The courtyard was wrapped in the stillness of late afternoon, that in-between time when the sun begins to lean westward but hasn't yet surrendered to dusk. Diya sat cross-legged on the floor, a neat pile of freshly washed clothes beside her. One by one, she folded them carefully—pressing each crease with gentle palms, smoothing the fabric as though she were taming restless waves. The faint rustle of fabric was the only sound echoing in the large haveli, mingling with the distant chirping of sparrows returning to their nests.

Her dupatta slipped slightly as she bent forward, and she tucked it back absently, her focus on aligning each fold perfectly. For her, it wasn't just household work—it was devotion, a rhythm that calmed her heart. Outside, the light was changing: the golden shine of the day had softened into a mellow honey-like glow, spilling long shadows across the floor. The scent of bajra rotis from the kitchen still lingered faintly, though hours had passed since lunch.

She was halfway through folding a crisp white kurta when the quiet broke.

A soft creak echoed through the air—the sound of the heavy wooden door opening. It wasn't loud, yet it carried into the silence like a drop in still water. Diya's hands froze mid-fold. For a breath, her heart stumbled in her chest, her eyes lifting instinctively toward the entrance.

There he stood.

Sarpanch ji, tall and steady, framed by the fading afternoon light, his broad shoulders casting a shadow that stretched toward her. But it wasn't him who caught her breath.

It was the tiny bundle in his arms.

Nestled against his chest was a little girl, around four or five, her face glowing with the softness of childhood. Her hair, dark and slightly messy from travel, fell in wisps across her forehead. Her eyes—bright, alive, full of untamed spark—peeked curiously into the courtyard, as though searching, as though waiting for something familiar in this unfamiliar setting.

Diya's lips parted in the smallest gasp. Without another thought, she knew. She knew even before her mind formed the words. This was Roshni. Her Roshni baisa.

In the span of a heartbeat, the world seemed to still around them—the unfinished clothes lay forgotten, the golden light paused mid-fall, even her breath held itself captive. The scene imprinted itself into her memory: the proud silhouette of Nirvaan holding the youngest flower of the house, the little one resting against him with innocence untouched by the burdens of the world.

Then, before Diya could gather herself, the girl stirred.

Roshni shifted in his arms, her tiny feet kicking softly in the air, her little hands gripping his shoulder. Her gaze swept the room, landed on Diya, and something magical unfolded. Her eyes widened—recognition without introduction, affection without effort.

And then, in the next instant, she wriggled free from his arms.

Like a bird released, she jumped lightly from Nirvaan's embrace and landed on the floor. Her anklets gave a faint chime as her little feet met the stone. Without hesitation, without fear, she ran. Tiny steps pattering across the courtyard floor, her arms outstretched, her dupatta-less frock fluttering behind her.

Diya sat stunned, her heart thundering against her ribs, yet her arms instinctively opened as the child closed the distance. In seconds, Roshni was there—clinging to her waist, wrapping her small arms as far as they could stretch, pressing her soft cheek against the fabric of Diya's poshak.

The world blurred.

Diya's hands hovered for a moment above the child's back, trembling with wonder. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, as if the universe itself had placed something too precious into her lap. Slowly, almost reverently, she slid her hands down and held the little one—first gently, then with the warmth of a hug she hadn't realized she had been yearning to give.

The contrast struck her—the delicate smallness of Roshni against her own frame, the innocence clinging to her waist as if it belonged there. The girl barely reached her waist, her forehead pressing somewhere near Diya's navel, but her embrace carried the weight of belonging, of instant connection.

Diya blinked, and her eyes stung with unspoken emotions.

She loosened the hug just a little, sliding the girl away from her waist, wanting to see her face properly. Her palms cupped Roshni's soft cheeks as she gently sat down on her knees, lowering herself to the child's height. Now, they were eye to eye—Diya's gaze trembling, Roshni's twinkling with unfiltered joy.

And then, Diya gathered her back into her arms.

She hugged her again, tighter this time, pressing her cheek against the crown of the little one's head. The faint fragrance of coconut oil and the powdery sweetness of childhood filled her senses. Her heart melted completely. The weight of the tiny arms around her neck felt like the most sacred necklace she had ever worn.

Time stilled. The courtyard no longer held silence, nor birdsong, nor fading sunlight—it held only this embrace. A moment stitched with invisible threads of love, delicate yet unbreakable.

