The home stood at the edge of a quiet hill where the town's noise gave way to birdsong. Its gates, painted a soft green, opened into a courtyard dappled with sunlight filtering through neem trees. Petals often carpet the ground here in late spring, turning the path into rivers of flower petals.
The building was old but well kept. Its whitewashed walls were lined with flowering vines that curled lazily around the balcony fence. In the afternoons, you could smell fresh bread from the kitchen, baked for everyone. There was a garden too—not perfect, but loved—where roses leaned over the fence as if eager to greet visitors. A mango tree stood proudly in the center, its shade sprawling across verandas where people gathered, a swing hanging from one of its thicker branches, creaking gently as someone pushed themselves back and forth.
The residents were as much a part of the place as the flowers and the trees. They sat together under the shade—some with sketchbooks, some humming tunes to themselves, and some simply watching the sunlight move across the ground. Their voices were low and sudden, and each one carried a story in their eyes but not in mind—stories that didn't always fit neatly into the world outside these gates.
Some walked with a careful and even rhythm, as if each step had to be measured. Some spoke slowly, letting each word bloom before the next came. Others didn't speak at all, but communicated in smiles, nods, and touches on the arm. There were those whose hands trembled when they poured tea, and those whose gaze sometimes wandered far beyond the horizon, as if chasing a memory only they could see. Two friends, one guiding the other by the elbow, laughed as they tried to convince a stubborn kitten under a bench to come out.
Here, though, none of it was strange. It was simply life, lived in different ways—unheard, unmasked, and unashamed. I often thought of it not as a place for the disabled, but as a place where the world remembered how to be gentle.
While observing all this, she stepped forward, her smile blooming like a welcome home. "Veenamma, Appu, and little Roohi", Her voice was rich with affection. The driver opened the trunk, revealing neatly wrapped packages in soft pastels—books, shawls, dresses, puzzles, boxes of sweets—not just gifts for them, but tokens of love—a way of showing care for everyone who called this place home.
Apoorva carefully lifted the smallest one Roohi had chosen herself. Roohi, clutching her teddy in her hand, looked around cautiously but with the guarded gaze she always had here.
There, Apoorva watched her mother's face. Something in the expression—a gentle pride, a fierce protectiveness. After all, this was not just a place she visits every year; she had built it from the ground up, a sanctuary for those whom the world had overlooked. She never spoke much about it outside, but here, everyone knew she was the reason this place existed at all.
Anitha led them toward the shaded veranda where several residents had gathered. Some looked up with curiosity, others waved shyly.
The cake cutting ceremony has finished and Apoorva began handing out the gifts one by one—soft shawls, packets of sweets, dresses in vibrant colors. Each present was met with a polite smile, a heartfelt "thank you," or a touch that lingered just a moment longer than usual. Roohi, shy at first, began carrying some of the smaller parcels to the elders, gaining gentle pats on the head and blessings whispered in voices lined with age.
When the table was nearly empty, Apoorva handed over that small box to Roohi. Only one young girl remained to receive the gift. Her mother asked Roohi to gift it to the young girl, who was of like age of 19 years, under the mango tree. But Roohi hesitated, shrinking back just slightly. "I don't want to go there," she whispered, her voice barely audible. The memory of her last visit still troubled her—when she had gone near casually, the girl, who was mentally disturbed, had suddenly shouted. The act had frightened Roohi so much that even now she hesitated to step closer.
Her granny crouched down, her voice soft but steady. "I know it's hard, sweetheart, but remember—this place is full of people who need kindness. And kindness helps heal, even when we don't understand."
Roohi looked up, searching her mom's face for assurance, but the anxiety lingered. She held that box tightly and avoided glancing towards the girl. Her granny took Roohi's small hands, smiling at her tenderly. Apoorva stepped close behind them. Together, they led Roohi towards the young girl sitting under the shade. "Come on," her granny said softly, kneeling down to meet her gaze. "Why don't you open the box now?"
Roohi hesitated, fingers trembling as she untied the silver ribbon and lifted the lid. Inside was a delicate bracelet—pink and white beads strung carefully on a thin thread. Her own fingers had picked it out the day before, carefully selecting each bead during the shopping for her lovely mom. "Mom, I chose this for you," Roohi whispered.
Apoorva smiled gently but said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them. Her granny placed a comforting hand on Roohi's shoulder. Roohi's gaze flickered between her mother and the young girl, her little mind wrestling to understand. "Why?... Why are you gifting this to her?"
Her grandma's voice was calm but tender. "Sometimes, the people we care about most need a little extra kindness, even if it's hard to see or understand at first." Roohi's small hand trembled as she reached out, the weight of a thousand conflicting feelings pressing down on her—anger, confusion, helplessness. She didn't want to be here. She didn't want to be a part of this moment, but the steady gazes of her mom and granny left no choice.
With a heavy sigh, she slipped the delicate bracelet from the box and tied it softly to that girl's wrist. The young girl's eyes fluttered briefly, unfocused, as if struggling to understand the act unfolding before her. She didn't recognize Veena, Apoorva and Roohi even though she was staying there from past six years and watching them every consecutive year. Years of trauma had woven an impenetrable fog around her memories.
