The very next week, Aaron and Apoorva slipped back into their routine. Now the discussion between Aaron and Apoorva is not only the works of office but also the shared responsibilities of the Sanctuary. Both carried the same previous energy, precision, dedication, courage to lead the challenges - not even a small flinch in their attitude.
On the surface, it was simply Aaron and Apoorva—their roles defined, their responsibilities clear. But beneath that steady rhythm, both carried shadows of unspoken emotions. They guarded them carefully, tucking them away behind steady smiles and deliberate professionalism. Neither dared to reveal the weight within their hearts. Instead, they wore masks of normalcy, acting as though nothing stirred in their inner worlds.It was easier that way—for now.
By the end of the day, Aaron quietly carried with him the portrait Meera had drawn, its edges carefully wrapped in paper. He held it close as he walked toward his car, the way one might carry something fragile. Apoorva happened to join him at that moment, and her eyes fell upon the covered frame. To anyone else, it was just an object hidden beneath paper. But to her heart, it was painfully familiar—a token that once shimmered as hope, now looking more like a weight he wished to discard.
Her chest tightened, her mind whispering cruelly, he's probably taking it away to throw it, to remove what no longer matters. She forced a smile, parted ways with him, and walked toward her car. The ache followed her home like an unwelcome shadow.
The moment Apoorva opened her door, little Roohi flung herself into her arms, hugging her with all the force of her small body. In that instant, the heaviness cracked. Apoorva bent low, burying her face into Roohi's hair, her heart softening at the innocence that asked for nothing but love."You are the very gift he has left me, Roohi", she vowed silently, kissing her daughter's forehead with quiet reverence. "No matter what life offers, no matter what I ache for, I will never choose anyone over you. Never".
Later, after freshening up and sharing a quiet dinner, Apoorva sank into the sofa, the day's exhaustion weighing on her shoulders. Roohi padded toward her, clutching the book they had been reading together, her eyes wide with the innocent demand only a child could carry. "Mama... can we read the story today too?"
Apoorva's lips curved into a tired but genuine smile. Reading aloud might be the balm she needed too. She took the book gently from Roohi's hands, settled her daughter beside her, and opened it to the bookmarked page—the place where they had paused last time. Her voice, though weary, carried warmth as she resumed the tale, letting each word soften the day's wounds, at least for the moment.
Apoorva started to read, "When the little girl first went to school, she often found herself lost. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't follow what the teachers were saying, and slowly, she began to fall behind. It made her feel sorrowful, but she never spoke of it at home. Why? Because at home, she was never judged by marks or ranks. Her parents had taught her something different—something greater. They only taught her how to live like a human: to be kind, to be generous, and to make the world around her shine with happiness. Those teachings left a mark on her heart that no grades ever could.
But one day, the teachers called her parents to school. They had complaints—her daughter was scoring very low in every subject. The teacher laid all the papers in front of them, pointing at her marks as proof of failure. Yet, her parents didn't look ashamed, nor did they question their daughter. Instead, her father looked straight at the teacher and, in his gentle tone, began to ask:
'Madam, has my daughter ever misbehaved with anyone in the class?'The teacher shook her head. 'No.''Has she ever fought with another student?' 'No.''Has she ever disrespected any faculty?' 'No.''Does she avoid doing her work?' 'No.'Her father nodded calmly. 'Then what exactly is the problem?'The teacher, now slightly irritated, pushed the score sheets forward. 'Look at her marks. She is the last in everything!'
But her father only smiled faintly and replied, 'These papers test nothing but memory, madam—not intelligence. If you ever find fault in her behavior, in her kindness, or in her character, call us then. That day, we will consider taking her out of this school.' With dignity, he took his little daughter's hand and walked out of the classroom.
As they stepped outside, he bent down and asked her softly, 'Dear, how many white cars are parked in the lot?' The little girl looked carefully, stretched out her tiny fingers, and began to count. 'Four, Daddy.' 'And how many red cars?' 'Three, Daddy.' 'And bikes?' She waited a moment, counted patiently, and then answered, 'Eleven, Daddy.' 'Good. Now, tell me the total number of vehicles in the parking lot.'
She paused, thought carefully, then said, 'Nineteen, Daddy.'Her father chuckled lightly. 'But 4+3+11 is only eighteen, isn't it?''Yes, Daddy... but look here, Our scooty—you forget to notice it. With that, it's nineteen.'Her father looked at her, eyes glowing with pride, and smiled from the depths of his heart. 'Very good, my dear. Then why don't you answer the simple questions like this in your exams?'The little girl lowered her head and whispered in a tone filled with both sorrow and truth, 'Because, Daddy... they never teach me the way you do.' "
After telling the story, Roohi looked up at her mother with her wide, thoughtful eyes and asked, "Mom, isn't she intelligent, not dumb as her teachers thought?"