Behind them, Nirvaan stood silently, watching. His stern eyes softened as he witnessed the sight: his Diya, glowing like a goddess, holding his daughter as if the two had known each other forever. No words were spoken. None were needed. The bond had been sealed, not by introductions, not by rituals, but by the instinctive embrace of two hearts.

Diya closed her eyes briefly, committing the feeling to memory. The warmth of Roshni's little arms, the trust of a child who chose her instantly, the completeness that settled in her chest. She had never felt more like she belonged.

The room felt warmer now with Roshni tucked safely into Diya's arms, her tiny body curled against her new bhabhisa as though she had always belonged there. Diya carried her gently to her chamber, the soft rustle of her poshak echoing as she walked. She sat on the edge of the charpai, letting Roshni settle in her lap, the child's anklets chiming faintly each time she moved.

Roshni's face was glowing with mischief, her large innocent eyes looking up at Diya as if she had a precious secret to share. The little girl tugged at Diya's dupatta and suddenly chirped, "Bhabhisa, bhabhisa sahi kehve!"

("Brother is saying right")

The words hung in the air like a sudden gust of wind.

Confusion flickered across Diya's delicate features. Her brows furrowed slightly, her lips parting in a question she hadn't yet asked. Bhabhisa? What does she mean? A ripple of memory struck her—what had Nirvaan said to this child before? Her heart thumped softly in her chest, curiosity clawing at her as she looked from Roshni's sparkling eyes to the silent figure of the sarpanch standing in the corner.

Before she could open her lips, Nirvaan moved.

His deep voice came out hurriedly, almost like someone caught red-handed in a sweet theft. His words tumbled awkwardly as he leaned forward, his gaze flickering nervously, "Roshni... shh."

But the child was not one to be hushed so easily.

Roshni turned toward him with the stubborn innocence only a four-year-old could carry. Her tiny nose scrunched up, her eyes narrowed with mock annoyance as she wagged a finger at her elder brother. "Ofoo Bhaisa, shhh... mhari baatan ne mat kato. Tho jao, haath-muh dho lo, mhane baat karan do."

("Ohh Bhaisa, shhh... don't cut into our talks. You go wash your hands and let us continue chatting.")

Her childish reprimand filled the room with sudden laughter in Diya's eyes, though her lips held back the smile. She blinked, her heart warming at the sight of the fearless little girl daring to silence even the mighty sarpanch. But her confusion hadn't faded.

She leaned closer, adjusting Roshni on her lap, her soft voice coaxing, "Ji baisa, aap kahe kya keh rhi thi?"

("Yes, sister-in-law what are you saying")

Roshni, delighted to be given the stage again, continued with a wide grin, her words tumbling out like pearls spilling from a broken necklace. She held Diya's cheeks with her tiny palms, her voice a proud whisper as though revealing a royal secret.

"Bhabhisa, humne Bhaisa se pucha tha ki humare bhabhisa kaise hai."

("sister-in-law i asked to brother that how's my sister-in-law looked")

Diya's heart skipped. Her eyes widened ever so slightly as her gaze darted immediately toward Nirvaan. He stood frozen, his shawl still draped over his shoulder, his jaw tight, his eyes refusing to meet hers. She held his gaze deliberately, refusing to look away. Her lips curved, testing, questioning. And then she asked, each word slow, heavy with meaning, "Acha? Kya khayo thare Bhaisa ne, or?"

("and What did your Bhaisa said")

For a moment, silence fell. Nirvaan shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat, his stern façade cracking under the weight of the child's unfiltered honesty.

But Roshni was merciless in her truth.

Her little body wriggled with excitement as she delivered his words without hesitation, her tone rising and falling like she was reciting the most beautiful story ever told.

"Bhabhisa, Bhaisa keh rahe hataa... thari bhabhisa to apsara jaisi hai. Jab chalti hai to lagge jiko hansni ghoomti ho. Thara kesh itna lambe, gehra kaala — bilkul amavas ri raat mein nadi ro paani behto ho, jisme chandni apno aaina dekh rahi ho. Thari akhiyan uff, ekdum jaadu-tona wali! Jiko pehli barsaat ri sugandh gaon ri galiyon mein fail jave, waise dil behka deve. Lagge jiko Bhagwan khud devi roop badal ke bhejo ho mhare waste."

("Bhabhisa, Bhaisa was saying... you are like an apsara. When you walk, it feels like a swan gliding gracefully. Your long, deep-black hair looks like the river flowing on an amavas night, where the moonlight gazes at its own reflection. And your eyes... oh, they are full of enchantment, like the first whiff of rain in the village streets, instantly intoxicating the heart. It feels as though God himself has sent a divine form for me.")

