The morning sunlight streamed softly through the jaali windows as I walked down the wooden stairs, Sarpanch ji's steady steps echoing beside me. My dupatta was tucked carefully, my anklets chiming faintly as we reached the aangan. He gave me a small nod before heading out toward the courtyard, where a few men were already waiting to talk to him about village matters. I folded my hands with respect and stepped aside, moving toward the kitchen.

Inside, the familiar smell of roasted jeera and hing greeted me. Damini kaki was already busy, her hands moving with practiced ease as she mixed ingredients for papad ka batter. I quickly tied my dupatta tighter and joined her, rolling up my sleeves slightly. "Aao, bhigni, zara ye papad ka ghola sambhalo," she said with a warm smile. I felt a little proud helping in these small rituals made me feel like I truly belonged here. Together, we stirred, our bangles clinking, flour rising like soft clouds in the warm kitchen air.

Once that was done, I took over the stove and prepared haldi ki sabji. The golden turmeric gave out its earthy fragrance, blending with the tang of spices. Alongside, I prepared sev ki sabji, the texture soft yet filling. The kadai hissed and bubbled, and I lost myself in the rhythm of cooking. Soon, the roti ki belan ki thap-thap started echoing, but today it wasn't mine. Kakisa had already told me gently, "Diya, ab tu roti mat banaya kar... ek nayi chhori rakhi hai roti banavan khatar. Tu sirf sabji banaya kar, kyunki thara haathan ma to Devi Annapurna ro aashirwad hai... aur swaad to bas thara haathan ma hi ave"

("Diya, you don't need to make rotis anymore... we have kept a new girl for that. You just cook the vegetables curry, because your hands carry the blessings of Goddess Annapurna... and the true taste comes only through your touch")

At her words, my cheeks turned warm, a soft blush rising on my skin. Annapurna... goddess of food. No one had ever said something like that to me before. I just lowered my gaze, hiding my smile, but inside my heart felt strangely full.

After the men finished their breakfast, they got up one by one. I carefully gathered the thalis, watching silently as each went on with his day. Sarpanch ji headed toward the panchayat office, his white turban glowing in the sunlight. Babasa adjusted his shawl and walked toward the factory, his stride firm, filled with responsibility. Kartik bhaisa, with his school bag bouncing on his shoulder, called out a cheerful bye before running off, his laughter trailing behind.

The house felt quieter then. I moved back into the kitchen, preparing bajre ki khichdi especially for Dadisa. I carried the warm bowl to her room, careful not to spill. She was sitting on her low wooden cot, her silver hair gleaming under the morning light. As I set the thali before her, she looked up at me with such softness that it almost broke me. 

"Bahut pyar syan banayi hai tu"she said, placing her wrinkled hand gently over mine. Her blessing was unspoken but deep, and when she smiled at me, I felt like I was glowing from inside.

("You have made this with so much love")

Later, when the house was calmer, Kakisa, Maasa, and I sat together to eat. There was something sacred about eating after everyone else—like a hidden ritual just for the women. We shared food, small laughs, and stories in between. The flavors felt richer when eaten with them, like a quiet bond binding us.

Afterwards, I stood up to wash the dishes, but before I could take them, Kakisa caught my hand. "Diya, aaj bas... itno kaam kafi hai. Thak gyi hovegi tu.." Her tone was firm yet filled with care. I tried to protest, "Par Kakisa... bartan toh?" but she didn't let me finish. Instead, she gently tugged me along to her room.

("Diya, that's enough for today... you must be tired.")

("But Kakisa... the dishes")

Inside, she made me sit down on the wooden takhat. The room smelled faintly of sandalwood and marigolds. She disappeared for a moment and returned with a small katora. "Arey, bartan ki chinta mat kar Diya... wo nayi chhori kar legi. Tu ja, aram kar le" Her eyes softened as she dipped her fingers into the yellow paste of haldi and the cooling gel of gawarpetha.

("Oh don't worry about the dishes, Diya... the new girl will take care of them. You go and take some rest.")

