16th February...

Mr. Hooda sat in his room, his thoughts consumed by grief, his heart weighed down by an inexpressible sorrow. The bed, once a place of rest, now felt like an island in a sea of turmoil. Tomorrow was his elder son's kriya—a ritual performed for the departed—and the thought of it sent waves of pain through him, deeper than any words could ever convey. Losing a son, especially at a time when a parent hopes to be held in their care, feels like more than just loss—it feels like being abandoned. It is as if the very essence of life has been stripped away, and the world that once seemed so certain now feels hollow and cruel. People often tell him that he still has his other children to rely on, but what they don't understand is that no count of children can ever fill the void left by the loss of one. A parent's heart loves each child equally, and losing any of them brings only misery, a misery that drowns everything else.

His chain of thought was abruptly broken by a knock at the door. He lifted his gaze and saw Mr. Agrawal standing in the doorway, silently gesturing for permission to enter. Mr. Hooda nodded for him to come in.

"How are you?" Mr. Agrawal asked gently.

"I'm not okay, but if the Almighty grants me the strength to bear this pain, then I shall endure," Mr. Hooda replied, his voice thin with grief.

"I need to speak with you," Mr. Agrawal said, looking a bit uncomfortable.

"I can see the unease on your face, Agrawal. Please, speak your mind. Whatever it is, we must face it now," Mr. Hooda urged, sensing the seriousness in his friend's tone.

"Well," Mr. Agrawal began with a deep sigh, "I don't know how to say this, or whether it's the right time, but as a father, I can't hold back any longer."

"I understand. You are worried about something, aren't you?" Mr. Hooda replied, encouraging him to speak freely.

Before Mr. Agrawal could continue, another knock echoed from the door.

"Who is it?" Mr. Hooda called out, his voice steady, though his heart still heavy with the conversation.

"Papa ji, food," came the soft voice from the other side.

"Sana, dear, come inside," Mr. Hooda called out.

"Sana?" Mr. Agrawal began, but Mr. Hooda cut him off, holding up a hand.

"Whatever we're discussing here, it involves her future too. She has every right to be part of this conversation," Mr. Hooda said, his tone firm yet gentle.

Sana walked in quietly, her presence almost ethereal. She appeared as if she were floating, her face devoid of emotion. She wore a simple white suit, her beauty untouched by the grief that seemed to have consumed her soul. She was no longer the lively, spirited young woman she had once been—now she sat motionless, as if her very essence had faded into nothingness.

"Now, Agrawal, speak your mind," Mr. Hooda said, his gaze shifting between his friend and the motionless figure of his daughter.

"Sir," Mr. Agrawal began, his voice thick with emotion, "I know it may be too soon to discuss this, but please think about Sana. She is only 28. She still has her whole life ahead of her. She may not be in a position to make decisions right now, but as adults, it is our responsibility to think of what is best for her."

Mr. Hooda listened quietly, his gaze fixed on his daughter, who seemed as distant as the stars, her face unreadable.

"Yes," Mr. Hooda said with a heavy sigh, "I understand. What happened, happened. But Sana is like our daughter, and we could never wish for her to live in sorrow for the rest of her life."

"What are you suggesting?" Mr. Hooda asked after a long pause.

"Tomorrow, Pradeep's kriya will take place, and I cannot bear to see my daughter in white clothes, mourning. Yes, she is now a widow, but spending the rest of her life in that state would be unjust to her," Mr. Agrawal said, his voice strained with the weight of his thoughts.

Mr. Hooda nodded, understanding the deep pain behind his words. "If you wish, I will allow you to take her with you. I understand your position," he said, his voice low but resolute.

"Thank you," Mr. Agrawal said, folding his hands in gratitude. "But there is one thing I must ask of you, Hooda sahab. My daughter is my everything. Please, allow me to take her with me. You can keep our grandson here with you. I don't want to separate them. Please, let us take her home."

Mr. Hooda's eyes narrowed. "How could I think of separating a mother from her child?" he asked, his voice full of reproach.

"I'm only thinking as a father, not a stranger," Mr. Agrawal replied, wiping his face in exasperation. "I just want what's best for Sana. She deserves happiness, and right now, I fear she cannot find that in her current state."

"Then why leave her now, when she is in such a fragile state?" Mr. Hooda asked.

"I just want her to be happy," Mr. Agrawal replied, his voice filled with deep, unwavering determination.

"You mean, you want her to move on," Mr. Hooda said, his tone softer now.

"Yes," Mr. Agrawal said simply.

"Sana, my dear, will be cared for by us. Her happiness matters to us just as much as yours," Mr. Hooda continued, as his voice filled with confidence. "In our family, we still uphold the custom of latha udhana—a ritual that signifies welcoming the new bride into the family. It is considered a duty, even in times like these."

"Are you suggesting...?" Mr. Agrawal began, a realization dawning on him.

"Yes," Mr. Hooda said, a faint smile appearing on his lips. "You understand me now."

"But... she is his wife now," Mr. Agrawal said hesitantly, glancing at his daughter, who remained motionless, as if the world was no longer her concern.

"She was his wife," Mr. Hooda corrected. "And now, she will be his bride again."

"I hope you have no objections to this decision," Mr. Hooda asked, his voice firm yet laced with understanding.

"No, no objections at all. If this is what you believe is best for her, then I support it wholeheartedly," Mr. Agrawal said with a bow of respect. "All I ask is that you speak with Sidharth, your son."

"I will," Mr. Hooda assured him. "You need not worry. I'll make sure he understands his responsibilities."

"Thank you, Hooda sahab," Mr. Agrawal said, his voice thick with gratitude. "You have eased my heart's burden."

"And we have our family with us, as it should be," Mr. Hooda said softly, his gaze still on Sana, who had yet to react to the conversation unfolding around her.

The two men embraced, a silent acknowledgment of the difficult path ahead. Sana, however, remained as still as a statue, her mind seemingly elsewhere, untouched by the words spoken or the future unfolding before her.

Outside the room, Sidharth had been quietly listening, hidden behind a pillar. He had come with the intention of convincing Mr. Agrawal to allow his brother's son and his wife to stay in the haveli. He knew that, like any father, Mr. Agrawal would want to take his daughter home. But hearing the conversation take this unexpected turn left him stunned. He had never anticipated this.

How could he possibly consider putting vermilion in the hairline of the woman he had always considered his sister-in-law?

Wishing you all A Safe Holi. Stay tuned for more updates.