When she was just 12, the girl had endured a terrible violence — a brutal assault that shattered her innocence and sent her spiraling into darkness. The world she once knew had become a fractured maze, and no matter how hard she tried, the pieces never quite fit back together. That trauma followed her, stealing the clarity of her mind and leaving her vulnerable, frightened, and lost. She was cared for in this sanctuary, but the shadows of her past clung tightly, making it impossible for her to reclaim the life she had once dreamed of.
Though justice had been served, and the man who shattered that young girl's life was behind bars, Apoorva carried a silent torment - no punishment could heal the wounds carried in her soul, nor bring back the stolen years of innocence and normalcy.
Inside, Veena and Roohi moved gently through the dining hall, carrying trays of food and handing out plates with warm smiles and tender care. Roohi's earlier unease seemed to soften as she watched her mom's interaction with the residents, the quiet tenderness in her granny's actions slowly drawing her into the rhythm of the home.
Outside, under the wide canopy of the garden's ancient banyan, Apoorva and Anitha sat apart from the bustle. The air was fragrant with blooming jasmine, and the soft hum of bees moved from flower to flower in the breeze. Anitha folded her hands thoughtfully. "The doctor's visit last week gave us hope, though the road is long. Some of them have shown small but steady progress—better awareness, fewer moments of confusion. Others remain trapped in their own shadows, unreachable but safe here."
Apoorva nodded, her brow furrowed with the weight of responsibility. "And the therapies? Are the sessions helping?"
Anitha's smile was gentle, almost weary. "Through occupational therapy, music, even simple activities like gardening - they seem minor, but they plant seeds of healing. The change is slow, barely noticeable day to day, but with time, they bloom in ways we don't always see at first." Apoorva glanced toward the dining hall window, where the soft golden light spilled out. Inside Veena and Roohi, their figures moving steadily among the residents.
"Patience is everything here," Anitha continued, her voice softer now. "It's not just about recovery—it's about creating a place where these souls can live with dignity, with moments of peace, even if the past cannot be erased."
"You know, Appu, it was such a brave and beautiful idea to create this place. Many wouldn't have had the courage or the heart to even begin." Anitha added after a pause. Apoorva shook her head softly, brushing off the praise with quiet grace. "I may have planted the seed, but you... you are the gardener. You've been here every day, watering it with care, patience, and unwavering love. Without you and everyone like you, this place wouldn't have grown into the strong, sheltering tree it is today". Anitha's smile deepened, touched by the humility and warmth in Apoorva's words.
After their quiet exchange beneath the banyan tree, Apoorva and Anitha walked slowly toward the dining hall, where Roohi and Veena were busy helping the residents settle comfortably with their meals. Before joining them, Apoorva stopped to speak with the team of helpers who had been quietly supporting Anitha throughout these years. These men and women—soft-spoken, tireless, and patient—were the true heart of the home's daily rhythm.
"Thank you all for your dedication," Apoorva said warmly, meeting each face with genuine gratitude. "It's because of your constant care that this place thrives." One of the helpers, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, stepped forward with an earnest smile. "Appu," she said softly, her tone warm and familiar, "it's not just work for us—it's family. Every little smile we see, every small step forward the residents make… it's worth everything."
Apoorva returned the smile, feeling the sincerity in those words. The way the woman used her name without titles or formalities, It felt like a quiet thread weaving them together in the fabric of this place. Here, words like "Madam" or "Sir" would have felt out of place, as distant and artificial as a cold office corridor. This was different.
This was home.
The unspoken understanding between them was clear. Here, respect was shown not through formal titles, but through shared care, truth, and the quiet bonds that grew with every passing day. Apoorva understood now, more than ever, that the sanctuary was more than just walls and roofs—it was built from countless acts of kindness, repeated day after day.
Together, Apoorva and Anitha stepped into the bustling dining hall. The rich aroma of spices and freshly cooked vegetables filled the air. Veena and Roohi were already seated with some of the residents, sharing a thali brimming with love—Pulihora, tangy and bright, like a burst of joy sprinkled with cashews of delight; Poornam, dripping with ghee, as sweet and comforting as a mother's embrace; Bajji, crisp and golden, like the laughter that crackles in a happy home; Muddapappu with Avakaya, soft and fiery, like gentle hearts carrying sparks of passion; Ghee-Podi melting into steaming Rice, like warmth seeping into every bond; and Sambar, rich and aromatic, like the soul that ties every memory together. The atmosphere was alive with laughter and soft conversation. Roohi, at first hesitant, began to relax—her shy smile returning as she recounted small, happy moments from earlier in the day.
For a while, the heavy weight of the world lifted—replaced by a sense of belonging and quiet joy. But as the meal came to a close, a subtle stillness settled among them. Plates were cleared, the clatter of utensils replaced by soft sighs and exchanged glances. The time to leave was drawing near—and with it, a familiar sadness.
Roohi squeezed Veena's hand tightly, her young face clouded with an emotion she couldn't quite name. Apoorva, too, felt the pull in her chest—the bittersweet ache of departure that never seemed to ease, no matter how many times she returned. As they packed to leave, the heaviness grew. The car pulled away slowly from the gates of the home, and Roohi pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window, staring out at the fading grounds.
Why did leaving feel so heavy this time? The question lingered silently in the air, unanswered - but somewhere deep inside, a quiet seed of understanding had already begun to take root. By the time they reached home, the weight and weariness of the day had settled heavily on their shoulders.