When her warm hands touched mine, I flinched slightly. My palms were sore—red from all the kneading, chopping, and washing. She looked at them carefully, her brows knitting in worry. "Itno kaam karti hai tu... dekh, thara haath kitna nazuk ho gyo.." Her voice was almost a whisper. Then, with gentle strokes, she applied the paste, spreading it slowly over the redness.

("You do so much work... just look, how delicate your hands have become")

I sat there quietly, watching her fingers move like a mother's would. The haldi stung a little at first but then cooled, the gawarpetha soothing like a soft breath on a wound. My throat tightened. No one had ever done something like this for me. Care... gentle, unasked-for care.

I blinked back sudden tears and forced a smile, "Dhanyavaad, Kakisa." She looked at me, reading the emotions I tried so hard to hide, and simply smiled back, patting my cheek. My heart melted.

("Thankyou kakisa")

In that moment, I felt... not just like a helper, not just like someone living in this haveli, but like a daughter being loved.

And I smiled—truly, heartfully.

Suddenly, a memory washed over me, soft and golden like the morning sun. I remembered the moment when I had first opened my eyes that day. A faint fragrance lingered around me, something earthy yet soothing, clinging gently to my skin. Confused, I lifted my hands and blinked. My palms carried a yellow stain, fresh yet faint, glowing under the first rays of dawn. Haldi. My breath caught. Not just haldi(turmeric powder)... maybe something else too—gawarpatha(alovera), I thought, because the cooling touch still lingered in the cracks of my skin. My hands, where only last evening there had been swelling and bruises, now carried a balm. A comfort. A quiet care.

I stared at my palms for long moments, my mind trying to make sense. Who could have done this? I had fallen asleep without tending to them, too exhausted to even think. My throat tightened, and slowly my gaze shifted toward the other side of the room. There, lying calmly on the bed, was Sarpanch ji. His shawl had slipped slightly off his shoulder, the lines of his face softened in sleep. He looked so different like this—serene, almost boyish, so unlike the stern and composed man everyone bowed to during the day. The sight made my heart ache in a way I couldn't explain.

For a second, I doubted myself. Maybe it wasn't him. Maybe I had absentmindedly applied it before sleeping? But no... I would have remembered. My thoughts clouded, tumbling over one another, until I noticed it. The small bowl. Sitting quietly on the low wooden table near the bed. A thin streak of haldi clung to its rim, and my breath hitched when I saw the faint yellow mark smeared faintly across his own fingers. In that single moment, the truth wrapped around me like the warmth of a dupatta on a cold morning. It was him. Sarpanch ji. The one who had noticed my pain when I thought no one had. The one who had cared for my bruised hands while I slept unaware.

My eyes softened, filling with a tenderness I hadn't expected. A smile broke across my lips, unbidden but unstoppable. It wasn't a small smile—it was wide, trembling, the kind of smile that comes only when the heart is too full. He hadn't said a word. He hadn't waited for thanks. He had simply seen, and healed, and left me to discover it in silence. That quiet care touched me more than any grand gesture ever could. My chest felt heavy, but in the most beautiful way.

I turned my face back to him. His lashes lay heavy against his skin, his breaths deep and even, as if the world could never disturb him. My eyes lingered on the faint curve of his lips, the stillness of his hands resting calmly over his chest. How could someone look so strong and yet so gentle at the same time? My heart whispered things I wasn't ready to admit, but I couldn't stop watching him. I thought of the world outside—the endless duties, the weight of respect, the name everyone chanted with reverence. But here, in this room, he was just... mine to see. A man who had quietly stayed awake to ease the ache in my hands.

I curled my palms together, pressing them close to my heart. They no longer stung the way they had yesterday. Instead, they carried his touch, his thought, his silent promise. And for the first time, I felt something stir deep within me—not just gratitude, but a bond. A bond made not of words, but of actions. A bond sealed with hstronger than any spoken vow.

My eyes blurred with unshed tears, though not of sorrow. They were the kind of tears that rise when the soul is overwhelmed. I quickly wiped them away, afraid of disturbing the peace of that morning. Yet I couldn't stop my gaze from wandering back to him. Even in sleep, he looked like the anchor of my world, the calm in my storm. And though I never said it aloud, in that moment, I knew: this man saw me. Truly saw me. Every bruise, every silence, every hidden ache. And instead of questioning, he healed.

