The Rishikesh Palace, with its ancient walls and grand courtyards, had quickly become a stage for the everyday dramas of childhood. After the quiet alliance forged under the neem tree, Chandu and Shivanya wasted no time.
Operation: Strike Back on Virat was officially a go.
The target was Virat's favorite pair of shiny new cricket pads, left carelessly near the practice nets. Their weapon? A liberal coating of harmless, but incredibly sticky, tree sap and a sprinkle of glitter, courtesy of Chandu's art supplies.
The ambush was swift, silent, and executed with the precision of seasoned pranksters.
Later, Virat discovered his sparkling, immobile pads. His roar of outrage, a magnificent sound echoing across the lawn, brought the entire family to the verandah.
"MY PADS! WHAT THE HELL?!" Virat shrieked, holding up one glittering, sap-covered pad like a cursed artifact. His face, usually flushed with mischief, was now a mask of comical horror. "CHANDU! YOU! YOU DID THIS!"
Chandu, ten, stood beside Shivanya, ten, both pretending to be deeply engrossed in examining a particularly interesting leaf. But Chandu's shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.
"What are you talking about, Virat?" Chandu asked, her voice an octave too innocent. She turned, batting her eyelashes. "Why would I ever touch your precious pads?"
Virat stomped towards them, glitter trailing in his wake. "Because you're an evil mastermind, Chandu! And my pads are stuck together! They're like… they're like a glittery, sticky monster now!"
"Maybe they just wanted to be fabulous," Pragati, ten, murmured from behind them, trying to hide her smile behind her hand.
Even Ram, sixteen, leaning against a pillar, had a wide, unshakeable grin on his face.
"Don't worry, Virat," Ram said, his voice laced with amusement. "Just adds extra grip. And sparkle."
Virat threw his hands up in despair. "Ram Bhayya! You're supposed to be on my side!"
"Side of justice, little brother," Ram corrected, winking.
The tension of the past few days, the suffocating grief, momentarily dissolved in the face of such pure, unadulterated childish chaos.
Mrinalini Singh, Charumati Rathore Singh, and Niharika Singh, watching from the verandah, couldn't help but smile.
And then, it happened. A small, dry, almost soundless laugh escaped Shivanya. It wasn't a full, hearty giggle, but a series of soft, airy puffs, her shoulders shaking faintly. Her eyes, usually so stoic, held a glimmer of genuine mirth as she watched Virat's indignant dance. It was the softest whisper of her old self, flickering to life.
Jeevika, fourteen, who had been watching the scene unfold from a quiet corner, felt a warmth spread through her chest. That tiny, almost silent laugh from Shivanya. It was a melody she hadn't heard in what felt like an eternity.
A raw, painful, yet incredibly sweet memory surfaced.
She remembered another prank. Not here, in this grand palace, but in their small, beloved Haridwar home.
> The kitchen. The late afternoon sun streaming through the window. Rudransh, twelve years old, with flour streaked across his face like war paint, giggling as Shivanya, a mischievous ten-year-old then, held up a spoon full of brightly colored food dye.
"Operation Rainbow Attack!" Shivanya had shrieked, giggling, as she flicked a blob of blue dye onto Rudransh's nose.
Rudransh had screamed in mock horror, then retaliated, chasing her with a handful of atta, creating a chaotic cloud of white. Jeevika, fourteen then, had stood in the doorway, laughing until her sides ached, watching her spirited younger brother and her mischievous little sister.
"Jeevika Didi! Help me! Shivanya is turning me into a Smurf!" Rudransh had yelled, his laughter bubbling.
And Shivanya, bright-eyed and full of pure, innocent mischief, had just beamed, her small chest puffed out with pride.
Jeevika smiled, a bittersweet ache in her heart. Shivanya's faint laughter in the garden now was a whisper of that old joy. Her sister was coming back. Not fully, not loudly, but the girl who loved to prank, who found joy in chaos, was flickering to life again. The sheer normalcy of the cousins' squabbling, Virat's dramatics, and Chandu's unapologetic mischief—it was a lifeline.
Mrinalini Singh watched Shivanya with a soft gaze, then turned to Niharika Singh. "That's… that's a good sign, isn't it, Niharika?" Mrinalini asked softly, her voice barely audible, a hopeful tremor in it. "Shivanya… she laughed."
Niharika nodded, her eyes warm. "Yes, Mrinalini. She did. It's a start. Children heal in their own ways."
Charumati Rathore Singh, standing beside them, murmured, "Our children are truly a blessing. They know how to bring the light back."
Her gaze fell upon Jeevika, seeing the genuine, unburdened smile on her face. "My love, look at Jeevika too. That's the first true laughter I've heard from her since..." Charumati didn't finish the sentence. There was no need. The implication hung heavy, a shared grief that was slowly, painstakingly, beginning to ease with the balm of everyday life.
The pranks continued throughout the day, small, harmless acts of rebellion and camaraderie. A whoopee cushion on Ram's chair. A fake spider in Pragati's book. Virat, ever the victim and sometimes the instigator, kept the energy high, ensuring there was always a reason for laughter, for lighthearted outrage.
For Jeevika, each prank, each shared giggle, each moment of normalcy was a sign. Shivanya was coming back. Not the Shivanya burdened by a horrific secret, but the Shivanya who lived for mischief, for joy, for the simple, comforting chaos of family.
The palace walls now echoed not just with ancient stories, but with the fragile, defiant laughter of children finding comfort in chaos. Yet, in Shivanya's quiet smiles, a silent promise lingered – a truth buried deeper than any prank, waiting for the day her innocent games would give way to a far deadlier play.
The fire had taken everything.
But it hadn't taken their mischief.
It hadn't taken sisterhood.
And maybe… just maybe…
Shivanya's silence was beginning to crack.
And from within it — laughter was rising again.
Just like it used to.
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