The Raichand Villa was still alive with echoes of laughter from the feast when Avni—no longer just Meera, but the mother who had gathered her children under one roof again—rose from her seat. Her sari, simple yet dignified, flowed like a river as she walked toward the center of the hall. The room hushed at once.
"I have waited twenty-two years for this moment," she began, her voice steady, but her eyes glistening with memory. "Our family was broken once, scattered like stars in a storm. Tonight, we stand together again. And before the night ends, I want us to seal this moment—not just with food or laughter, but with tradition."
The younger ones looked curious, and even the elders leaned forward. Avni signaled to Kealen, who brought a small silver tray. On it rested a brass diya (lamp), rice grains, sandalwood paste, and sacred red thread.
"This is an old Raichand ritual," Avni explained. "A prayer for unity. A blessing that no matter where life scatters us, the bond of blood and love will always bring us back."
She lit the diya, the warm flame flickering as though it, too, breathed with the family's heartbeat. "Each child—each member—will place a pinch of rice into the lamp's tray. Rice, because it stands for prosperity, continuity, and the home that always feeds us."
One by one, they stepped forward. Aghav first, his broad hands steady as he placed the grains with a solemn bow. "For strength," he whispered. Seraphina followed, Mira in her arms, guiding the child's tiny fist to drop rice. "For innocence and renewal," Seraphina said softly.
Vivaan came next, his usual sharp wit softened. "For courage," he offered, looking briefly at Anika, who smiled back. Reyansh added his own with a quiet "For resilience," his eyes meeting Sasha's, the bond unspoken but clear.
Aria and Anaya approached together, the sisters glancing at Mukul before placing their rice. "For hope," Aria said. "For healing," Anaya added.
Then Mukul stepped forward—the youngest, yet the one who had carried the heaviest burden. He bowed before his mother, his hand trembling just slightly as he placed the grains. His voice was low but steady: "For wholeness. For a family that will never be broken again."
Avni's eyes filled as she reached for the red thread. "Now," she said, "as is tradition, we tie this thread around each other's wrists—not as a symbol of control, but of protection. Wherever you go, this bond will walk with you."
She tied the first thread around Aghav's wrist, then passed it to him to tie Vivaan's, and so it went, each sibling tying for the next, each knot sealing not only tradition but trust. When it reached Mukul, the youngest, he tied it gently around his mother's wrist. The circle was complete.
The diya glowed brighter, as if the flame itself approved of their vow.
Avni placed her palms together and closed her eyes. "Tonight, I bless you not as a matriarch, but as a mother. May your paths be lit even in darkness. May your love for each other remain unshaken, and may the generations after us inherit peace instead of scars."
The family stood in silence for a heartbeat, the weight of her words pressing tenderly against their hearts. Then, almost as if on cue, the children broke it—Kael tugging on Vivaan's sleeve, asking if the red thread made him a superhero now. Laughter rippled through the hall, lightening the solemn air without diminishing its power.
Avni smiled, wiping her tears. "Yes, Kael. Tonight, we are all superheroes. Because we are together."
The ritual ended, but the memory etched itself into every heart present. No one doubted—it was not just a blessing; it was a promise.
The Raichand family, once fractured and scarred, had written its own rebirth.