Each word struck Diya like a soft hammer, shocking her into stillness.

Her lips trembled, her breath caught, her heart pounded so violently she thought Roshni might hear it. She had never imagined hearing such things—her, compared to apsaras, her eyes likened to spells, her walk compared to the proud stride of a peacock. Each image was painted so vividly, with so much devotion, that she almost couldn't believe it.

Her fingers tightened slightly on Roshni's arms, as though steadying herself. And then, almost without her willing it, her eyes lifted again—straight at Nirvaan.

The sarpanch stood there, towering and yet utterly defenseless. His face was taut, a storm of emotions flashing through his eyes—anger at being caught, embarrassment at his heart laid bare, helplessness at the innocence that betrayed him. And something else too, something rawer... a glint of vulnerability that Diya had never seen before.

She held his gaze deliberately.

And he—he broke.

Like a guilty man caught in the act, his eyes flicked away, averting her stare. His hand reached for the shawl on his shoulder, fingers fidgeting with the fabric, his head bowed slightly as if the weight of her gaze was too much.

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken truths.

Diya's chest rose and fell rapidly, her mind spinning with the realization of what she had just heard. It wasn't the little girl's playful chatter anymore; it was Nirvaan's heart, spoken in secret but revealed in innocence. Her own cheeks burned with warmth, her lips pressed tightly together to keep the emotions from spilling out.

And yet, she couldn't stop the faintest smile from curling at the corner of her mouth.

Roshni, oblivious to the storm she had stirred, leaned against Diya's chest, playing with the tassels of her dupatta, humming to herself as if nothing monumental had just been revealed.

But Diya knew. Nirvaan knew.

Something had shifted in the air of that room forever.

The room was wrapped in a strange silence, almost like the air itself had grown heavier. The awkwardness was thick, pressing on Diya's chest as she stood there, her arms still curled protectively around little Roshni. The girl's laughter had faded, and now only the sound of her tiny breaths filled the moment. Diya didn't know where to keep her eyes—on the ground, on the child, or on the man standing at the threshold, watching them both with that unreadable gaze.

She lowered her lashes quickly, her throat tightening. Why does his presence always bring this restlessness in me? she thought, clutching Roshni a little closer. The girl, however, was oblivious to the storm between the grown-ups. She wriggled in Diya's lap, eyes sparkling, face glowing with the innocence of pure joy.

And then, as if to break the tension, Diya spoke—her voice soft but steady.
"I made pyaaj kachori and malpua for you, Roshni baisa... Come, I will feed your little tummy with my hand."

At once, the girl's face lit up. She squealed and wiggled in her arms, almost dancing with excitement. Her tiny hands clapped together as she buried her face into Diya's neck. That single sound of pure happiness lightened the heaviness of the moment.

Diya's lips curved into a small, nervous smile as she turned her head toward Sarpanch ji. She avoided looking into his eyes directly, but her voice was respectful when she spoke, "You... you go and freshen up. Then come to the verandah. I will serve you too."

For a long moment, he didn't reply, and she could feel the weight of his stare on her face. But finally, he gave a low hum, almost a grunt, and stepped outside. Only when his figure disappeared did Diya let out the breath she had been holding.

Gathering Roshni securely in her arms, she stood up. "Chalo," she whispered softly to the child, pressing a kiss on her hair. "Let's go sit in the verandah."

The verandah was bathed in the warm golden glow of the evening. The sun hung low, its rays streaming in, painting everything in soft amber hues. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the neem tree nearby, carrying with it the scent of earth and distant flowers. Diya made Roshni sit on a woven cot, tucking her ghagra around her tiny legs.

"Stay here, baisa. I will just bring the food," Diya said warmly, brushing a strand of hair away from the child's forehead. Roshni nodded eagerly, swinging her feet, her eyes already bright with anticipation of the treat.

Diya slipped back into the kitchen, her hands working quickly but gracefully. She lifted the brass plates, arranged steaming hot pyaaj kachori and golden malpua, the fragrance filling the space. As she walked back with the plates, she noticed Sarpanch ji had already settled on another cot in the verandah. His posture was straight, strong, the presence of a man who carried both power and silence with him.

Her steps faltered for a second, but she steadied herself, keeping her focus on the plates. She placed one in front of Roshni, then the other before him. "Here," she murmured softly.

Sitting down beside Roshni, Diya tore a small piece of the kachori, dipped it lightly in chutney, and shaped it into a morsel. With a tender smile, she held it before Roshni's lips. "Here, open your mouth, baisa."

