The Raizada mansion in Bandhap had not slept the entire night.
It was as if the walls themselves knew that one of their own was returning after years away, and they refused to rest until they had seen his face again.
At dawn, oil lamps were lit across the corridors—row after row, flame after flame—casting a warm amber glow against the old stone. Fresh flowers were strung into garlands, their fragrance thick and heady, clinging to the air like celebration itself.
Suman stood in the central hall, overseeing everything with restless energy. Her saree pleats were perfect, her hair neatly tied, yet she kept adjusting her bangles, straightening cushions that were already aligned.
"He should have reached by now," she said for the third time, glancing toward the entrance.
Her husband, Sanjeev, leaned against a pillar nearby, trying—and failing—to hide his impatience. Tall and broad-shouldered, he kept checking his phone, then the road beyond the gate, then his watch again.
"He was never good with timing," Sanjeev said, attempting a smile. "But when he arrives, he'll arrive grandly. You know Rajeev."
Across the hall, Vanraj stood beside Vedshree, quieter but no less eager. Vanraj's anticipation was controlled, contained behind a composed exterior, but his eyes betrayed him. Every sound from outside made him straighten.
Vedshree, meanwhile, focused on the threshold. She arranged the marigold garlands again—slowly, carefully—ensuring each flower faced the right way.
"Everything must be proper," she murmured. "First steps matter."
Vanraj nodded. "He'll be proud. Of the house. Of us."
From her seat near the temple alcove, Bani Dadi watched them all.
Her fingers moved steadily over her rosary beads, lips whispering prayers too old for anyone else to remember. Unlike the others, she did not smile. Her gaze remained fixed on the gate, sharp and searching.
"He has been away too long," she said quietly.
Suman turned. "Mummy Ji?"
Bani Dadi did not look at her. "A mother feels when her child's shadow grows longer than his body."
Before anyone could respond, the sound of a car approaching broke the air.
Excitement surged.
Sanjeev stepped forward. Vanraj followed. Vedshree's breath hitched. Suman clasped her hands together.
The gate opened.
Rajeev stepped inside.
For a heartbeat, everything felt right again.
He looked older, steadier. His shoulders broader. His smile—familiar enough to ease years of distance. Suman rushed forward, tears already welling, while Sanjeev clapped Rajeev on the back, laughing loudly.
"Finally decided to return home, huh?" Sanjeev teased.
Rajeev laughed—but the sound felt… delayed. As if it arrived a second too late.
Then another presence crossed the threshold.
She moved quietly, almost respectfully, staying half a step behind Rajeev. A woman in a plain saree, her head modestly covered, eyes lowered in practiced humility.
Rajeev turned toward her.
"This is Mohana," he said, voice warm, unwavering. "My wife."
The word did not echo.
It sank.
Vedshree's smile froze. Suman's breath caught. Vanraj and Sanjeev exchanged a stunned glance.
Before questions could form, Mohana stepped forward.
She bent low, touching her forehead to Bani Dadi's feet.
"Please," she said softly, "bless me."
Her voice was calm, sweet—almost reverent.
Bani Dadi hesitated.
For a fraction of a second, her fingers stiffened over the rosary. Then duty overruled instinct. She placed her palm on Mohana's head.
"May you be protected," she whispered.
As Mohana straightened, something strange happened.
The lamps lining the hall flickered.
One by one, their flames dimmed—not extinguishing, but turning dark, as if soot bled into fire. The golden glow dulled, becoming shadowed, heavy.
No wind stirred.
No hand touched them.
At the same moment, the garlands near the entrance drooped. Marigold petals curled inward, their bright orange fading to a tired brown. A few flowers slipped free and fell soundlessly to the floor.
Vedshree noticed first.
Her eyes narrowed, heart thudding. "Did you see—"
Suman looked down.
The flowers were withering.
They said nothing.
Ritual could not be interrupted.
The grihapravesh was arranged swiftly. The kalash placed at the threshold, water shimmering beneath the light. Vermillion spread carefully on the platter.
Mohana stepped forward.
Her foot struck the urn.
Not a stumble.
A deliberate nudge.
The kalash toppled, water spilling across the stone like a broken promise.
A collective gasp rose.
Before anyone could react, Mohana placed her foot onto the vermillion.
Red spread beneath her sole.
To be continued…