She was still clinging to me, crying uncontrollably. Not a single word had left her lips, yet I could feel every ounce of her pain. Each tear burned inside me, as if it were melting away whatever walls I had built over the years.
I placed my hand gently on her head, stroking her hair, whispering without words for her to calm down. Slowly, her sobs quieted. When she finally pulled back, she stared into my eyes for a long moment. Something unspoken lingered there. Then, without warning, she turned, running away as fast as her trembling legs could carry her.
My father called her name, his voice deep and commanding, but she didn't stop. She vanished into the crowd, leaving behind an emptiness I couldn't explain. Perhaps no one else in the world could understand her pain. No one but me because right now, I was carrying the same weight.
My mother came closer and touched my arm. "Son, give her some time. Don't take her reaction to heart."
I only gave a faint smile in response, picked up my trunk, and walked ahead. The rest of the family followed in silence.
As we stepped outside the gates, a storm of reporters rushed forward, microphones flashing in my face, their voices overlapping into a blur of questions. Security guards shoved them back while we moved toward the waiting cars.
I sat inside and turned my head one last time. The reporters were still shouting, their chaos filling the air. But amidst that noise, I noticed a pair of eyes watching me quietly. Calm. Searching. Our gazes met, and the corners of her lips lifted into a smile.
And just like that, I was pulled back into the pages of history.
"Come on, stop it. Someone will see us."
"Let them. Do you think I'm afraid of anyone?"
"This is a public place. We can't…"
"What does the public matter? We're not doing anything wrong. I just want to rest my head in your lap and lose myself in those dark eyes of yours."
"You like my eyes that much?"
"Like is too small a word. Even if we're ever separated, I could find you in a crowd of thousands by your eyes alone. Even if you never said a word, I'd understand everything just by looking into them."
"Really? But you better never joke about leaving me. Not even once."
"Alright, alright. I promise. I'll never leave you."
"Never?"
"Never."
"Promise?"
"A promise I'll never break."
The memory shattered as the car jolted forward. My father sat silently in the front seat, my mother beside me in the back. She held my hand tightly, her other hand caressing my hair, as though she couldn't believe I was real again.
But Anaya… she wasn't with us. She had already slipped away into another car. Maybe she needed space. Maybe she needed to breathe.
Police escorts surrounded us, leading and following our vehicle. No one spoke. Each of us, I suspected, was caught in thoughts of her reaction, trying to understand it. I turned my eyes outside instead, watching Mumbai pass me by.
This city had raised me. Yet after eight years away, it looked like a stranger. Buildings taller, roads busier, faces unfamiliar. Everything had changed. Or maybe it was me who had changed.
At a red light, children rushed between the cars. A young boy began wiping the windshield of our car before tapping at the glass for money. The driver snapped at him, waving him away. My eyes instinctively went to my father. Once, he had despised beggars, anger flaring at the mere sight of them. But today, there was no fury. He only glanced at the boy, then turned away quickly. For the briefest second, I caught the shimmer of moisture in his eyes before he hid it.
The boy ran back to a little girl, no more than eight or nine, who clutched a bunch of tulips in her small hands. She noticed me through the glass. I gestured for her to come closer. She ran up, shy at first, but her eyes lit with courage as she offered me the flowers.
I accepted them with care, reached into the torn pocket of my shirt, and pulled out a five-hundred-rupee note. Her smile faltered. She looked at it, then shook her head. "Bhaiya, this note isn't valid anymore."
Confused, I turned toward my mother. She quickly pulled out a two-thousand-rupee note and handed it through the window. The little girl accepted it but returned my old note. "I can't take extra money. I don't have change."
Before I could speak, my mother interrupted softly. "Keep it, child. It's alright."
But the girl shook her head. "No. My brother told me never to take more than what's fair. Wait here. I'll bring change." She ran back to her brother, clutching the note tightly, determined.
Her honesty made me smile without even realizing it. She was hurrying back toward us, but before she could reach the car, the light turned green. Our driver pressed the accelerator, and the city swallowed her small figure in the rearview mirror.
I lowered the window, glanced at the old note still in my hand, and turned it over. My parents were watching me with quiet curiosity.
"What are you looking at, son?" my father asked at last.
I lifted my head and met his gaze. "Value, Father. Which holds more worth—the currency that has lost all meaning, or the smile of that little girl when I accepted her flowers?"
Then, without hesitation, I tore the note in two. My father stared, unreadable, then looked away, silent. I gazed down at the tulip in my hand, its soft petals trembling with each breath I took, and drifted into another memory.
"I'm sorry, gudiya. I was about to come when I got caught up in something."
"Arjun, how could you? You promised you'd come pick me up from school."
"I know, I know. But something came up. I couldn't make it in time."
"What could possibly be more important than me? Did you just forget about me?"
"Forget you? That's impossible. Even if I died, I'd come back as a ghost just to stay with you."
"Don't you dare say that! Never talk about dying."
"Alright, I'm sorry."
"No sorry. You broke your promise. Go spend time with your so-called girlfriend instead. Nobody cares about me."
"Who told you that? If you didn't matter to me, why would I bring you these tulips?"
"These… are for me?"
"Of course. That's why I was late."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Then it's fine… I love you, Arjun. These are so beautiful."
"Not as beautiful as you."
The car slowed, pulling to a stop. The memory faded, and I found myself staring at the iron gates of our family home. Our bungalow towered ahead, a place I had once known
as everything… and now, it felt like the beginning of something entirely new.