The next morning felt different.
Ramesh Appa hadn't left yet.
Usually, his visits were brief—he came, chatted, laughed, maybe gave a half-hearted lecture about life, and then left with a cigarette and a sigh.
But today, he lingered. Sitting in corridor with a cup of strong filter coffee in hand, watching the world pass slowly.
Banni noticed it too.
She stood by the window, adjusting her bag for school, and stole a glance at him. His face was turned toward the early light, quiet. Not lost in drink, not running from something—just… thinking.
Maybe truly thinking after a long time.
That evening
When Banni returned from school, her father was at work, her mother cooking quietly in the kitchen. And Ramesh Appa? Still there.
"Appa?"
He looked up, almost caught. "Hm? Yeah. I… I thought I'd clean some things up."
She nodded, walked inside, and sat across from him.
"Do you want help?"
The words struck him like soft stones.
Later that night, Banni sat on her bed with her notebook open.
But it wasn't schoolwork this time.
She made a small list, titled:
"Things That Could Help Anna (Her Cousin)"
Show him how far he had once come — old certificates, achievements.
Let him talk — not just be scolded.
Introduce one small task a day — fixing something, reading a small article, walking to the library.
Talk to his father — Appa must tell him the truth.
Give him purpose again — not just sympathy.
She didn't show it to anyone.
She couldn't change the past.
But she could offer a light to someone still lost in it.
Meanwhile, Ramesh Appa lay awake on the sofa, staring at the ceiling fan.
He had seen Banni writing something in her room. He hadn't asked.
But he felt it.
Something about this girl made him think — maybe he wasn't just a lesson of failure.
Maybe he could become part of the solution too.
Not for himself.
But for his son.
Thank you for sharing these intricate family dynamics and deep emotions — the bonds, the betrayals, the sacrifices. Here's Chapter 15 of your web novel — where Banni walks the fine line between inner anger and outward grace, knowing her purpose but never forgetting her past.
Banni sat in her room that night, her textbooks open but her mind elsewhere.
She was trying to focus — really trying. The chapters were waiting. Her goal was clear: score well, earn her father's respect, and finally receive that laptop he'd promised as a gift.
Not just any gift.
It was more than that.
It was a symbol. A door to her future. Her own future. One not borrowed, not compromised, not interrupted by anyone else's mistakes.
But the silence in the house tonight carried the weight of too many unspoken truths.
---
Ramesh Appa was back.
And Banni knew exactly why.
It wasn't because he missed them.
It wasn't because he suddenly felt sorry.
It was because the hotel her father had set up for him—the one he neglected, drank through, and let fall—was now shut down. And once again, like old times, he came not with help… but seeking it.
---
She clenched her pen, trying not to let the frustration show.
Appa gave up everything for him once. His savings. His peace. Even the trust between him and Amma.
When her cousin sister's marriage had to be arranged, it was her father who took over — handled the money, the rituals, the pride, and the pain. Even when Amma protested, saying it wasn't their responsibility, Appa stood firm.
Banni remembered Amma's words:
> "You always bend for them. One day it will break you."
And it had. Financially. Emotionally.
They never recovered fully.
But her father had stayed silent—for the sake of the children.
Even when her cousin brother went to Mysore and started drifting—smoking, drinking, skipping classes, doing everything wrong—no one stopped him.
Especially not his mother, who defended him at every turn.
---
Now, years later, he had returned too—a shadow of what he could've been.
And Ramesh Appa?
He returned because he needed shelter again.
Not because he saw the damage.
Not because he owned it.
But Banni… she saw all of it.
She saw it when her father skipped buying new sandals so they could pay a bill.
She saw it when Amma silently fed guests with rationed rice.
She saw it when her dreams were delayed, because someone else's mess came first.
She had no place to complain now.
Because the exams were near.
And she would not lose focus now—not for anger, not for pity.
---
She whispered to herself:
"One goal at a time. Marks first. Laptop next. Future after that."
She took a deep breath, opened her question paper, and began writing answers.
She would rise.
Not by stepping over others.
But by choosing not to become like them.
---
In the hall, her father poured tea for Ramesh Appa, who sat with quiet guilt in his eyes.
And in the room nearby, a girl with quiet rage and strong purpose held her pen tighter — shaping her future with every single line she wrote.
The day before the first board exam was not filled with books or last-minute lessons.
Instead, it was the school's farewell day — a tradition held every year for the outgoing students.
For a few hours, there would be no revision. No anxiety. Just a simple celebration of endings and beginnings.
The school ground was decorated with modest paper streamers. Chairs arranged in rows. A microphone placed on the makeshift stage. Laughter danced on the edges of the morning breeze.
Girls came dressed in sarees — bright, flowing, elegant.
Some had tied their hair. Others had curled it. Most left it free, letting the wind lift their strands as they walked like heroines in a quiet village film.
Banni stood near the classroom door, wearing a simple yellow saree with soft brown border work — an old piece, borrowed from Amma's neatly folded collection.
Her blouse was plain. Her hair was free, brushed once and left untouched.
She wore no makeup, no bangles. Just a light chain around her neck.
She was fair, tall for her age, and thin — the kind of figure that made the saree fall differently. It didn't cling like in movies. It flowed loosely, awkwardly elegant.
She didn't turn heads.
She didn't try to.
But something about her still stood out — not through beauty, but in presence. In stillness. In eyes that had seen too much to get carried away by compliments.
Boys came in kurtas and jeans. Some had even tied panche (veshti), walking with folded arms and wide smiles. One boy wore sunglasses and declared he looked like a Kannada hero.
Laughter followed him.
Even the teachers smiled today.