The younger aunt's eyes lit up immediately.
"Then we'll take some of it," she said quickly.
Bani's father nodded once. "If anyone wants to take anything, they're free to. But after taking it, there shouldn't be comments like we were handed used furniture."
His voice remained calm, but the meaning was clear.
"If that's the case," he continued evenly, "I'll sell everything to a second-hand shop instead. At least that way I'll get some money. I'll need it to buy new furniture there."
The younger aunt pressed her lips together.
Before she could respond, the elder aunt stepped in smoothly.
"No need for all that," she said with a gentle laugh. "We'll choose properly. We'll decide what should be kept and what can be discarded."
"Yes," the younger aunt added quickly, recovering her confidence. "I'll tell you beforehand what I need."
Bani's father looked at them steadily. "We're still using everything," he said. "When it's time for us to shift, then you can take what you want."
He paused, then added thoughtfully, "Whatever is extra—things none of you want—I'm planning to donate to an orphanage or an old-age shelter."
The elder uncle nodded approvingly. "That's good," he said simply.
The room quieted.
Dinner plates were cleared. Conversations faded into forced smiles and polite tones.
Before anyone left, Bani's parents brought out the gifts they had bought during their Dubai shopping—carefully wrapped, thoughtfully chosen. The children's faces lit up instantly. For a moment, laughter returned, innocent and real.
But among the adults, something lingered.
Goodbyes were exchanged. Smiles were practiced.
"Take care," the elder aunt said warmly.
"We'll talk again," the younger aunt added, already calculating.
As they stepped out, whispered conversations followed them into the corridor—half-sentences, unfinished thoughts, quiet resentment disguised as concern.
Inside the house, silence settled at last.
Bani watched her parents for a moment. No regret. No hesitation. Just relief.
The dinner had ended.
The decisions had been made.
And though the smiles had faded at the door, one truth remained unspoken but clear:
Nothing was going back to the way it was before.
The house felt strangely calm the next morning.
No guests. No raised voices. Just the soft clink of steel tumblers and the rustle of papers spread across the dining table.
Bani's parents sat together, calculators out, notebooks open. Gold details. Cash savings. Property papers stacked neatly. They weren't tech-savvy—no apps, no spreadsheets—just handwritten numbers and quiet concentration.
"This much gold," her mother murmured.
"This is the cash we can keep aside," her father replied, tapping the calculator. "And then there's the site."
The phone rang.
Then again.
And again.
Calls started coming in—one after another.
The younger aunt's voice was the loudest, even through the speaker.
"You didn't sleep properly, right? We were so worried about you," she said sweetly. "Anyway, about yesterday… have you really decided?"
Another call followed—from the younger uncle.
"Brother, think again. Dubai is risky. Don't rush. And about the supermarket—don't give it to outsiders so fast."
Then the elder aunt. Her tone was softer, slower.
"We're only thinking about unity," she said. "Families should stay close. Distance changes people."
After each call, Bani's parents exchanged quiet glances.
No anger.
Just clarity.
When the calls finally stopped, silence returned.
Bani watched them carefully.
"Appa," she said gently, "that site near the lake… have you thought about it?"
Her father sighed. "Yes. But we've kept it for years."
Bani didn't push. She couldn't.
She simply connected to her magical space.
Quietly. Precisely.
Thoughts began arranging themselves in his mind—not foreign, not forced. Just… obvious.
The lake isn't a lake anymore.
It's become a gutter.
Who will want to live there in the future?
Better to sell now than regret later.
Her father frowned slightly, as if something had just clicked.
"That area has changed," he said slowly. "It's not good for settling down anymore. If we wait, the value may drop."
Her mother nodded. "Selling now might be wiser."
Bani stayed silent.
Then she added casually, "Gold is cheaper in Dubai, right?"
Her father looked up. "Yes… much cheaper."
Another gentle nudge from the magical space.
Sell the site.
Convert uncertainty into something stable.
Gold can always be sold.
It can help them set up the house.
"We could sell the site," her father said, almost to himself, "and buy some gold there. That money can support us—furniture, initial expenses."
Her mother's face relaxed. "That actually makes sense."
Bani smiled inwardly.
Nothing dramatic.
No arguments.
No predictions of the future spoken aloud.
Just the right thought, at the right time, placed carefully.
Outside, another call came in—but this time, her father didn't answer immediately.
He switched the phone to silent.
"For once," he said quietly, "let's plan our life without noise."
Bani looked at the papers on the table—numbers turning into decisions, decisions turning into direction.
The relatives had revealed themselves through calls.
The future, meanwhile, was being built calmly—right there, over morning tea.
And Bani knew:
the most powerful moves were the ones no one noticed being made.
That week carried two important conversations in Bani's life—one about land, and the other about her future.
Her father met a broker regarding their land near Kengeri. The location wasn't perfect. One side bordered an open gutter, something that immediately lowered its appeal. But the land also had strong advantages. The metro line was planned nearby, highway access was improving, and development had already begun in surrounding areas. Her father understood that facilities and connectivity often mattered more than temporary flaws.
He made his position clear.
"I won't sell it for less than thirty lakhs," he said.
The broker tried to bargain, pointing out the gutter again, but her father didn't budge. He knew the future value of the land. In fact, years later, that same piece of land would cross thirty-five lakhs. When Bani heard about the discussion, she felt he was right. It was a reasonable price, neither emotional nor impulsive.
That night, during dinner, her father discussed the meeting with her mother. He explained the broker's arguments, the upcoming metro facility, and why waiting was better than selling cheap. Her mother listened quietly, understanding the long-term view.
Around the same dinner table, another topic surfaced—Bani's film.
It was the day her film was officially releasing.
Her family wanted to celebrate, to go to the theatre together. But Bani stopped them.
"It hasn't released in India yet," she said gently. "It premiered in the US at a festival."
They were surprised. This wasn't how Indian films usually released, especially not small or content-driven ones.
Bani explained patiently.
"This film isn't following the normal Indian process," she said. "The makers wanted it to be seen internationally first."
Her father asked, "What advantage does that give?"
Bani thought for a moment before answering.
"When a film gets recognition in the US—especially at festivals—it builds credibility," she said. "Good reviews there act like proof. Once that happens, distributors, platforms, and even Indian audiences take the film more seriously."
She continued, "Success there creates a promise. It attracts attention, better release options, and sometimes even global offers. People here trust it more when the world notices first."
She smiled faintly.
"It's similar to our land," she added. "Right now, some people only see the gutter. But once the metro and highways come, the same land becomes valuable."
Her father nodded slowly, understanding the comparison.