"She didn't know who he was — only that he made her feel like a daughter again"
Radha stood still for a moment, her hand resting on the wooden latch of the door.
Something about the old man's voice had struck her — not just the tone, but the strange calm it carried, like her father's.
Her fingers were still sticky and damp. She had forgotten — starchy water still clung to her hands.
She went back to the earthen pot and rinsed her hands quickly and dried them on the edge of her cotton saree, then quietly walked back.
The door creaked open.
An old man stood there. He looked like someone who had walked too many miles under the sun — tanned, dry, and thin. His beard was white and thin. His eyes were soft — like her deceased father's.
He held a worn veena slung across his shoulder, and his clothes hung loosely from his thin frame, patched in several places. He almost looked like her father.
He didn't say anything at first. Just smiled faintly, as if he had been waiting for her to open the door without being in a hurry.
Radha stared at him, unsure.
He looked like a singer... or a storyteller, like her father — someone who wandered from village to village, singing old tales.
"Can you give me water and food, my child?" he asked, finally.
His voice wasn't exactly like her father's, but it was calm and warm. It carried the same kind of comfort.
She became confused. Maybe she was only feeling this way because she missed her father — the man who used to listen to everything she couldn't say to her husband.
Radha stepped aside and opened the door fully. "Come in," she said softly.
The old man nodded gently and stepped inside.
Radha quickly brought a small brass lota of water. She knelt down and poured it over his tired feet, washing off the dust. Then she poured a little over his hands. He let her do it without a word, watching her with kind eyes. She laid out a simple woven mat near the corner of the room.
"Please sit," she said, still not meeting his eyes.
Then she rushed to the kitchen.
The rice was cold now and too soft. The bottom layer had burned. A faint smoky smell clung to it. She scraped off the good part, placed it carefully on a fresh banana leaf as neatly as possible, and added a little amount of ghee on top. That's all she had today. Her husband had gone to eat at the neighbour's place, so she hadn't cooked anything else. She had been distracted by the music outside, and the rice had overcooked.
She filled a small metal glass with water and brought everything to the old man.
With her head down, she placed the banana leaf and water in front of him.
"I'm sorry, father," she said softly. "Today I only cooked rice with ghee… and I overcooked it so much that it smells burnt."
The old man looked at her and smiled. His eyes softened as if her words touched something deep in him.
"You called me father," he said gently. "That's more precious to me than gold."
He looked at the food and then back at her.
"Don't worry, my little mother," he said with a faint smile. "What you've given me will be the most tasty meal I've had in a long time."
Radha looked up, surprised.
"Little mother," he had said — just like her father used to call her.
The words made her happy, but also hurt in a way she couldn't explain. Her father always said her cooking was the best in the world, no matter how simple it was. He would smile and finish every grain of rice from his plate.
But now... the word "mother" stung. Like someone had touched an old wound she had tried to forget.
A small tear rolled down her cheek before she could stop it. She quickly wiped it away with the edge of her saree, hoping he didn't notice.
But the old man had seen. He didn't say anything. He just gave her a soft, sad smile — the kind that said he understood, but didn't want to make her more uncomfortable.
He began eating, and Radha quietly sat beside him, fanning him with a folded palm leaf.
The old man ate quietly, without wasting a single bite. When he was done, not even a grain of rice was left on the banana leaf. He picked up the glass and took a slow sip of water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. A soft smile spread across his face.
"I'm telling you honestly," he said, looking at Radha, "I haven't eaten such tasty food in a long time."
Radha lowered her eyes, shy and quiet. A small smile appeared on her lips, but she didn't say anything. Her cheeks had turned slightly pink.
Once he finished, she handed him a small brass bowl of water to clean his hands and face.
The old man stood up slowly, carried the bowl to a corner near the courtyard, and quietly washed. He splashed water on his face, wiped it with the end of his cloth, and came back.
