The afternoon slowly turned into evening as they began opening the suitcases one by one.
This time, in this new apartment, everyone had their own room.
It felt unfamiliar… but dignified.
Zippers slid open.
Folded sarees came out first. Then neatly stacked salwar sets. Father's ironed shirts. Grandmother's simple cotton blouses wrapped carefully in old newspaper for protection.
Bani sat cross-legged on the floor, passing clothes to her mother.
"Keep the daily wear here," her mother said calmly. "Festive clothes on the upper shelf."
There was no hurry. But there was care.
Her mother arranged clothes for herself and her husband first — sarees on one side, his shirts aligned neatly. Then Bani's, her brother's, and grandmother's clothes were placed in their respective wardrobes.
They didn't have too many clothes.
Most of what they owned were old, comfortable outfits — soft from years of washing. Clothes meant for living, not displaying. At home, they simply wore what felt easy.
There were no separate night suits.
Her father followed a long-standing habit from the men in the family — a lungi and a banyan for sleeping. Simple. Familiar. Comfortable.
Nothing fancy.
But everything honest.
As the wardrobes slowly filled, Bani stood still for a moment inside her room.
A room of her own.
A window overlooking tall buildings.
A quiet space.
And suddenly, a thought entered her mind — not about clothes, not about furniture.
About routine.
About change.
Until now, life had been about adjusting to circumstances. Managing. Surviving. Delaying comfort.
But here…
Maybe they could build healthier habits.
Maybe showers shouldn't be only in the morning. Maybe after coming home from outside too — fresh clothes, fresh mind.
Maybe exercise could become part of life. Even small stretches. A walk near the lakes.
Maybe health should not wait until something hurts.
If she remembered correctly, in her past life almost every member of the family carried some kind of health issue.
Not dramatic illnesses.
But constant ones.
Untreated ones.
Postponed ones.
There were times when proper treatment felt like a luxury. Not because they were lazy. Not because they didn't work hard.
They worked endlessly.
But most of what they earned went toward loan repayments and clearing debts. Money came in already committed. Lenders first. Responsibilities first. Health later.
Always later.
As years passed, age quietly caught up with her parents.
Without proper rest, without body care, both her mother and father developed sugar and BP. Her father, especially, had constant body pain. Heavy physical work had taken its toll.
If a machine runs continuously, it is given rest.
But her father?
Even when his body was not in proper condition, he continued working. Because for him, providing for the family was not a choice. It was identity. It was duty.
He never asked, "What about me?"
He only asked, "What about them?"
And relatives…
Some of them didn't request help. They demanded it. As if it was his responsibility to carry everyone's burden. As if his sacrifices were an unlimited resource.
Bani stood by the window, her thoughts heavy but clear.
That cycle had to stop.
Not with anger.
Not with rebellion.
But with change.
The first change had to be in her father's thinking.
He needed to understand something very important — his children could take care of themselves. They were not helpless anymore. They did not need him to destroy his body for their comfort.
Guidance was enough.
Presence was enough.
Wisdom was enough.
He did not need to join the workforce in his old age just to provide a "comfortable" life.
Comfort built on someone's broken health was not comfort.
It was guilt.
She didn't want that.
She wanted her father to wake up without pain. To take morning walks near the lakes. To monitor his sugar properly. To eat on time. To rest without feeling lazy.
She wanted her mother to prioritize her own health too — not just everyone else's plate.
But she also understood something important:
You cannot change a man who has spent decades believing sacrifice equals love — in one conversation.
It has to be shown.
Not told.
She would have to become strong enough — financially, emotionally, practically — so that her father could finally breathe.
So that when relatives demanded, he could politely say no.
So that when work called, he could choose rest.
So that when age increased, fear would not.
Bani closed her eyes for a moment.
This move to Dubai was not just about a new apartment.
It was about breaking generational exhaustion.
About teaching her family that self-care is not selfish.
About building a life where health is not postponed.
Among the last items to be unpacked was a small metal box.
Inside it were the things that never lost value — gold, silver, some carefully folded cash, and important documents. Not just wealth. Security. Memory. Effort.
Back in India, all of this used to be kept inside a heavy iron Godrej cupboard — Godrej Group — the kind every household simply called a beeru. It wasn't just furniture. It was a silent witness to generations.
That iron beeru had weight — real weight.
It took at least three people to move it safely.
But once, just to save money during house shifting, her father and brother decided to move it themselves.
They managed.
But at a cost.
The strain affected his chest and bones. What started as "just a little pain" turned into weeks of discomfort. Nights without proper sleep. Turning from one side to another, pretending it wasn't serious.
He never complained loudly.
He never stopped working.
At that time, every rupee they earned was already assigned — house ration, loan repayments, rent. The money came with a destination written on it.
They weren't poor.
But there was never extra.
Extra for rest.
Extra for comfort.
Extra for proper medical care.
Pain was adjusted.
Tablets were delayed.
Check-ups were postponed.
Because responsibility always stood first in line.
Her mother had struggled with paronychia — fingers swollen, red, throbbing with pain even while cutting vegetables or washing clothes.
Still, she never stopped working.
Bani herself had endured monthly menstrual pain quietly — pressing her stomach, lying on one side, waiting for it to pass because there were classes to attend, chores to finish, expectations to meet.
Her brother had recurring ear infections for years. Sharp pain. Occasional fever. Temporary relief. Then again the same cycle.
It wasn't that they didn't care about health.
It was that survival came first.
Money came in. Money went out
And health was often postponed.