As the morning bells chimed from the distant mandir, I rested my head lightly against the wall, clutching my hands to my chest. A soft laugh escaped me, fragile and full of warmth. How foolish of me to ever think I was alone. My lips whispered silently, a prayer more than words: Thank you. For this care. For this love, even if you never say it. For being the unseen guardian of my pain.

And with that thought, my smile grew wider, brighter, unstoppable—lighting up even the quiet corners of my heart. Because now I knew. It was him. Always him.

I was lost in my thoughts, the fragrance of haldi still lingering faintly on my palms when a voice suddenly pulled me back.

"Ji, Kakisa," I quickly responded, standing up and straightening my dupatta.

Damini Kakisa tilted her head, watching me with a soft, knowing smile. "Kya hoyo, Bhigni? Kithe kho gyi se tu?"

("What happened, d-i-l? Where are you lost?")

Her tone was gentle, but it carried a hint of curiosity, like she had caught me daydreaming. I lowered my gaze, shaking my head lightly.

"Nowhere, Kaki," I murmured, forcing a small smile.

She hummed, clearly unconvinced, but didn't push further. Instead, her eyes sparkled as she suddenly shared, "Aaj mhare ghar ri beti aave hai... ghano utsahit hai wo apni bhabhisa ne milan khatar"

("Today, the daughter of our home is coming... she is very excited to meet her sister-in-law")

Her words made me pause. My brows furrowed slightly in confusion as I repeated, "Daughter?"

Kakisa's face lit up with warmth. "Haan, Roshni... wo chaar saal ri hai. Kutch din syan apne mamasa ke ghar hti, par aaj aave hai. Mhare ghar ri sabsyan chhoti ne eklauti chhori hai."

("Yes, Roshni... she is four years old. For the past few days, she was at her uncle's home, but today she is coming back. She is the youngest and the only daughter of our family")

For a moment, I just stood there, stunned. A little girl. Four years old. The youngest and only daughter of the family. A child who had been away all this while, but now she was returning... and would meet me for the first time.

"Oh..." I breathed out softly, still processing. A wave of emotions hit me—first curiosity, then warmth, and then, slowly, a ripple of nervousness spread across my chest.

Would she like me? Would she accept me as her bhabhisa? What if she turned away, what if she cried, what if she found me strange? Children had their own innocent judgments, and sometimes those judgments cut deeper than any adult's words. My heart clenched at the thought.

But almost instantly, I pushed the fear aside. No. I cannot let this worry steal my happiness. This is a moment to cherish, not to fear.

I looked back at Kakisa, my voice soft but curious. "Kakisa... Roshni ke baare mein aur bataiye."

("Kakisa tell me something about her")

Her face lit up with joy at my interest. "Arey bhigni... mhari Roshni toh ghano pyaari hai. Chaar saal ri hai bas, par bolne mein badi-badi baat kare hai. Jaddo bhi aangan mein khelti hai, sab ghar ghoonj uthta hai hassey syan. Mhare ghar ri eklauti chhori hai, isliye sab ro laad uspar hai. Dadisa ne toh use apni aankhan ri roshni hi bol di hai, isliye naam bhi Roshni rakho hto. Guddu aur gudiya ke khel mein ghano man lagave hai, aur jab koi mehmaan aave toh chhoti maalkin ban ke sabse puchhe hai—'chaaj piyoge?"

("Oh d-i-l... our Roshni is very precious. She's only four, yet she speaks with such wit as if she's much older. Whenever she plays in the courtyard, her laughter echoes through the whole house. She's the only daughter of our family, so everyone showers her with love. Dadisa once said that she is the very light of her eyes, and that is why she was named Roshni. She loves playing with dolls and toys, and whenever guests arrive, she becomes the little queen of the house, innocently asking them—'Will you have buttermilk?")

I couldn't help but smile at the image. "Uski pasand ka khaana?"

