I am Dhruv. Fifteen years old, born at the heart of a dynasty whose power moves without sound. And let me ask you directly, yaar—if your life were a finished work, what would you imagine for a child destined to become The next one?
Perhaps you would picture a house that feels like a quiet exhibition hall: tall glass catching the morning light, a dining table already set before your footsteps are heard.
Sundays pass calmly, invitations come and go, vehicles wait with warm engines. Weekends are simply a matter of choice—retreat into nature, cross briefly into another country, or make a short appearance at a gathering where everyone carefully maintains their expression.
School runs on a packed yet orderly schedule. Expensive things that don't need to be named, because everyone around you owns something similar.
A life that—people say—is already made.
And yes—that life exists.
I don't deny it.
But in my family, Sunday mornings begin before all of that.
Before schedules are opened.
Before engines are started.
Before Pitaa talks about the afternoon.
Sunday morning begins with us washing our school uniforms and shoes.
Yes.
You didn't read that wrong.
Me and my sister, Tara. Uniforms. School shoes. Sunday morning.
Not because there's no one else to do it. But because there are things that, according to our Histories, are safer when done by yourself.
Especially after that incident.
I still remember Tara standing in front of the wardrobe one Sunday night, silent longer than usual. Her hand held a small pink object.
"Ma," she said softly, half protesting, half confused,
"why are all my innerwear… like this?"
Maata didn't even turn from the mirror. She was busy applying something that looked like honey to her cheeks.
"Tara D., you didn't want to do laundry this morning," she replied casually.
"But why Hello Kitty?"
"Well, it's cute."
"And lace?"
"Obviously. It's soft, tho*."
(*Javanese signature)
Tara lifted the small ribbon in the middle.
"I'm a teenager, Ma. Please. Not a baby."
Maata finally turned. Her eyes assessed her, but her smile widened.
"Exactly, sweetheart."
"Exactly what?"
"The point," her voice dropped, like a war strategy,
"is that only little kids with cute, lacy underwear get their laundry done by other people. You're grown now, right?"
Tara opened her mouth. Closed it again.
There was no room for debate.
The next morning she went to school wearing Maata's favorite cute-patterned underwear, and of course with a permanently twisted face all day.
Since then, we have never skipped this Sunday morning ritual.
***
The morning breeze rises gently from the yard. The scent of detergent still clings to my fingers. The sun isn't aggressive yet—the kind of morning that makes you want to go back to sleep and pretend the day hasn't started.
Tara and I stand on the balcony, white laundry lined up neatly.
Too neat for a day off.
"Bhaiya," Tara grumbles as she snaps the last hanger into place,
"if this falls, I'm not taking responsibility."
"You're the one rewashing it," I reply without looking.
She stops.
Her eyes scan the laundry.
Then mine.
"Achha, deal," she says quickly.
"But if it gets Bengaluru dust on it, you explain it to Maata. I'm still traumatized."
I snort.
I remember that day.
And I have no intention of experiencing it myself.
We wash together.
I handle the trousers. Tara gets the socks.
A division that looks fair, but actually puts more risk on me.
"Must be nice," I complain while tightening a plastic clip,
"you get to stay home today."
Tara immediately fires back, moving far too fast for someone who feels safe.
"Arey, it's better for you. You're going with Pitaa to the office."
"At least at home you can pretend to relax," I say.
She snorts.
"There's no such thing as relaxing at home when Maata is experimenting."
I turn to her.
"What is it today?"
"Pizza," Tara answers firmly.
"What?"
We stare at each other.
Silent for a fraction of a second—the kind of silence already seasoned with experience.
Tara grins and steps half a pace forward.
"Honestly," she says,
"I want to trade fates today."
"Fates?"
"Going with Pitaa. Sit nicely. Come home in the evening. Safe."
I chuckle briefly.
"Safe is a myth."
"At least it's far from the oven," she shoots back.
I sigh.
"You think going with Pitaa is a holiday?"
She shrugs.
"No. But compared to being with Maata? It's the least terrible option."
We laugh quietly.
The laugh of people who know: wherever you stand, you still get hit.
"As long as," she lowers her voice,
"Maata hasn't called us by our full names, we're still salvageable."
I nod.
The most accurate indicator in our house.
The sliding door opens.
Pitaa enters without excess sound—and somehow, the balcony feels tidier instantly. Not because he speaks. Because he's present.
"Morning, loves," he says simply, to both of us.
I nod.
Tara answers first, Sunday's sweetest smile deployed.
Maata appears—neat. Too neat. Her hair falls obediently.
That means Pitaa is home today.
"Tara," Maata says lightly,
"once you're done, take your two milkshakes from the freezer."
She holds black coffee and one milkshake.
"This one, darling," her voice softens,
"for metabolism and focus."
Pitaa raises an eyebrow, inhaling the strong aroma of his black coffee.
"Some focus curves drop when blood sugar rises."
Maata steps half a pace closer, loops her arm briefly around Pitaa's, and lowers her voice.
"That's why," she says with a challenging smile,
"the bitter one is for you, Ji.
The sweet ones are for the children. Let their immune systems train on the field."
Pitaa pauses for a fraction of a second.
The corner of his lips lifts.
Then he steps toward us.
Not commanding. Observing.
One hanger is shifted half a finger.
