Long breaks from public school always feel strange in this house. There's no euphoria. No sleeping until noon. The wall clock keeps ticking in the same tone—as if reminding you the world doesn't go on holiday just because a calendar says so.
That morning I sat on the living-room floor, my back against the sofa, legs folded in front of my laptop. The screen was dark—not dead, deliberately uninviting. A terminal window sat neatly open, line after line of logs scrolling at an unhurried pace. No music. No notifications.
Maata calls it quiet work.
Today's target wasn't a major system. Not something flashy. Just one internal service at Pa's office—rarely touched, even more rarely tested. A system that had grown overconfident because it sat behind layers of protection everyone considered "enough."
I wasn't attacking.
I was slipping in.
A small payload. Living-off-the-land. No weird signatures. No brute force. I exploited one human habit: trusting routine. Old credentials that were never revoked. Tokens that lived too long. Logs that were written, but never truly read.
My hand hovered above the keyboard.
"Ma," I asked without looking back,
"what if the system freezes or disrupts operations?"
Maata was at the dining table, watching anime like I'd just asked about the weather.
"Then that's your Pa's problem," she said lightly.
"And his team's. Not your fault."
I glanced at her.
"If a sixteen-year-old can make the system cough," Maata continued with a small smile,
"it isn't a strong system. It's a weak one that simply hasn't been caught yet."
She looked at me, eyes bright—not angry, not worried. Challenging.
"And if you succeed," she added,
"you can ask for one thing. Equal."
"Equal to what?" I asked.
Maata thought for half a second.
"Equal effort."
I went back to the screen. The last line scrolled by. No alarms. No red lights. Just one response that shifted for a fraction of a second—enough to prove the door existed.
I closed my own access. Cleaned my traces. Left one small note—clear enough for the team to read, polite enough not to humiliate anyone.
That afternoon, Pitaa stood behind me. I didn't know since when. I only knew because the shadow of his tablet fell exactly onto the corner of my keyboard.
"You got in?" he asked, flat.
"Yes."
"You got out?" he followed.
"Yes."
A brief silence.
"Do you know the difference between vandalism and an audit?" Pitaa asked.
I shook my head.
"One feeds the ego," he said,
"the other is Seva (service) for a fragile system."
I turned to him.
"I can help fix it. But—"
Pitaa's brow lifted slightly.
"—there has to be compensation," I finished calmly.
Pitaa's mouth curved a little.
Not because it was funny. Because it was familiar.
From the kitchen, Maata laughed softly.
And that's how my parents work—never the same way.
If Pitaa sees someone fall, he builds a fence so no one falls there again.
If Maata sees the same thing, she sits with that person for hours, snacking, unpacking their life choices one by one—and then, if they're ready, rewrites the entire system from scratch.
Not everyone wants to be revised.
And Maata never forces it.
My phone buzzed on the floor, bounced once, then went still. The name on the screen made my brow lift.
Brother Kunal.
I picked up before the second ring.
"Bhai," his voice was soft, already carrying that small laugh that always shows up even before his first sentence ends.
That tone—too relaxed for someone who grew up before us, too warm for someone who'd been tempered by Maata back when her curriculum wasn't fully perfected.
If Maata had a first batch, Brother Kunal was the proof: survived, slightly traumatized, but functional.
"Is Mama asleep," he asked lightly, "or is she in training mode?"
The way he said it told me immediately: he wasn't calling because he missed us. He was calling because he knows—when Maata is quiet, a child is usually being revised.
***
I was about to answer when a voice cut through from the kitchen—not loud, but sharp enough to change the air.
"No."
One word.
Maata's tone.
I turned. Tara stood in front of the dining table, still in a house tee, hair tied in a messy half-pony. Her hand clenched her phone; her face was red—not from crying, but from fighting hard not to cry.
"Ma, this is a teacher's recommendation," Tara's voice jumped half an octave.
"I didn't sign up on my own."
Maata wasn't sitting. She wasn't standing in anger either. She simply leaned against the kitchen counter, pouring sauce onto her bhel puri, expression blank—blank in a way that's more dangerous than shouting.
I slid my own phone a little by reflex. The front camera was off, but the mic was catching everything.
"Teacher's recommendation," Maata repeated slowly.
"For a competition."
"Yes." Tara nodded fast.
"Dance. School event. Everyone's joining."
"That's exactly the problem," Maata said.
Brother Kunal went silent on the other end. I knew he could hear. I also knew he'd wait—because in this family, you don't cut Maata off mid-sentence.
Tara exhaled hard.
"Ma, I just want to join. I'm not asking to win."
Maata tilted her head slightly. A small motion, loaded with meaning.
"Oh, yeah? Are you sure? Then what's your goal?" she asked.
A brief silence.
