Breakfast had just begun—warm parathas, fresh laughter, and the rare calm of a complete family gathered at the table. But the moment shattered like glass on marble when Sheela Oberio walked in.
Not walked—entered—with her trademark authority and air of self-importance. Draped in a designer saree, bangles clinking like subtle warnings, Sheela made sure her presence didn’t go unnoticed.
Behind her, Ramesh Kaka, the ever-patient helper, wheeled in two trolleys stacked with bags. One look at the branded labels, and Arnav sighed internally.
“Phir se…” he thought. (Again, a shopping storm.)
Sheela, ever composed in her self-created spotlight, bent and took blessings from her mother-in-law, Kaveri Oberio, then sat down at the dining table without acknowledging anyone else.
Arnav didn’t want another scene. The house had seen too many. So, swallowing the irritation bubbling in his chest, he greeted her calmly.
“Good morning, Mom. Hope your trip went well?”
With a lifted chin and slight smirk, she replied, “Yes, of course. Everyone had a lovely time. Even Mrs. Mehta mentioned her husband might be interested in a business collaboration with you.”
There it was. Arnav could already predict where this was headed.
Sheela didn’t understand boundaries between personal alliances and professional deals. Everything, in her world, was a potential rishta (marriage alliance).
She continued smoothly, “They have a daughter, Rhea Mehta. MBA student. Good girl. And Mr. Mehta’s son—Veer—is very polished, just like you.”
Arnav kept a neutral face. “We’ve already worked with them, so any deal shouldn’t be a problem.”
He didn’t comment further. He respected Mr. Mehta and Veer, but Mrs. Mehta? She rubbed him the wrong way—too eager, too calculating. As for Rhea… he remembered seeing her once at a business party. Pleasant, yes. Judging her based on one sighting? Not his thing.
Before the air could cool, Sheela turned her attention to Arjun, who was quietly sipping tea beside her.
“So, Arjun,” she began, “Good to see you finally at the breakfast table. Now, can I expect some good news? Maybe that you’ll quit this bawarchi ka natak (chef drama) and join the family business?”
Arjun froze, spoon halfway to his mouth.
“I’m tired of making excuses to people, saying my son is a chef. Please, beta… drop this stubbornness. Join Oberio Enterprises. This… kitchen thing isn’t for men of our class.”
It stung. But Arjun didn’t react. He was used to it.
He just looked down and said with a underlying sarcasm, “Roti thodi jal gayi thi, mom. Next time I’ll work on the crispness.” (“The bread was just a little burnt, Mom. I’ll try to get the crispness right next time.”) And returned to eating.
No one laughed. Not even Aarush, the family clown.
Everyone knew better. The atmosphere grew heavier with unsaid words and deliberate silence. They didn’t want Arnav’s rare presence at the table ruined but Sheela never noticed.
As breakfast ended, everyone scattered—school, work, the usual chaos.
The twins were wrestling their shoelaces. Gayathri walked in, handing them tiffin boxes, their bags, and Abinav’s as well.
They wouldn’t let their “Little Prince” carry weight.
Arnav was tying Abinav’s laces when he felt a soft poke on his arm.
He looked up. Abinav’s big, round eyes—brimming with silent curiosity—were gazing at him.
The boy signed with his hands: “Can you drop me to school today?” He added his classic puppy eyes for good measure. Arnav stiffened.
Not once had he gone to drop them since that incident. The stares, the whispers, the way children looked at his scars—it was too much.
Even with Abinav—at first, Arnav had kept a distance. He wasn’t sure how the boy would react to his burn marks. But as years passed, Abinav grew used to them. He never flinched, never questioned. His love was wordless, but whole.
Still, Arnav hesitated. “Beta, Papa has work. I—”
But the little one wasn’t ready to take no for an answer.
He had planned it all in his head.
Every day, he watched his classmates get dropped off with forehead kisses and cheek pecks. Even if he didn’t say much, he saw everything. Observed quietly.
But yesterday in English class, they were asked to write about "Family." He had wrote with Aarav chachu’s help, proudly. But when his teacher read it out, some boys laughed. “Why didn’t you write about your mom?” they taunted.
His ears turned red. Angry tears pricked his eyes. He wanted to shout something back—anything. But the words stayed locked in his throat. His tongue wouldn’t cooperate. The more he tried, the more the dam broke. He had never told anyone about this. Not even his chachus.
