The phone would ring later. Voices would plead. Tears would come. But for now, as she stepped back into the evening light, she felt something she had not felt in a very long time.
Control.
The night settled gently over Delhi, softening the sharp edges of the day. At Shanti Niketan, the corridors glowed with warm yellow lights, and the air carried a faint scent of disinfectant mixed with jasmine from the courtyard. Lakshmi sat on the narrow bed in her new room, her cloth bag resting beside her like a familiar companion. The walls were bare, the furnishings simple, yet the quiet felt intentional rather than lonely.
A caregiver named Meena knocked lightly before entering, her voice kind and respectful. “Amma, would you like some warm water? You must be tired.”
Lakshmi nodded, accepting the steel tumbler with both hands. The warmth soothed her throat, and for the first time since leaving her daughter’s house, she allowed herself to sit still. The events of the afternoon replayed slowly, not in sharp flashes, but like a muted film she could finally watch without flinching.
She thought of Riya as a child, barely reaching her knee, clinging to her sari during school admissions. She remembered plaiting her hair every morning, smoothing oil into her scalp while Riya complained and laughed. Those memories rose unbidden, tender and heavy.
Where did I go wrong, she wondered, not with bitterness, but with genuine curiosity.
Meena returned to help her settle in, laying out fresh cotton clothes and explaining the evening routine. Lakshmi listened carefully, grateful for the calm competence in the young woman’s movements.
That night, sleep came in fragments. Each time Lakshmi closed her eyes, she saw Aarav’s face, half hidden behind his mother’s dupatta, his eyes wide with confusion. The image pierced her more deeply than Riya’s harsh words. She turned on her side, clutching the edge of her pillow, breathing slowly until the ache dulled.
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