("Her favourite food")

Kakisa chuckled softly, clearly amused by my eagerness. "Khaana? Oho, uski pasand to badi lambi hai re. Malpua to uski jaan hai, aur doodh ki rabdi bhi bina bole plate khali kar deve hai. Pyaaz ki kachori bhi ghani shauk se khave hai, mast chutney mein dubo ke."

("Food? Oh, her list of favorites is really long. Malpua is her true love, and as for milk rabdi, she finishes the plate without a word. She eats onion kachori with so much delight, dipping it in chutney with all her heart.")

I nodded quickly, absorbing every word like a student memorizing lessons. The more I heard, the more determined I became. If Roshni was excited to meet her bhabhisa, then I would make sure her first welcome was full of warmth and love. And food, of course. Food always carried the deepest affection.

But despite this determination, a quiet doubt still whispered at the back of my mind. What if she doesn't smile at me? What if she turns her face away?

I shook my head slightly, scolding myself in silence. No, I wouldn't let fear win. If I gave her love, one day she would surely give it back.

Still, the nervousness lingered, twisting with my excitement. I pressed my palms together, silently praying. Please, let her smile at me. Let her not fear me.

Kakisa patted my cheek gently. "Bhigni, tu chinta mat kar. 

("d-i-l , don't take stress")

Her reassurance was like a blessing, but I knew my restless heart wouldn't calm until I saw the girl with my own eyes.

Taking a deep breath, I looked toward the kitchen, determination rising in me. "Main uske vaaste kuch banaun, Kakisa. Jo usne ghano pasand ho... aur sabne vaaste bhi. Aaj pehli vaar mhari uss se mulaqat hove hai... chaahu su mharo pehlo din uske sang khushbu aur swaad su bharpur ho"

("I want to cook something for her, Kakisa. Something she loves the most... and for everyone too. Today I will be meeting her for the very first time... I wish her first day here to be filled with fragrance and flavors")

Kakisa's eyes glistened with affection, her lips curving in approval. She only nodded, pride evident in her gaze.

And with that, I turned, gathering my dupatta more firmly around me, and walked toward the kitchen. My heart beat fast, not with fear this time, but with anticipation. This was not just cooking anymore. This was preparing a welcome, a bond, a memory that might stay forever.

Diya walked into the kitchen with a small smile tugging at her lips, determination in her eyes. If little Roshni is coming home today, she should feel the warmth of family... and the warmth of food too, she thought softly.

She tied her dupatta properly, tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear, and looked around. The kitchen was quiet, sun rays filtering through the jaali windows, dancing on the copper pots.

"Come on, let's get started" she whispered to herself.

First, she decided on pyaaj ki kachori—crispy, flaky, filled with spiced onions.

She pulled out two bowls. In one, she mixed wheat flour with a pinch of salt and ghee, rubbing the ghee with her fingers till the flour looked like tiny crumbs. Slowly, she added water, kneading patiently. The soft thak-thak sound of her bangles echoed as her hands pressed the dough. She covered it with a cloth and set it aside to rest.

Next, she moved to the filling. She chopped two big onions, the knife hitting the wooden board rhythmically—tak, tak, tak. She heated oil in a kadhai, dropped cumin seeds, then green chillies. The sharp fragrance spread instantly, making her eyes water. "Bas... ab pyaaz," she murmured, adding the onions. They sizzled loudly. She stirred gently, adding fennel seeds, coriander powder, a pinch of hing, red chilli, and salt. The mixture turned golden, the smell rich and tempting.

"Roshni  baisa ne yeh pasand aavse ke na" she wondered aloud. Then she smiled. "aavse hi. Bachchi ne kaunsi kachori pasand na hoye"

("Will Roshni like this or not? Of course she will... after all, which child doesn't love kachori!")

While the mixture cooled, she rolled the dough into small balls, flattened them, and filled each with the spicy onion mix. Folding carefully, she pressed the edges and rolled them again. The oil was hot now; she slid the kachoris in. They puffed beautifully, golden and round. The kitchen filled with that irresistible aroma that always made stomachs growl.

