Early Morning - Rishikesh Estate Kitchen
6:09 AM
The kitchen of the Rishikesh Estate was vast, a cavern of marble and polished wood, but at this hour, it held a fragile intimacy. Sunlight, pale and ethereal, crept in through the latticed windows, bathing the marble counters in a soft, golden glow.
Outside, a faint mist still lingered, settling over the sprawling garden like a quiet, dewy prayer.
Jeevika, fourteen, stood barefoot on the cool stone floor, a soft shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, a barrier against the pre-dawn chill.
Her hands moved with a practiced ease, stirring a pot of warm dal. The gentle clink of the ladle against the steel vessel was the only sound in the cavernous room, a soft rhythm against the silence of the palace.
> She didn't talk much last night. Not a single word, really.
> Didn't look at me either. Her eyes were just… empty.
> But... maybe food will help.
> It always did, right? Food was comfort. Food was a bridge.
>
She added a pinch of turmeric, the golden powder dissolving into the simmering lentils. Then, she dipped a spoon, blowing on it gently before tasting. She wrinkled her nose, a tiny, almost imperceptible frown.
"Ugh. Too salty," Jeevika muttered to herself, her voice a soft,
self-deprecating whisper in the quiet. "Shabash, MasterChef."
With swift, intuitive movements, she balanced it. A splash of water. A delicate hint of jaggery. Her hands moved on instinct – just like Amma, her mother, used to. The flat, round parathas were already rolled, waiting patiently on the hot tawa.
Steam began to rise, curling from the tea kettle, a comforting plume in the cool air. Slowly, steadily, the grand, unfamiliar kitchen began to smell like home. Their home. A home she was trying desperately to recreate from memory.
> If I can't fix her pain,
> If I can't erase what she saw,
> At least I can feed her.
> Maybe that's something. Maybe that's all I can do.
>
She turned just as a small, crumpled figure appeared in the doorway. Shivanya, ten years old, her hair a wild, beautiful mess, her eyes swollen and shadowed from a night consumed by unseen terrors. Her kurta was slightly rumpled, a testament to a restless sleep.
She didn't say a word. Just stood there, a silent sentinel.
Jeevika didn't either. The words felt too big, too clumsy for the moment. Instead, she just grabbed a clean plate, placed a soft, warm paratha and a small bowl of the freshly balanced dal on it, and walked over to her.
"Eat something," Jeevika said gently, her voice barely above a whisper. She didn't look Shivanya directly in the eyes. She couldn't. Not yet. Her gaze was fixed on the plate, on the offering. "It's fresh."
Shivanya hesitated. Her hand twitched, a tremor of internal conflict. She looked at the food, then briefly, fleetingly, at Jeevika's face – a flicker of something unreadable passing between them.
Then, without a word, she moved. She sat at the small wooden table, pulling the plate toward her. A tiny, almost imperceptible act of acceptance.
> I'm not hungry. My stomach feels twisted, cold.
> But she's trying.
> So I'll try too. For her.
>
She tore a piece of paratha, her small fingers precise. Dipped it carefully in the warm dal. And took the smallest bite. The act was a silent acknowledgement, a fragile olive branch in the aftermath of their world's collapse.
Jeevika sat across from her, nursing her own cup of hot chai. Her eyes, tired but watchful, never left Shivanya. But her questions stayed silent, locked behind a wall of unspoken grief and respect.
> She doesn't know what I saw. Not really.
> And I'm not ready to say it. I can't.
> But this... this silence...
> It doesn't feel so alone anymore. Not with her here.
>
The morning passed without noise. Only the soft crackle of parathas on the tawa, the gentle clink of spoons against ceramic.
Two sisters, orphaned and grieving, seated across from each other – saying everything that needed to be said, in the quiet. Their unspoken words forming a bond stronger than any fire. unspoken
The Morning – Rishikesh Estate Garden
7:02 AM
The Rishikesh Estate Garden stretched out in a soft, golden haze, breathing gently with the earth. The air, crisp from the lingering dawn, smelled of jasmine, tulsi, and damp, fertile soil.
A lone koel called from somewhere in the distance, its melody a poignant counterpoint to the palace's quiet. Hibiscus hedges, heavy with dew, swayed in the breeze, their wet leaves brushing gently against the ancient stone pathway.
Two sisters walked side by side. Jeevika, fourteen, her steps slow and measured, carrying a silent weight. Shivanya, ten, her smaller frame moving with an unnatural stiffness. Their footsteps matched, a faint whisper on the path. But their silences didn't. Jeevika's was the quiet of exhaustion, of overwhelming responsibility. Shivanya's was the silence of a held breath, a contained scream.
Shivanya's dupatta, a pale wisp of fabric, dragged behind her like a tether to a weight only she could feel. Her arms stayed folded across her chest – not against the morning's cool air, but against the ache inside, the chilling memory of the night.
Her eyes moved across the vibrant marigolds, the deep green neem leaves, the sunlit petals…
But nothing landed. Nothing registered. Her gaze was a curtain, drawn over an inner turmoil.