"The wind is enough," he says.
"If it's too tight, it stays damp. Damp environments make fungi happy—
and things that are happy usually grow fast."
Tara and I automatically adjust the spacing.
Not out of fear. Out of habit—thinking before being told.
Suddenly Tara slips closer to Pitaa's side, looping her arm halfway around him, her voice shifting—soft but calculated.
"Paaa… you're going out today, right?"
"Yes," Pitaa answers patiently.
"Can I come along?"
A question, but her eyes are already assembling arguments. Pitaa bends slightly, level with her gaze. Tara continues quickly.
"I can sit quietly. I won't make noise. Promise."
Pitaa smiles.
"I know you can," he says.
"But today isn't the right place."
"Why?"
Tara lifts an eyebrow—a small test.
"Because today," Pitaa replies calmly,
"I need you at home, with Maata."
Tara exhales, thinking fast.
"Next week?"
Pitaa nods once.
"We'll arrange it."
She's satisfied—not because she got permission now, but because she got certainty.
I note it.
The safest way to calm Tara isn't a big promise, but a clear timeline.
***
We move to the dining table.
Pizza is sliced. A strange mix of spices and cheese hits the nose.
I take a bite first.
Tara follows.
We stop at the same time.
"It tastes…" Tara frowns, staring at her slice as if auditing a life decision.
"…bold and spicy," I say quickly.
We exchange a look.
Today, dishonesty is a form of affection.
Maata passes by, kisses Pitaa's cheek, then ruffles Tara's hair.
"Seems like too much secret seasoning," she says casually.
"But that's life too, tho—lots of mystery, but still has to be finished."
Pitaa only smiles faintly.
I chew.
Mental conditioning. Again.
"Beta," I say lightly,
"later please iron my uniform, okay? I'll be with Pa until evening."
Tara takes a long sip of her milkshake, weighing it.
"If I iron, Bhaiya, then next week it's your turn."
"All of it. Wash. Iron. Fold."
"Minus washing."
"Plus washing."
I look at her.
She raises an eyebrow—a small smile of someone who knows she has leverage.
"Negotiation rejected," she says sweetly.
I sigh.
"Fine. Deal."
Tara grins in victory.
Pitaa pats my shoulder once—precise and brief. A sign the decision is made, and my job now is to execute it neatly.
From the kitchen, Maata calls cheerfully,
"Good boys. The important thing is neatness—in clothes, and in thoughts."
I swallow another bite.
Mystery pizza.
***
My phone vibrates. I sit on the floor, leaning against a cool pillar.
Incoming call.
Ishaan.
"Bro," his voice is calm—too calm,
"my schedule next week is tight. Monday to Saturday.
Extra tutors. My dad wants me at an event on Friday."
"So?" I ask.
"Wednesday afternoon."
"Usual place."
"Time?"
I say it. No further questions. Call ends.
A message comes in from another number.
"Class might move tomorrow," Manju writes.
"You coming?"
"Coming," I reply.
"Just follow the flow."
"You're way too relaxed."
I glance at the laundry for a moment.
"Not relaxed. Just not wasting energy."
Across the table, Maata stares at Pitaa. Not a glance—long. The kind of look that usually makes people forget schedules.
Pitaa notices. He stops stirring his coffee, looks up, then down again—pretending to check his phone. Half a second too late.
"Why," Maata finally speaks, her tone light but hooked,
"does it have to be today, darling?"
She leans forward slightly, elbow touching the table. Pitaa smiles faintly—the smile of someone who knows the pattern.
"Today," he says calmly,
"because tomorrow will be too crowded.
And Dhruv needs to see it while the room is still breathing."
Maata tilts her head, fingers playing at the tray's edge.
"And when is my time with you?"
Her tone is playful, but her eyes are sharp. Pitaa lifts his gaze, voice dropping half a note.
"Not taken. Exchanged."
He glances at me briefly.
"One hour now, so the week ahead is lighter."
Maata exhales softly—defeated, but willing.
"Always good at choosing the moment," she murmurs.
She steps closer, straightens Pitaa's collar that was already straight.
"Promise you'll be back on time."
"Promise," Pitaa replies.
Short. Certain.
Beside me, Tara raises an eyebrow at me.
I shrug and smile.
We understand.
Some things don't need to be scheduled—just understood.
I pack my bag.
Arrange books. Glance at my schedule.
Meetings. Exams. Tutors. School.
Neatly ordered.
Time moves.
This afternoon, I'll go with Pitaa to the office.
I'll sit in a corner.
Listen more than I speak.
See without needing to record.
Without a last name.
In that place, numbers move fast, glass doors open and close silently, and the AC hums constantly—a rhythm that doesn't care who you are, only what you understand.
Most parents want their children to show all their potential.
Perfect scores. Full achievements. Rising graphs.
In my house, the rules are different.
I'm taught to manage potential.
When to use it.
How much.
And for what.
If I can score a hundred, I'm told to stop at seventy or eighty—stable, consistent, unremarkable.
"Peaks are risky," Maata once said, marking my schedule with a pen.
"What matters isn't who goes highest, but who lasts the longest."
Pa added nothing.
He didn't need to.
And at this level, I begin to understand:
My goal isn't recognition,
but understanding—
and impact that keeps working even when our name is never mentioned.
—To be Continued—