On parent-teacher days, while others came with both parents, he showed up with either Gayathri dadi or Arjun chachu. He never said anything. Never complained.
But today, he wanted to show them. He too had a dad. A real one.
Even at his age, he understood more than most. His dad was busy. Doing “big people work.” He never disturbed him.
But Abinav was already pulling out the biggest weapon—his silence and stubbornness.
Aarav, watching nearby, signaled Arnav with a subtle nod: Please don’t say no.
Something was wrong. Aarav could feel it. Abinav had been unusually quiet these days. He thought it was just because he missed Arnav—so he’d made that call last night.
But this… this felt deeper.
Defeated by those pleading eyes, Arnav nodded.
“Chalo,” he said. (Let’s go.)
Abinav’s face lit up like Diwali morning. His grin stretched ear to ear.
Across the City…
In a compact 1BHK, morning hustle was in full swing.
In the corner, next to a small Ganesh idol, a woman knelt to light a diya. The cotton of her neatly pleated saree rustled softly. A soft devotional song filled the room, replacing the Tamil melody she had been humming earlier. This was Dr. Laxmi Narayan.
But few knew the “Dr.” part. She never flaunted it. She had a Ph.D.—but chose to teach in a school. Why?
Because children didn’t judge. They didn’t whisper behind backs. They didn’t care about failed marriages or broken dreams. They only saw effort, and kindness.
As she applied sacred ash across her forehead, she whispered her daily prayer:
“Appa... I’ll make you proud. I promise.”
Her father had stood up for her when no one else did. After her painful divorce, relatives had blamed him.
“Too soft on your daughter… see where it led.”
But he had protected her. He didn’t want revenge. He wanted her to rebuild. Far from the chaos. And so, she did. After checking her bag, she rushed out—already late for school.
While entering the school gate, she bumped into someone sharply. “Sorry!” she said quickly, without looking back.
Back at the School Gate
Arnav stepped out of the car and opened the passenger door for Abinav. He was still unsure, still tense. Just then, a woman bumped into him. He turned, ready to snap—
But stopped. It was her. The same woman from the temple. The one with calm eyes and a radiant stillness. She was already walking away, adjusting her saree, unaware of the lingering glance she left behind.
A tug on his coat broke his trance.
He looked down—Abinav was staring at him like, Papa? He snapped out of it.
They walked toward the school building, where the twins had already found their friends and talking or we can say gossip. As Arnav approached, he overheard something that made him shock.
Ayush: “Have you seen Accounts mam today, I swear, our accounts ma’am is the prettiest! Pyaar ho gaya yaar.” (Our accounts teacher is the prettiest. I’ve fallen in love!)
Arnav raised an eyebrow. “Sharam nahi aati, accounts teacher ke baare mein aise baat karte ho?”
(You’re not ashamed to talk about your teacher like that?)
Ayush whined, “Aapne kabhi kisi par crush nahi kiya kya?” (Haven’t you ever had a crush?)
Arnav turned to Aarav. “Aur tum? Tum bhi in nalayak ke saath crush kar rahe ho?”
(And you? You too, crushing with this useless fellow?)
Ayush burst out laughing. “App kise puchh rahe ho? Ye toh sabse bada fan hai unka!”
(Whom are you asking? He’s her biggest fan!)
Aarav’s ears turned crimson.
Arnav chuckled. “Bas karo. Jaao class mein. Don’t get caught daydreaming.”
Abinav still held his hand, beaming. Arnav looked at him, his own face softening.
They walked through the corridor. Arnav ignored the stares. The whispers.
None of it mattered. His son had asked him for something small—yet everything.
At the class door, Arnav knelt. “Bye beta. Enjoy your day.”
Abinav hugged him tight, mouthing “Thank you”, and ran to his seat.
He waved until Arnav disappeared around the corner. Arnav smiled and walked away.
What he didn’t know was that today’s step—the simple act of walking into a school—was about to shape his future in a way he never imagined.
And in another part of the building, a pair of quiet brown eyes would soon notice a man with a full-sleeved shirt, eyes full of pain, and a heart fuller than most.
"Sometimes the smallest steps we take for love echo the loudest through fate."
Write a comment ...