I could hear the ceiling fan turning. Outside, a milk vendor called out his route. The world kept moving normally while Tara searched for the correct answer—and failed.
"Well… perform," she said at last.
"And… yeah, if I win too—"
"Rejected. You can't even explain your goal," Maata cut in.
Not loud. Final.
Tara froze.
"If you join and you win," Maata continued evenly,
"it isn't fair. You've been trained by professionals since your body didn't even understand rhythm. Your competitors haven't."
Tara opened her mouth, then closed it.
"If you join and you lose," Maata went on,
"that's embarrassing. Not because you lost. Because with all your resources, you still lost."
I heard Tara's breathing quicken.
She was thirteen—and in that moment, she truly looked thirteen.
"Then what am I supposed to do?" her voice trembled.
"Just sit still?!"
"If you want to win," Maata replied,
"that's not a reason I can accept."
Tara stared at the floor.
"If you want to perform," Maata continued, her tone lowering slightly,
"you negotiate it with the school yourself. No competition. No ranking. If they agree—go ahead."
Tara snapped her head up.
"And if they don't?"
Maata tilted her head again, like she was calculating options in the air.
"There's a studio. We shoot it. For a private archive," she said.
"What you need isn't the stage. It's the process."
She paused, then added lightly—too lightly for what came next.
"And if you just want to be watched," Maata said,
"I can gather everyone at the other house."
She glanced toward the hallway where Dr. Meera's footsteps usually appear.
"Aunty Meera. Uncle Varma. Kiran. Armaan. Even the neighbor aunties who gossip while hanging laundry."
Tara blinked.
"And if that's still not enough," Maata continued, never changing her tone,
"I'll call all the aunties. Your father's extended family too. Including the ones who comment from the kitchen. Consider them judges."
Tara let out a small breath—half defeated, half amused.
Maata wasn't done.
"And if what you're after is applause and admiration," she said casually,
"tell your Pa. Make all his staff come. Announce it officially."
She leaned in a little.
"His beloved daughter is performing.
I'm sure everyone will clap and say it's very good."
A fraction of silence.
I held back a smile. Tara stared at the ceiling, as if imagining the social trauma that had just been planted in her head.
Brother Kunal finally spoke into my ear, low.
"Wow."
I looked at Tara. Her shoulders rose and fell slightly, jaw tightening—the classic sign: she's seconds away from either exploding or crying, depending on who speaks first.
I cleared my throat—deliberately loud.
"Ma," I said casually, pretending neutral,
"Brother Kunal called."
Maata glanced over without fully looking at us, still snacking in a room this tense.
"Yeah, later," she said lightly.
"Mom will call back."
She flicked her eyes at Tara—brief, sharp—then went casual again.
"I'm still handling one child," she added flatly,
"whose voice is rising while her logic is still loading."
I bit my lip. Brother Kunal laughed softly on the other end. I could hear it.
Maata added, like a bonus no one asked for:
"If we let it go, next she'll negotiate with emotion.
Lots of desire—poor control."
I switched the mic back on quickly—before it truly erupted. Tara let out a small growl.
"Why did Brother Kunal get to join everything? This competition, that competition. He was even told to do it!"
Maata looked straight at her. No raised voice. No softening.
"Because your brother was raised as first generation," she said.
"He had to bleed so the road could open.
You and Dhruv? You're stewards. You're not building the road.
You're guarding it so it doesn't collapse."
The sentence landed like a hammer. Not loud. Precise.
"Your brother joined competitions only if there was cash prize or access," Maata added.
"He fought to eat. You're fighting for praise. Know the difference, Tara."
She leaned in slightly—close enough to make Tara hear with more than her ears.
"Winning a school competition isn't just a trophy," she continued.
"It can be a scholarship door. A recommendation letter. The only path for a child who fights every day just to stay in school."
Maata paused for a fraction of a second—making room for the words to settle.
"Don't take it," she said calmly.
"Don't steal someone else's Prasad (blessing). That competition is oxygen for them. For you, it's just dust collecting on a shelf."
Tara swallowed. She didn't argue.
"If you want to measure yourself," Maata added, her voice lower now,
"the most objective parameter isn't beating other people—
it's beating who you were yesterday."
Silence fell.
Not angry silence. Thinking in silence.
Tara turned abruptly—straight toward the sofa where Pitaa had been sitting the whole time, reading a report on his tablet like the world was peaceful. She dropped down beside him, leaned into his shoulder, and her voice shifted into measured sweetness in under a second.
"Paaaaaa…"
Pitaa didn't look up immediately. He finished one last line, then lowered the tablet.
"What did Ma say?" he asked.
"Not allowed to join the competition."
"Then it's no," Pitaa said.
That simple.
"Paaaaaaaaaaa—"
Pitaa raised one finger. Not a threat. A boundary marker.