She placed the first batch aside, covering them with a clean cotton cloth to keep them warm.

Now came the malpua—sweet, soft, dripping in sugar syrup.

She prepared the batter with maida, a little semolina, crushed fennel, and milk. She whisked it well till smooth, humming softly. Then she set a pan of sugar syrup to boil, adding cardamom for fragrance.

She heated ghee in a shallow pan, scooped a ladle of batter, and spread it gently in circles. The malpua sizzled, edges turning crisp while the center stayed soft. She flipped it carefully, golden on both sides, then dipped it straight into the warm syrup. "Mmm..." she smiled as the syrup clung to it, shiny and sticky. One by one, she fried and dipped, arranging them neatly in a big plate.

The kitchen smelled heavenly now—sweetness mixing with spices, just like a festival.

"Bas, ab aloo gatte ki sabji," she reminded herself.

She kneaded besan with ajwain, red chilli, turmeric, and a little oil. Rolling it into long sticks, she boiled them, cut into small pieces, then fried them till golden. In another kadhai, she sautéed onions, tomatoes, ginger, garlic, and whole spices. She ground them into a thick paste and added curd. The gravy bubbled, thick and rich, painting the air with its tangy-spicy fragrance. Finally, she dropped in the fried gatte pieces, stirring slowly so they soaked up the flavors.

Last was the simplest but strongest—lehsun ki chutney.

She roasted dry red chillies on the tawa till smoky, pounded them with fresh garlic cloves, a pinch of salt, and a splash of lemon juice. The chutney was fiery red, the kind that made your tongue dance. She smiled, "Yeh toh sabko bahut pasand aavegi."

Two hours passed just like that. The once quiet kitchen now looked like a royal thali had been prepared. Pyaaj ki kachori stacked neatly, golden and puffed. Malpua gleaming in syrup like little suns. Aloo gatte ki sabji bubbling in a heavy brass pot. Chutney set in a small katori, sharp and inviting.

Diya wiped her forehead with the edge of her dupatta. She felt tired but her heart swelled with satisfaction. "Roshni baisa ne pasand aavse na... mhare Bhagwanji, mhari banayi cheeja ne ghani bhaav aaje.," she whispered, almost like a prayer.

("Roshni will like it, right? Please dear God, let her enjoy the food I have prepared with love.")

She arranged everything properly on a big thali for lunch, covering with brass lids. She even added fresh coriander leaves on the sabji, and almonds sprinkled on the malpua for a touch of love.

Her fingers smelled of onion, garlic, and sugar syrup, but she didn't mind. This smell is of belonging, she thought.

Finally, she cleaned up the kitchen, wiped the counter, and looked at her reflection in the brass thali. Her cheeks were slightly red from the heat, her hands stained with haldi, but her eyes shone.

She walked back to her room, opened the wooden almirah, and pulled out her poshak. A soft pink one, with delicate gota work at the borders, almost shyly.

She changed carefully, adjusted her dupatta, and pinned it neatly. Then she opened her small silver box, took out kajal, and lined her eyes. Her reflection now looked like a young woman filled with nervous joy.

She pressed her palms together, looked at herself once more, and whispered, "Bas... ab taiyaar hoon. Ab sirf Roshni baisa ka intezaar hai."

And with that, she stepped out of her room, her heart beating fast, ready to meet the little girl who was about to change her world.

Diya adjusted the pleats of her poshak one last time, smoothed her dupatta over her head, and stepped back into the kitchen. The dishes she had lovingly prepared gleamed on the counter. She took out a steel tiffin and began to carefully pack for Sarpanch ji.

She placed two warm kachoris in the first compartment, added a generous scoop of aloo gatte ki sabji in the second, a small katori of lehsun ki chutney in the third, and finally two malpuas dipped in syrup in the last. She covered it tightly, wrapped it with a clean cotton cloth, and set it aside.

"Yeh sarpanch ji ke vaste hai," she whispered softly, a small smile tugging at her lips. Woh toh zaroor khush ho jaayenge.

