By the fourth day after returning to Bengaluru, the house felt fuller—and heavier.
That evening, Bani's father had called his brothers and their families for dinner. It wasn't framed as anything special, but everyone sensed it. Invitations like this were never casual.
Two days earlier, he had brought his mother from the village to stay with them. At first, she had opposed his decision firmly. This was her land, her people, her routine. Leaving felt like betrayal—to memory, to habit.
But that night, Bani had sat beside her quietly.
No arguments. No force.
Just a gentle influence from her magical space.
By morning, her grandmother had changed her mind.
"I'll live with my children," she had said simply.
And then, as if to soften it, she added, "If I feel like visiting the others, I'll stay with them for some days."
It was enough.
A hint, not a declaration.
And now, the entire family had gathered.
Dinner passed with forced smiles, clinking plates, and polite questions. Everyone felt the tension humming beneath the surface. This wasn't just a meal.
There was going to be an announcement.
After dinner, as expected, Bani's father cleared his throat.
"I've decided something important," he said calmly. "We are shifting to Dubai."
Silence.
The elder uncle didn't interrupt. His face remained unreadable.
The younger uncle, however, reacted instantly.
"Dubai?" he exclaimed. "Then what about us?"
He leaned forward. "You're like our father. If you leave, how are we supposed to survive?"
Bani's father didn't raise his voice. "No one here is dependent on anyone," he replied evenly. "Everyone is living their own life. We'll do the same—just in a different place, a different country."
The younger uncle frowned. "Brother, how can you say that? We came to this big city depending on you. You supported us. How can you leave us now?"
"I'm not leaving anyone," Bani's father said firmly.
"As I said earlier—when you came to this city—I told you the same thing. You live your life. We live ours."
The younger aunt joined in, her tone sharper, less controlled.
"So just like that, you'll go abroad with your family and leave everything behind? What about your responsibilities here?"
She paused, then added pointedly, "And what about mother? You'll take your four family members and go to another country, leaving her here?"
The elder aunt had been quiet all this while. She smiled gently before speaking, her voice warm, her words carefully chosen.
"See," she said softly, almost laughing, "what's really necessary now? If something happens to anyone, Dubai is very far. It takes time. If we all stay in the same place, at least we can support each other."
Her concern sounded genuine.
Her eyes, however, were calculating.
"So what exactly is the need," she continued sweetly, "to shift the entire family to another country?"
That was when Bani's magical space moved—quietly, decisively.
Her father straightened. His voice became firmer, clearer. If it hurt anyone, he no longer cared.
"You're right," he said, looking at the elder aunt. "I won't abandon my mother. I'm taking her with me. And if she wants to live with any of her other children, she's free to do so—if they're willing to support her."
The room fell silent.
Then, unexpectedly, his tone softened. The tension slipped, replaced by calm certainty.
"No one can depend on anyone throughout their life," he continued.
"That's exactly why I made this decision."
He looked around the room, his gaze steady.
"As parents, we should be wings for our children—so they can fly. I want to strengthen my ability so my children can have stronger wings in the future. At the very least, we should be capable of supporting them."
Then he added, almost casually, "And as you all know, Bani has acted in a Hollywood film. It's releasing in three days."
The younger aunt laughed loudly, disbelief mixed with irritation.
"So just because of one film," she scoffed, "you want to shift to another country relying on her?"
Bani didn't react.
She simply watched.
Because this wasn't about one film.
It never was.
The silence didn't last long.
The eldest uncle finally spoke.
"Nagaraju," he said slowly, choosing his words with care, "wanting a better life is not wrong. But have you thought this through properly? Dubai is expensive. Very expensive. What you earn there may be spent entirely just on rent. Life isn't easy in another country."
His concern sounded practical, almost protective.
Nagaraju nodded slightly, acknowledging him. "That's exactly what I wanted to tell all of you," he said calmly.
"When we went to Dubai this time, it was only a tour. Out of curiosity, Bani bought a ticket in a prize draw at the Dubai Mall."
The younger uncle frowned. The younger aunt stiffened.
"I won an apartment," Nagaraju continued evenly. "A registered apartment. In Jumeirah Lake Towers."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then the reactions came—one by one.
The younger uncle leaned forward, eyes sharp. "An apartment?" he repeated. "So… you won it just like that?"
The younger aunt laughed again, but this time the sound was strained. "People go to Dubai for years and still struggle to buy a house. You expect us to believe this just happened?"
Her tone carried disbelief—but also something else. Unease.
The elder aunt's smile widened, carefully maintained. "If that's true," she said lightly, "then it's very lucky. But still… living abroad isn't only about owning a house. What about family support? Community? Who will be there in emergencies?"
Her words sounded caring.
Her meaning was layered.
Bani's grandmother, who had been listening quietly, looked at her son. "Is this true?" she asked gently.
Nagaraju turned toward her immediately, his voice softening. "Yes, Amma. Everything is done properly. Papers, registration. The handover will be in a month."
Then he looked back at his elder brother, his tone still respectful. "Anna, I've thought this through carefully. The house removes the biggest burden—rent. What I earn will go toward building our future, not just surviving."
The younger uncle shook his head. "Still," he said, "why go so far? What about us? What about being together?"
Nagaraju didn't hesitate. His voice was firm now. "Being together doesn't mean depending on one person. We're all adults. We all make our own lives."
The younger aunt crossed her arms. "Easy for you to say. You'll have a house, income, opportunities. What about the rest of us?"
Nagaraju met her gaze without anger. "Exactly. You'll have the same opportunities you've always had—here. Just like we will there."
The room felt tight.
The elder aunt cleared her throat softly. "At least think again," she said gently. "Sometimes, too much independence breaks families."
Nagaraju turned back to his mother once more. "Amma," he said quietly, "I'm not breaking the family. I'm strengthening my children's future. That is my responsibility."
His mother studied his face for a long moment. Then she nodded slowly.
"I raised you to stand on your own feet," she said. "If you've decided this after thinking, then go."
That single sentence settled something heavy in the room.
Bani watched it all unfold in silence.