Roshni didn't need a second invitation. She leaned forward and took the bite, her little face scrunching in delight. "Mmmmmm," she moaned, her cheeks puffing as she chewed. Her eyes widened, sparkling like stars. "It's so yummy, bhabhisa!"

The sound made Diya's heart flutter, her smile softening. She quickly tore another piece, but before she could feed it, Roshni placed her tiny hand on Diya's wrist and looked toward Sarpanch ji.
"Feed bhaisa too, na," she said innocently, her voice ringing like a bell in the quiet evening.

Diya froze. Her breath caught in her throat, her fingers trembling as they hovered mid-air. She dared not look at him, but she could feel his presence heavy beside them, watching. Slowly, hesitantly, she turned her hand, shaping a morsel, and extended it toward him. Her lashes lowered, her cheeks warmed.

He leaned forward, his eyes never leaving her face, and accepted the bite from her hand. The silence stretched, heavy, charged, broken only by the crunch of kachori. Diya pulled her hand back quickly, her heart pounding so hard she thought Roshni might hear it.

But the little girl was not done with her playful demands. She chewed happily, then turned her head back toward Sarpanch ji. "Bhaisa, now you make bhabhisa eat too! Don't be selfish!"

Diya's eyes widened, her breath hitching. She shook her head slightly, whispering, "Roshni, baisa bas..." but the child only giggled and insisted, clapping her tiny hands.

Sarpanch ji's lips curved—just faintly, but enough to make Diya's chest tighten. He reached out, tearing a piece of malpua, his large fingers so steady compared to her trembling ones. Holding it gently, he extended it toward her lips.

Diya hesitated, her throat going dry. She wanted to refuse, to step back, but Roshni's expectant eyes and the weight of his gaze left her no choice. Slowly, with trembling lips, she leaned forward and accepted the morsel.

The sweetness of malpua filled her mouth, but it was nothing compared to the warmth spreading through her chest, the strange, unspoken connection weaving between them in that fleeting moment. Her lashes fluttered down as she swallowed, her cheeks flushed pink.

Roshni squealed in delight, clapping her hands again. "See! Now everyone is happy!" she announced proudly, swinging her little feet.

But Diya... Diya's heart was no longer calm. It beat wildly, caught between the sweetness of the food, the innocence of the child, and the intensity of the man sitting just a few feet away.

The verandah was filled with simple sounds—the rustle of leaves, the laughter of the child, the clink of plates—but beneath all of it ran an undercurrent of something deeper, stronger, unnamed. Something Diya didn't yet dare to face.

The courtyard was slowly emptying as the family finished dinner. Plates were stacked, lamps dimmed, and soft conversations dwindled into yawns. One by one, everyone retired to their rooms, leaving behind the fragrance of food and the calm lull of night.

Roshni, her little belly full and her cheeks glowing, tugged at her bhaisa's sleeve as they rose from the dining area. Her eyes sparkled mischievously even though sleepiness was written all over her face.
"Bhaisa... tonight I want to sleep with you and bhabhisa!" she declared with the stubborn confidence only a child could have.

Diya, who was gathering the last utensils, froze in her steps. Her fingers clutched the brass thali tighter, her eyes darting to Sarpanch ji. His brows rose almost imperceptibly, a flicker of shock crossing his usually composed features. We... sleep together? The thought had clearly unsettled him as much as it did her.

But before either adult could form a response, Roshni continued with her innocent plea, tugging his hand and looking at Diya with those wide, expectant eyes. "Please? Just tonight. Don't say no."

Diya's heart clenched. How could she deny the little girl? Her lips parted to protest, but seeing Roshni's hopeful face and remembering the joy she had shown all day, the words died on her tongue. Instead, she gave a small nod.
"Alright, baisa," she said softly. "Finish your milk and then we will all go together."

Roshni's giggles filled the air like silver bells, and she practically skipped into the room with her bhaisa, leaving Diya behind to finish her chores.

The house grew quieter as Diya scrubbed the last of the vessels, dried them carefully, and set them in their places. She swept the kitchen floor, wiped the counter, and checked the clay pot to refill it with water for the next morning. Every movement was automatic, but her mind was restless.

How will I go in that room? How can I sit on the same bed? The thoughts swirled like an unending storm inside her. She knew it wasn't wrong—they were husband and wife in the world's eyes—but still, her heart wasn't ready. Their relationship had been distant, polite, wrapped in awkward silences. And now, suddenly, Roshni's innocent wish had tied them together in this new closeness.