> It's peaceful here. So impossibly peaceful.
> But peace doesn't reach inside so easily. Not when what's inside is still burning.
>
She slowed near an old, gnarled wooden bench. The one Papa (Karan Singh) used to claim during winter mornings, a steel tumbler of chai in hand, telling slow stories about things Jeevika never quite understood, stories that felt too grown-up, too distant then.
He wasn't here now. Only the silence sat in his place.
Shivanya lowered herself gently onto the bench. It creaked beneath her, a soft, protesting groan, like it remembered the weight of laughter and life it once held.
Jeevika paused behind her, watching. Her heart ached, a dull, constant throb. She quietly turned to a nearby shrub, pretending to inspect a bud, giving Shivanya space.
She knew better now. Not every silence needed fixing. Not every sorrow was waiting for a sentence, a platitude, a forced word. Some simply needed… presence.
> She's trying. I see it. Every stubborn breath. Every dry eye.
> And I see this ache… this profound, silent sorrow.
> It's not something I can take from her hands. No matter how much I want to.
>
The wind shifted. A sudden, gentle gust.
Footsteps, softer than morning fog, drifted closer from the side path. Chandu appeared, ten years old, wearing a pale pink cotton salwar kameez, her long braid tied back with a simple white ribbon. She looked like she belonged to the garden, a natural, quiet part of its waking.
No tray in hand, no offering of comfort. No smile too big or too forced. No performance. Just presence.
She stopped a respectful distance away, her eyes soft, understanding.
"Hey…" Chandu said, her voice a soft, almost hesitant murmur.
"You okay?" Her tone didn't press. Didn't hover. It simply landed – gentle, like rain on still water.
Shivanya startled a little. She hadn't heard her arrive, lost as she was in the echo of nightmares and the weight of secrets.
She turned.
Their eyes met. And in that quiet gaze, Chandu saw. The grief, raw and unspoken. The puffiness beneath Shivanya's eyes. The sleeplessness etched on her small face. The tremor she didn't show to others, a fragility usually hidden.
But Chandu didn't look away. Her gaze was steady, accepting.
"Yeah," Shivanya replied, her voice barely a whisper, thin and reedy. "Just… needed air."
Chandu nodded. Didn't ask more. Didn't pry. Her eyes flicked toward the empty space on the bench beside Shivanya – then back to Shivanya's face. A silent question, gentle as the morning mist.
Shivanya gave the faintest nod.
Chandu sat. Not touching. Not leaning. Just beside. A small, silent presence. A leaf, brown and brittle, drifted down from the neem tree above, landing softly at Shivanya's feet. They didn't speak. The silence returned. But this time, it felt different.
Then—
"You know… people usually come to this bench to get away from me," Chandu said lightly, a teasing note in her voice, a gentle ripple in the stillness. "Not sit next to me."
A breath escaped Shivanya. Not quite a laugh. But almost. A small, involuntary sound, like a tiny fissure forming in a wall of ice.
"Sounds about right," Shivanya murmured, her voice still very soft, a ghost of a response.
They looked at each other. Something shifted. No walls fell. But something eased. No checklists. No demand to "tell me everything." Just a seat shared. A space held. A silent acceptance.
"You don't have to talk," Chandu said after a pause, her voice low and steady. "I'm around. That's all."
Shivanya's fingers, which had been gripping the rough wood of the bench, relaxed almost imperceptibly. The tension didn't vanish, but… it noticed. It acknowledged the quiet offering.
> I don't know her. Not really. She's just a cousin I just met.
> But something in her voice… it doesn't ask anything of me. It just… offers.
> And maybe… that's exactly what I need right now. Someone who doesn't ask.
>
She nodded.
"Thank you," Shivanya whispered, the words small but sincere, carrying the weight of a silent gratitude.
Chandu offered a smile. Not wide. But one of those rare ones—the kind that stays in the eyes, genuine and understanding. She leaned back just a little, her gaze lifting to the sprawling canopy above.
"Neem trees…" Chandu murmured, her voice almost poetic. "They make everything feel older than it is. Like they've seen too much… And stayed anyway." wisdom
Shivanya followed her gaze. The soft morning sky framed between ancient branches.
Birds flitting, their songs distant. Leaves rustling like whispers of forgotten tales. The world hadn't stopped, even if hers had.
The silence returned.
But it wasn't hollow anymore.
It was held.
> Somewhere deep inside Shivanya, a thread had loosened.
> Not healed. Not yet.
> But softened.
>
> And it began here.
> With silence.
> A cousin calm.
> A seat shared under a neem tree.
>
Not every beginning came with declarations.
Some simply came with,
"I'm here. Take your time."
Not everything that mattered was spoken.
Some friendships didn't begin with "Tell me everything."
They began with "I'm here. Take your time."
But even as a fragile peace settled around Shivanya under the ancient neem tree, the chilling secret she carried remained unburdened, a ticking shadow in the heart of the royal palace, waiting for the calm to shatter once more.
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