safe.
Ira watched silently as Amma walked in.
This was Ira’s home now—not just because she lived here, but because it had once saved her.
She had shifted here at twenty-five, years after her grandparents’ passing. They had left everything to her—land, house, memories. Because they had seen it, long before anyone else ever tried to: how hollow her childhood had become. A mother too quiet. A father too cruel. A life where love had to be imagined.
Drifting out of her thoughts, Ira turned to the staff who had gathered nearby.
“From today,” she said softly but firmly, “the kitchen will prepare only light, nutritious meals. Nothing oily. Nothing heavy. And never without her permission.”
She glanced toward the hallway leading to Amma’s room. “Get that room cleaned up, and make sure it’s warm. Comfortable. Amma's staying there.”
Then, looking at each of them—her voice calm, steady—Ira added, “This is Savitri Devi. She may not remember us all the time, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that YOU AND I treat her with the same love and respect you’ve always given me.”
“She has Alzheimer’s. Her mind forgets, but her heart still feels. Be patient. Be kind. She’s not just old—she’s fragile. Like glass. One wrong word, one careless gesture, and something could shatter.”
Then her voice dropped—cold, unshaking.
“And the one who dares to break that glass of mine… will see the end of their lives, and hell in my hands.”
No one moved. No one breathed.
Her eyes didn’t rage—they burned. Controlled, quiet, but deadly. The kind of stare that warned without needing to shout. In that moment, it was clear: this wasn’t just a soldier speaking. It was a daughter—of choice, not birth—defending a bond deeper than blood. To Ira, Amma wasn’t her mother. But the way Ira stood guard beside her—ready to fight, ready to burn : ready to live and kill —made one wonder…
Had she become someone even more than a mother to Ira?
The staff nodded, quietly absorbing her words. No one questioned her. No one needed to.
Ira was helping Amma adjust her pillows, smoothing out the creases in her bedsheet with the same care one might give to a child. The room still smelled faintly of camphor and sandalwood.
Just then, a maid appeared at the door, her voice polite and routine.
"Mam, lunch is served. Shall I bring it here or will you come to the dining table?"
Ira glanced at her phone—an incoming call blinking persistently. She gave Amma’s shoulder a gentle pat.
“You go ahead, Amma. I need to answer this.”
She didn’t say she’d join her soon.
And Amma, trusting as always, nodded with a smile and let the maid guide her to the table.
As the maid began serving her warm dal and soft rotis, Amma looked up, confused just a little—but still aware.
"Neelu beta ne khana kha liya kya?" she asked softly.
The maid blinked, not knowing who Neelu was.
And just for a moment — Ira who just came to have lunch — freezes. Because the last time someone asked her that… she was fourteen. And it wasn’t Amma. It was her mother, Neerja.
That soft memory landed harder than any dramatic line.
Before the maid could reply, Ira stepped in quietly, her voice gentle—“No, Amma… we’ll eat together.”
She took the seat beside her, casually reaching for a spoon. But her eyes met the maid’s, and in a single soft glance, a a subtle nod, she made it clear—she was Neelu.
The maid said nothing. She didn’t need to. Because by now, everyone in that house understood who Amma saw…
And who Ira had always longed to be.
While this was what happening at Ira's house now turned home.....
Elsewhere in the city…
Laughter echoed from a warm kitchen. Ishika and Abhay stood by the oven, covered in flour, teasing each other as they waited for the cake to rise. Baking, for them, wasn’t just a hobby. It was therapy. Ritual. Their sibling bond at its softest.
But the air shifted when Ritvik entered. His shoulders tense, his smile missing.
He’d just ended a call with Mehar.
{Mehar : Ritvik' s girlfriend since 3 years. Lives with parents while working as a nutritionist in Hospitals.}
Their relationship, once light and laughter, had grown quieter lately. Not with comfort—but with distance. The kind that doesn’t come from fights but from slow, invisible cracks. Mehar had changed—not by choice, maybe, but by circumstance. Long hours at work, mounting pressure from her parents to marry, to settle down, to earn more. Somewhere in that storm, she stopped talking. Stopped sharing.
Ritvik tried—too hard, maybe. Always patient. Always giving. He never asked for much, just time. Just a little space in her day. But all he got were missed calls, tired excuses, and silence thickened by late-night drinking and tears she never explained.
He didn’t know if she still loved him as he was starting to know what it felt like to be alone while being in love.
Ishika had noticed everything. She always did. The way Ritvik's steps slowed at the kitchen door. The way his expression shifted—from clouded sadness to something gentler—the moment he saw her and Abhay goofing around. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
Instead, he simply joined in. No grand gesture, no forced cheer. Just a quiet effort to blend into the warmth they had created. His laughter didn’t come easy, but when it did—it stayed. Ishika watched it all, her heart noting every detail, every silent pain he tried to tuck away behind smiles.
Just then, the kitchen door swung open.
“Oho! These three Muskande ruined my kitchen again, and this time just for dessert?” Kavita teased, hands on her hips, eyes twinkling. Raghunath chuckled from behind, shaking his head.
"Teen Tigde, Kaam Bigade" is the the only line Raghunath (Ritvik's father) could say to Kavita. (Ritvik's mother)
Abhay said (Laughing):
“Bas, one day you’ll turn this kitchen into a bakery and thank us for it.”
Their voices filled the room like sunshine through windows—soft, scolding, but full of love. And in that moment, Ritvik smiled for real.
He wasn’t okay. But he was home — that made all the difference.
And sometimes, healing begins with half-burnt cake and people who didn’t ask questions.
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