By the time Diya finished, the night was deep and still. She washed her hands, adjusted her dupatta, and quietly made her way to the room.

Inside, the sight made her pause at the door.

Sarpanch ji was sitting at the edge of the bed, leaning slightly toward Roshni, who sat cross-legged with her hair falling messily around her face. He was listening intently to her childish chatter, his lips curved in the faintest smile. For a man known for his stern silence, the softness in his eyes at that moment was almost startling.

Roshni was explaining something with her little hands waving dramatically, and he nodded along, indulging her with rare patience. The picture was so unexpected, so gentle, that Diya couldn't help but smile faintly to herself.

Quietly, she slipped into the room, gathering her nightwear poshak from the trunk. She turned toward the bathroom without interrupting, her footsteps light as feathers. Inside, she quickly changed into the simple cotton attire, braided her hair loosely, and washed her face.

When she emerged, she found Roshni already lying on the bed, half-hidden in the blanket, yawning dramatically.

Diya moved toward the side to pick up a folded chatai from the corner. "I will sleep here on the floor," she said softly, more to herself than anyone else. But before she could spread it out, Roshni's sleepy voice rose.

"Nooo, bhabhisa!" she protested, her tiny hands reaching out. "Come soon! I feel so sleepy. Make me and bhaisa sleep. Please."

Diya froze, her fingers gripping the mat. Slowly, her eyes lifted toward Sarpanch ji.

He looked just as taken aback. His gaze flickered from Roshni to Diya, a shadow of hesitation crossing his features. It was clear: they had never shared a bed, never crossed that invisible line of closeness.

The silence stretched heavy. Diya's chest tightened, her heart thudding loudly in her ears. She wanted to refuse, to gently convince Roshni otherwise, but the girl's pleading eyes melted all her resistance.

Finally, Diya lowered her gaze, nodded almost imperceptibly, and set the mat back. With careful steps, she approached the bed.

The cot creaked softly as she sat down beside Roshni. The little girl immediately snuggled closer, her tiny head pressing into Diya's side. Diya's arms instinctively wrapped around her, pulling her into the warmth of her embrace.

"Better?" she whispered, brushing her hand over the child's silky hair.

"Mmm," Roshni hummed, her eyelids already drooping. "Sing for me, bhabhisa."

Diya's throat tightened, but she forced a calm smile. She began softly, her voice carrying a gentle tune—a lullaby her own mother used to sing long ago. Her notes were tender, weaving through the still night, wrapping around the little one like a blanket of comfort.

As she sang, she kept stroking Roshni's back, feeling the rhythm of her breath slow, soften. The child's body relaxed in her arms, her mouth falling slightly open as she drifted toward sleep.

But then Diya noticed something else.

Across the bed, on the other side of Roshni, Sarpanch ji had leaned back against the pillow, his broad shoulders slightly slouched. His eyes, sharp and piercing by day, were now half-lidded, softened by the melody floating through the room.

Her song was not only cradling Roshni—it was pulling him into its spell too.

For a fleeting moment, Diya allowed her eyes to linger on him. The harsh lines of his face seemed less severe under the lamplight. The frown that so often creased his brow was smoothed, replaced by a rare calm. His breathing slowed, steady and deep, as though the lullaby had reached some hidden corner of his soul.

She faltered mid-song, her voice almost breaking. He's... asleep? Because of my singing? The thought felt unreal. But as she listened, she heard it clearly—the rhythm of his breaths matching the innocence of Roshni's. Both sides of her, the little girl and the stern man, had been lulled into slumber by the same song.

A strange warmth spread through her chest. It was not bold or overwhelming—it was quiet, shy, like the flicker of a small flame in the darkness.

She looked down at Roshni's peaceful face, then at the man who had unknowingly surrendered his restlessness to her voice. A faint smile curved her lips.

Slowly, carefully, she adjusted the blanket over both of them, tucking it around Roshni first, then letting it cover Sarpanch ji's arm as well. Her hands lingered for a moment, trembling slightly as she brushed against his sleeve. She pulled back instantly, heart racing.

Exhaling softly, Diya laid her head against the wooden headboard. Her eyes grew heavy, her body weary from the day's work, but her heart carried an unfamiliar lightness. For the first time, she wasn't afraid of the silence.

She let the lullaby hum on her lips one last time, softer now, only for herself. And as the night deepened, she too drifted into sleep—between the child who had become her little world and the man whose presence she was only just beginning to understand.