In the meantime, Radha bent down and carefully cleaned the mat and the floor where he had eaten. She folded the banana leaf and put it away, still quietly smiling to herself.
The old man walked over and picked up his veena from where he had set it down. He picked it up gently, handling it like something very close to his heart. Then he came back, lowered himself to the floor with a soft sigh, and gave Radha a gentle smile.
"Come, daughter," he said gently. "Sit with me. Let's have a little music."
Radha hesitated for only a second. His voice, that tone — it reminded her of the way her father used to speak when she was small. Obediently, almost without thinking, she sat down beside him.
The old man began to play. His fingers moved slowly over the strings, drawing out a soft, calming tune and Radha closed her eyes, and suddenly, she wasn't here anymore.
She was a little girl again — no older than six — standing barefoot at the doorstep of her house, her feet dusty, her hands sticky with tamarind. Then she saw him. Her father. Coming down the narrow path, tired but smiling, his veena slung over his shoulder like always.
Before he could even reach the door, she had already rushed out and thrown herself into his arms.
He had laughed and lifted her off the ground, spinning her around as she squealed.
That was the safest place in the world — her father's arms.
Later that night, she had sat on his lap while he played his veena. He sang soft tales about gods, and she had fallen asleep resting against his chest, feeling safe.
Back in the present, a small smile touched her lips, even as a quiet tear slipped from her closed eyes.
The old man kept playing, eyes closed, his fingers gliding over the strings with ease — not just making music, but saying something without speaking. Radha slowly opened her eyes. That's when she realised something had changed.
The loud celebration music from her neighbour's house — the one that had been hurting her heart since yesterday — had faded. It was still there, somewhere outside, but it no longer reached her — like the music had built a wall between her and the world's cruelty. It no longer mattered.
The sound of the veena had filled the space instead. Not just her home — but the heavy silence inside her chest.
And in that moment, it felt like she was a little girl again. Sitting by her father's feet, listening to him play his own veena. Even then, the world would fall quiet and no matter how upset or lonely she felt, her father's music always made the sadness melt away — like some invisible magic brushing her tears aside.
She didn't say a word.
She just sat there, listening, as the music gently wrapped around her, like the warmth of childhood.
The music slowed.
And in the warmth of that familiar sound — that long-lost feeling of being safe — Radha drifted off and her eyelids grew heavy, and without even realizing it, she leaned forward and gently rested her head on the old man's lap.
Like a little girl who had finally found her father again.
Like she used to do when she was small — curling up in his lap after a long day, knowing that no hurt in the world could touch her there.
The veena went silent.
The old man opened his eyes and looked down at her sleeping face. A soft smile touched his lips. With slow, gentle hands, he began to stroke her hair — the way only a parent does when trying to make their child sleep a little longer, a little deeper, a little more peacefully.
He spoke softly, almost in a whisper, so he wouldn't wake her.
"Sleep, my little mother. You haven't closed your eyes since last night — and that's no way to care for yourself. You must be strong now, in body and in heart. Because your real test begins tomorrow..."
He paused, his fingers still brushing lightly through her hair.
"The child you've been waiting for is finally on his way. But before you can become his true mother, you must pass the hardest trial of all. I have already seen one mother fail it... I don't want that fate for you."
He looked away for a moment, then back at her, his voice barely more than breath.
"You may have called me father by mistake, but to me — you are my daughter. And I want my daughter to win this battle. Don't be afraid. Even if the whole world stands against you... this father will be with you."
A tiny smile curved on Radha's lips as she slept.
And for the first time in days, the house was filled not with silence, or music, or celebration outside — but with a deep, quiet peace.
Author's Note:
Radha may not know it yet, but her life is about to change forever.
Thank you for reading this tender chapter — did it make you emotional too?
This chapter is very close to my heart.
I imagined how it must feel to find a moment of peace after so much pain.
If Radha's story touched you, please support her by commenting — and don't forget to add the book to your library.