"If Ma closes a door," he said evenly,
"it's because there's a cliff behind it. I'm not opening it."
Tara exhaled hard, then stared at the ceiling—dramatic, as usual.
"What is this family, an audit Institution…?"
She scooted closer, half perched against the arm of Pitaa's chair, her voice dropping an octave—negotiation mode engaged.
"Paaaa, just this once. I'm not asking to win. I just want—"
She paused, choosing the safest word.
"—to perform."
Pitaa finally turned to her. Not harsher. Not softer. He rubbed the back of Tara's hand with his thumb—a small gesture that means I hear you, but I'm not moving.
"You're not negotiating with me," he said quietly.
"You're negotiating with your own reasons."
Tara opened her mouth—then closed it again. Pitaa picked up his phone. He tapped one name without hesitation.
"Dr. Meera," he said when the call connected,
"your daughter needs you."
A warm voice filled the loudspeaker, instantly present.
"Which one is speaking?" Dr. Meera asked.
Then, without pause:
"Tara, or Tara's emotions?"
Tara sat up straight.
"I hear you, Aunty!"
Pitaa handed the phone over. Tara took it with both hands—like she was holding a microphone in an emergency hearing.
"Auntyyyyy," she rushed out, a little spoiled but still controlled,
"I don't want a dance competition. I just want to perform. The teacher recommended me. Ma said no. Pa said—"
She glanced at Pitaa briefly.
"—Pa said I have to be honest about what I need."
A soft laugh came from the speaker.
"Good," Dr. Meera said.
"Now answer one thing. If there's no audience, do you still want to dance?"
Tara went still for half a second.
"Yes."
"If there's no applause?"
"Yes."
"If there's no trophy?"
"Yes," Tara answered more softly, but steady.
Dr. Meera exhaled—not tired. Satisfied.
"Then this isn't about competition," she said.
"This is about self-expression."
She paused, then continued in a professional tone that stayed gentle.
"I'll speak with the school. Not to lobby—just to arrange your performance format without competition."
Tara covered her mouth with her hand.
"Really, Aunty?"
"Really," Dr. Meera replied.
But one condition."
Tara swallowed.
"What?"
"You ask. You explain. I only help you with the language."
One beat of silence.
Pitaa gave a small nod—wordless approval.
Maata nodded a second later.
"As long as it's your negotiation," she said.
Tara exhaled long. Half relieved. Half defeated.
***
I turned my mic on again.
"Okay, Brother, continue," I said into my phone.
Tara shot me a sharp look.
"I want to vent to Brother Kunal too."
Brother Kunal laughed softly.
"Same thing, kid," he said.
"You know, I almost got traded for a classmate once."
I sat up.
So did Tara.
"Huh?"
"Eight years old," Brother Kunal continued casually.
"I refused karate. Maata told me to write a statement letter. It said: I request to be traded for a child from a family who can't afford lessons."
Tara covered her mouth. I laughed silently.
"Seriously, Brother?!" I asked.
"Dead serious," he replied.
"Her voice was calm. Too calm for an empty threat."
He paused, like he was weighing whether this story should keep going.
"So… did you want to?" Tara asked.
Brother Kunal chuckled.
"At first, yes. I even sat down. I was ready to take the paper."
I lifted my head slightly.
"We started discussing the rules," he continued.
"What you can bring, what you can't. Clothes, yes. Books, yes. But—"
He paused, holding back laughter.
"—my toy car collection was not allowed."
Tara groaned. I could picture her face.
"And I still said yes," Brother Kunal said quickly, like he had something to prove.
"Seriously. I still wanted it."
A small sliding sound came from his side—like a drawer opening.
"Then Maata stood up," Briother Kunal continued, his tone shifting,
"she took one car. Then another. Then another."
He mimicked Maata's voice—way too accurate to be coincidence.
"'This one too?'"
"'This too?'"
"'Your favorite, right?'"
Brother Kunal gave a short laugh.
"I still said: okay, Ma, it's fine."
I could feel the funny tension hanging in the air.
"Then?" Tara asked, fascinated.
"Then Maata added one sentence," he said.
"'If it's a trade, it has to be total. You sure? Mama doesn't accept a decision being reversed.'"
I held my breath.
"Including?" I asked, already knowing.
"Including Grandma," Brother Kunal answered flatly.
"My favorite grandma."
He laughed again—amused and horrified at once.
"I protested immediately. I said, 'Why is Grandma included in the trade?'"
Brother Kunal kept going, perfectly mimicking Maata:
"'If it's a trade, you trade everything. No half-measures.'"
I closed my eyes briefly.
"So," Brother Kunal continued,
"I folded the paper. Slowly. Neatly. Then I said never mind, Ma."
I could hear the smooth grin in his voice.
