The house was too quiet.
For someone who had grown up amidst war drums and chariot wheels, and died amidst the sound of curses and arrows, silence had never felt so loud.
Karan—Karna—stood near the window, his hands behind his back, staring into the empty street below. A strange box with wheels had taken everyone away one by one. They called it a "car." At first, he had thought it was a mechanical beast. Now, it seemed to be a strange sort of chariot—though one without horses or reins.
He had watched them leave.
Rhea, Diya, Sia, Arnav, Shaurya, Yash, Bhavesh, and Nikhil—all going somewhere called college. He didn't know what that meant.
"Some kind of training ground?" he had asked cautiously, trying not to sound utterly lost.
Kavita had left earlier too, speaking something about "work documents." Meera had been the last to leave. He had stopped her, his brow furrowed.
"You too… go to this… office?"
Meera had laughed gently. "Yes, Karan. That's my workplace."
Work. Office. College. Documents.
It all sounded like some modern battlefield—but quieter. And run entirely by women.
His eyes had widened as he processed that thought.
These women—Kavita, Meera, even Rhea and Diya—they were running the family. Working, managing, studying. With no men in sight.
Not even one.
In his time, it would have been unthinkable.
And yet here they were—fluent in this era, powerful without trying, stronger than the warriors he once knew.
The only person who remained now was Sumita kaki, a kind-faced housekeeper who did the chores. She made him food—odd dishes with names he couldn't remember—and left soon after.
And then, the house belonged to the silence again.
Except—it didn't.
Not for long.
---
He was sitting in the living room, holding a remote like it was a weapon, trying to figure out how to turn on the "TV-yantra", when the front door creaked open.
"Karan beta," a voice called gently.
His body stiffened.
Radha.
The woman who had spoken to him so warmly at the hospital. The one whose eyes carried oceans.
The one he instinctively called—
"Maa."
She walked in with a plastic bag in hand and a slow, motherly gait. "I brought some vegetables. And your favourite banana chips."
He stood up abruptly.
"You… why are you here?" he asked, not in anger, just confusion.
"To keep you company," she smiled, placing the bag down. "Aren't you bored alone?"
Bored?
He had forgotten the meaning of such a thing. He didn't say anything.
She looked around and then gently patted the couch. "Come. Sit."
---
He did.
They sat side by side on the beige sofa, and for a long time, neither of them said anything. The quiet wasn't uncomfortable, but it was fragile, like it could shatter with one wrong word.
Finally, Karna asked the question that had been quietly burning in his mind all day.
"Maa… where are the other men of this house? My… father? Uncle?"
Radha paused, looking at him for a long moment.
She gave a small smile. It was soft and practiced. The kind that hides grief in its folds.
"Kavita's husband… your father… passed away when you were very young.And Meera's husband,your uncle is not just a good human being.He left and married someone else."
Karna's expression didn't change.
Not because he wasn't surprised. But because the name held no weight for him. These man ware not Adhirath.He didn't understand half of those words anyway.
Radha continued, "Rhea and Diya's father—that is, my husband—is not really home that much. He works in another city. We video call often." She chuckled lightly. "He talks a lot, your uncle. Loud as ever."
Karna looked at her closely.He smiled despite not knowing what a 'Video call' Is.
She was not the Radha of his past. Not entirely.
But in that moment—in the softness of her smile, in the steadiness of her presence—she was everything his Radha had been.
And something tightened in his throat.
He turned his head quickly, hoping she wouldn't see it.
But she did.
She always did.
"Karan?" she said gently, placing her hand on his shoulder.
He looked away. His hands curled on his lap.
He would not cry.
Not now.
Not here.
Not again.
But Radha simply smiled, warm and bright and timeless. "I'll make some kheer," she said softly. "You always liked that as a boy."
His breath hitched.
And just like that—he was no longer Karan.
He was Karna, the child abandoned, found in a basket, fed by a mother who had no reason to love him—but did anyway.
And even now, across time and rebirth and fractured memory, she was still here.
Still loving.
Still making kheer.
He closed his eyes.
For the first time in these two days, he let himself breathe.
---