("This is for sarpanch ji")

Soon, Maasa and Kakisa came into the dining area. Diya quickly set the brass thalis before them, placing kachori, sabji, chutney, and malpua with careful hands. Steam rose up, carrying the fragrance of her efforts.

"Lo, kha lo Maasa, Kakisa," she said gently, bowing her head a little.

("Here, please eat, Maasa and Kakisa.")

Maasa hummed in approval as she tasted the kachori. "Bahut swaad hai, bahu. Ghani din baad aiso ghar jaiso khaano milyo"

("It's very delicious, bahu. After such a long time, I have had food that truly tastes like home.")

Diya's heart fluttered with joy at the word bahu. She quickly folded her hands, "Dhanyawaad, Maasa."

Kakisa took a bite of malpua, her eyes twinkling. "Arre wah Diya, ae toh bilkul jiko mhare ghare banay ne khayo jayo  waiso hi ai , tu toh kamal kr diyo.."

("Oh wow, Diya, this tastes exactly like how it used to be cooked and served in our home. You've truly done wonders")

Diya's cheeks warmed. "Aapko pasand aaya, yahi mhare liye bahut hai, Kakisa."

("You liked it , that's enough for me, kakisa)

After a while, Kakisa looked up and said, "Chal ab tu bhi baith ja aur kha le."

("Go , you also eat the food now")

Diya shook her head softly, her fingers nervously twisting her dupatta. "Nahi Kakisa... main to Roshni baisa ke aawan pache hi khavungi. Pehlan unne khilavungi, pache mhun khavungi"

("No Kakisa... I will eat only after Roshni baisa arrives. First I'll feed her, then I will eat myself")

Maasa chuckled warmly at her words. "Sahi kehyo... chhoti chhori sa pehlan pet bhar liyo, thareko theek ni lage "

("You are right... it doesn't feel proper to fill our stomach before the little girl has eaten.")

Kakisa smiled and nodded, her eyes soft with affection. ".Tu bhi na Diya, ghani soch kare hai sabne laage."

Diya lowered her gaze, a shy smile on her lips.

The room fell into a peaceful silence for a moment, broken only by the sound of spoons against the brass thalis and the occasional satisfied hum from Maasa and Kakisa. Diya stood near the doorway, her hands folded in front of her, watching them with quiet happiness.

Her heart beat a little faster now. Bas thodi der ki baat hai... phir main Roshni baisa se milungi.

She glanced once at the tiffin kept on the side, ready for Sarpanch ji, and then back at the door, waiting for the sound of little footsteps that would bring the youngest member of the family home

📖✨ Author's Note ✨📖

Hellooo meri Retro Hearts 💿🌸 (yup, that's your official new nickname! 💖 kyunki aap sab mujhe 1980's ki woh warm aur pure vibes dete ho... jaise old-school radio ki mithi awaaz ya diary ke safe pages 💌).

Aaj ka din mere liye bohot khaas hai... 💭 Kyunki mujhe apna pehla comment mila hai💕
Sach bolu toh dil literally ekdum "dhak-dhak" kar raha tha jaise 80's ki heroine apna first love letter padh rhi ho... uff, goosebumps everywhere.
Aur upar se, vote bhi! 🌟 apko shayad lage ek click hi toh hai, par mere liye woh ek dum golden cassette jaisa hai — jo baar baar sunna ho aur kabhi purana na lage. 🎶

Main itni khush hoon ki words bhi kam lag rahe hain... 🥺 Ye journey mujhe feel karwa rahi hai ki likhna sirf meri khwaish nahi hai, balki hum sabka ek shared journey  hai. apke pyaar aur support ke bina, yeh kahani adhoori hoti.

Toh, thank you meri Retro Hearts 💿, meri Cassette Souls 🎶, aur mere Diary Darlings 📔. aap sab mere 1980's ke sapne ho jo aaj ke zamane mein bhi zinda hain. ✨💖

Keep commenting, keep voting, keep loving... kyunki har ek feedback se mujhe lagta hai ki main akeli nahi likh rahi, hum saath likh rahe hain. 🥰

Love you to the moon and walkman tapes 🌙🎧,
Your anuvae 🕊️