Apoorva's heart softened. She stroked Roohi's hair and smiled gently. "Yes, my dear," she said with a voice both tender and firm, "she is smart indeed! Sometimes, people mistake quiet strength and different ways of learning as weakness. But true intelligence isn't always about marks—it's about how you see the world, how kind you are, and how deeply you think. And that girl... she had all of that."
Apoorva continued, her voice mellow and tender,"When she was in kindergarten, one day she came home covered in mud. Her mother was startled and upset—her frock was stained, her hands dirty, her little shoes caked with brown clay. After freshening her up, her father gently asked, 'What happened, dear? Did you fall in the mud?'
But the little girl shook her head and said, 'No, Daddy. An old man was carrying pots, and they slipped from his hands. The clay spilled everywhere, and he was trying to gather it all alone. No one went to help him. I saw him struggling, so I went too. At first, he said, 'No, child, don't touch this—your dress will get dirty, and your parents will scold you.'
But I told him, 'Grandpa, my parents will be happier to see stains on my dress than sadness on your face.'
Her father sat in stunned silence, staring at her tiny face glowing with such pure conviction. Then, very slowly, he lifted her into his lap and kissed her forehead."
Apoorva's voice softened as she went on,"The very next day, when the little girl came back from school, she found the same old man standing near their gate. In his wrinkled hands, he held a small clay pot with a tiny flower blooming inside.
He smiled warmly as he saw her and said, 'My child, yesterday you did not just help me with mud—you planted something bigger in my heart. This flower pot is nothing compared to the kindness you showed me, but I want you to keep it. Let it remind you that even small hands can lift big burdens.'
Her parents were moved to silence. The old man looked at them and added, 'You are raising not just a daughter, but a light for this world. Be proud of her, for I have never seen such compassion in someone so young.'
The little girl, beaming, hugged the pot to her chest as though it were the most precious gift she had ever received. Her father placed a hand on her shoulder and whispered, 'See, my dear? Flowers bloom not only in soil, but in the hearts you choose to water.'
That evening, the pot was placed on the windowsill of their small home, where it caught the sunlight each morning. And every time the girl saw it, she remembered—not all rewards are medals or certificates. Sometimes, the truest prize is a smile you've brought to another's face."
Apoorva paused, glancing at Roohi. The child's eyes were misty, her lips curved into a tender smile.Apoorva's voice carried a gentle rhythm as she went on,
"A few days later, the old man returned, his smile brighter than ever. He told the girl and her parents, 'I own a small nursery at the edge of town. It's not much—just rows of little saplings, flowers, and pots I care for. If you would allow, I would love for your daughter to visit. Children should see how life grows from the soil they walk on.'
Her father's eyes lit up, and he immediately agreed. 'We will come,' he promised with warmth.And so, the very next weekend, the father and his little daughter set off together. After a short ride, they reached the place—and what unfolded before them left the girl wide-eyed. The old man had said it was "not much," but before her stood a nursery so vast, it looked like it could hold ten houses side by side.
At the entrance, a wooden board swung gently in the breeze. Painted neatly in bold letters were the words: "Parvathi Nursery."
The little girl whispered the name under her breath, tasting each syllable as if it were a spell. 'Parvathi Nursery...' She smiled. It sounded sacred, almost magical.
As they stepped inside, the old man appeared, waiting near the path with his bright, welcoming smile. His frail figure carried an energy that seemed to blend perfectly with the life blooming all around him. 'Welcome, welcome!' he said with joy, as though he had been waiting just for them.The father and daughter followed him deeper inside. The path stretched forward, shaded by tall neem and gulmohar trees whose leaves danced in the sunlight. The air was rich with the earthy scent of wet soil and the sweetness of jasmine drifting from a nearby hedge.
Rows of plants flanked them on either side—roses, marigolds, hibiscus, chrysanthemums—all neatly arranged in clay pots. Butterflies floated lazily above the blossoms, while tiny bees hummed busily between the flowers. The little girl's eyes darted everywhere, her heart soaking in the beauty like a sponge.
And then, as they walked further, she noticed something unusual: nestled at the far corner of the nursery stood a small, tiled-roof house. Its veranda was shaded by flowering creepers, and a tulasi pot sat proudly at the entrance, glowing in the morning light.
The old man pointed with a smile. 'That is our home. The plants are my companions, my children. I live here among them, and they keep me alive.'
As they made their way towards his house, the little girl slowed down, her curious eyes scanning everything she passed. She noticed the saplings arranged like schoolchildren in neat rows, each at different stages of growth—some tiny, some strong, some still fragile. She saw long creepers curling around bamboo supports, climbing higher and higher as though reaching for dreams. She bent to touch a small guava plant and whispered, 'One day, you will give sweet fruits to someone.'