"And since then I never said I didn't want something again," he added lightly.
"I changed my strategy."
I waited.
"Every time it was time for karate,"Brother Kunal continued,
"I'd suddenly look pale. Sometimes fever. Sometimes dizzy. Sometimes my stomach would get 'noisy.'"
I snorted.
"The timing was always perfect," he added.
"Maata saw it. Stayed silent. Never commented."
He paused, then said quietly,
"She knew. But as long as I was still thinking, still finding a way, that was better than empty rebellion."
I nodded.
I believed it too.
***
I held my phone in my left hand, Tara leaned against my shoulder peeking at the screen, and on the other end Brother Kunal was already laughing again—the sign this conversation was about to drift into territory that wasn't entirely safe.
I remembered myself at ten—and I told them, holding back the smile that always comes later when I remember it now.
"I sat on the floor," I said into the phone,
"back against the wardrobe. A small whiteboard in front of me. The one Tara usually used for doodles."
Brother Kunal chuckled on the other end. Tara didn't.
"Maata sat right in front of me," I continued,
"marker in her hand. She said: if you don't want to take the bus, let's check what your survival odds look like."
I could imagine Brother Kunal leaning closer to his screen even though he couldn't see mine.
"Ma drew a line," I said.
"First scenario: if Ma and Pa are still alive."
I paused, then continued, mimicking Maata's voice—far too calm for a topic this heavy.
"A. Pa goes bankrupt.
Facilities disappear. Even the house might be sold. Investor debt comes."
I exhaled.
"Ma said heavy stress makes people need psychiatrists. Sometimes it makes people harsh at home. Not because they're evil—because they can't accept defeat yet."
Silence on the other end.
"B. Pa remarries.
Structure changes. Rules change. Peace shakes."
I added,
"If the new family has stronger backing, our position drops automatically."
Brother Kunal whistled softly.
"Then Ma added another one," I said, fighting a laugh,
"C. Pa takes the wrong medicine. Decides to become a hermit. Leaves worldly affairs. Or buys a bankrupt country to turn into a forest. Or donates all wealth to a nonprofit foundation."
"WHAT?!" Tara yelped.
"I was still laughing then," I said,
"until Ma moved to part two."
I lowered my voice.
"Parents die."
I heard Kunal's breathing change.
"A. Pa first.
Ma said too many big things would be left behind. Too big. She said her brain is small—she could get depressed, maybe not even manage us."
I swallowed.
"And there's a chance someone is waiting for an opportunity to erase our names from the list of people who exist."
Behind me, soft footsteps. Someone passed by. Didn't stop.
I didn't turn—but I knew that rhythm.
"B. Maata first,"
I continued, pretending I didn't notice.
"Three possibilities.
One, Pa remarries—stepmother scheme applies.
Two, Pa doesn't remarry—work becomes focus, kids become secondary.
Three, Pa gets depressed."
I added, half-joking the way Maata used to:
"Sometimes people escape reality into stupid things."
The footsteps paused for a fraction of a second behind me. Then moved again.
"And the last," I told the phone,
"C. They die together.
No protection. We become targets. I have to protect Tara. Brother Kunal is far. Grandpa is already old."
I heard Brother Kunal curse softly. Tara said nothing.
"Then Ma sat in front of me," I said,
"and asked: with all those possibilities, do you still want to debate taking the city bus?"
I exhaled.
"I never refused again after that day."
"Maata doesn't talk about ghosts," I said to Brother Kunal.
"She talks about continuity planning—what happens if our protection is gone. It made me see that the city bus isn't just transport, it's a lifeboat if our big ship sinks."
From the kitchen, a notification sound pinged. Maata laughed—a giggle completely misaligned with the heaviness of my story.
I glanced over. She leaned against the counter, staring at her phone, smiling like someone who'd just read a meme.
In the corridor, Pitaa passed by. His face was blank as usual. Only one brow lifted slightly—a reaction that's appeared more often lately, whenever he realizes what Maata has planted in our heads.
And I remembered Pa's line:
"Risk is not what you see. Risk is what stays when everyone leaves."
"My message to Tara," Brother Kunal said gently,
"don't test Maata's patience. That's not a myth."
I looked at Tara. She was still leaning on my shoulder, frowning, but her eyes were alive.
"Just pray," Brother Kunal added, chuckling,
"that you won't get told to trade places with your school dance teacher's kid. Send my regards to Ma and Pa."
Tara screamed.
"NOOOOO—"
The call ended in laughter. I stood up and passed the greetings to Maata and Pitaa.
In this house, rules aren't made to be won.
Rules are made so we're still here—
tomorrow,
and the day after,
and when the world stops being kind.
And somehow, I know:
that is the most honest kind of love we've ever had.
—To be Continued—