The cold drizzle outside Rishi's modest North London flat blurred the windowpanes until the world beyond looked like an impressionist painting—soft streaks of silver and steel washed over row houses, lampposts, and the muted hum of passing traffic. It was the kind of rain that didn't roar or relent, but simply persisted—quiet, stubborn, and endlessly patient—soaking the bones of the city and anyone who dared to step outside. The sky sagged low, a woolen shroud of grey stretched so tightly it seemed to press down on the rooftops and on every wandering thought.
Inside, however, Rishi's living room held a fragile pocket of warmth, a candle of comfort flickering against the gloom. He sat curled in the corner of his secondhand sofa, wrapped in a thick sweater with pilled elbows and worn softness. His hand moved absentmindedly through the fur of his cat, Oggy, who lay curled on his lap like a small, breathing furnace. The cat's gentle purrs vibrated against Rishi's palm, blending with the soft hum of the central heating—a sound that had become synonymous with evenings spent in quiet retreat.
The flat was minimalist, almost austere, yet immaculately kept. Everything had its place: the neatly stacked books on the shelf, the folded blanket on the arm of the couch, the single framed photograph of his parents on the side table. It reflected Rishi himself—a man who clung to control in the small corners of life because the larger currents often swept beyond his reach.
Rishi was thirty. Single. A creature of habit more than hunger. He worked as a software engineer in a London tech company, part of the thousand faces behind a towering corporate façade. Days dissolved into lines of code; nights flowed quietly into cups of reheated tea and the soft glow of late-night documentaries. His social world was modest—a handful of video calls with family in India, a few messages exchanged with college friends who now lived scattered across continents, and the cheerful interruptions of Olivia, a colleague whose uninvited presence somehow never annoyed him.
Olivia was the type of person who carried her own weather—her laughter bright enough to warm a whole office floor, her curiosity boundless, her pockets often filled with snacks she'd insist on sharing. Rishi, who preferred to fold himself into the background, found her energy both startling and strangely grounding.
That morning, however, something in the rhythm of the office felt off before he even understood why.
Olivia approached his desk with none of her usual enthusiasm. Her steps were soft, hesitant, and her face carried an unfamiliar solemnity. She rested one hand gently on the edge of his desk, her voice low, steady, and unusually deliberate.
"Rishi … I'm really sorry. There's been some news from home. Your grandfather—Rajasekhar—he passed away."
The words struck him like a stone dropped into deep water. His body stilled. His breath caught. The name—Rajasekhar—echoed in the space between them, stirring a rush of memories he had never truly let go.
His grandfather: a man shaped by ritual, discipline, and a certain quiet grandeur. He remembered the faint scent of sandalwood lingering in the early mornings, the rustle of crisp white cotton veshtis, the gentle drone of devotional hymns filling the ancestral home. Rajasekhar had been the family's moral compass, a man who did not speak much, but who carried centuries of tradition in his steady presence.
Distance had stretched between them over the years—oceans, continents, time zones—but the connection had never fully frayed.
Within hours, Rishi booked the next available flight to India. Grief would have to wait; logistics demanded urgency. He packed in silence, moving mechanically, his thoughts tangled around memories that surfaced like half-forgotten dreams.
Two days later, when Rishi stepped into the ancestral house in New Delhi, grief had already been organized.
Not felt—organized.
The rituals were underway. Priests chanted in precise rhythm. Incense smoke curled toward the ceiling like disciplined sorrow. Marigold garlands framed portraits. Condolences were exchanged in low, rehearsed tones.
But in the study room upstairs, something else was happening.
Business meetings.
His grandfather's passing had triggered not just mourning—but decisions. Land evaluations. Asset discussions. Legal clarifications. Conference calls with lawyers and investors. The dining table had become a boardroom.
Rishi stood at the edge of it all—physically present, emotionally unconsulted.
He was the quiet one. The one who listened. The one who nodded. The one who never interrupted.
An introvert in a family that mistook silence for consent.
While his uncles debated numbers and future plans, he wandered through the corridors of the house, fingers grazing walls that had once echoed with childhood laughter. No one stopped him. No one asked what he was thinking.
By evening, a decision had already been made.
Not by him.
"For the village property inspection, someone has to go to Sriperumbudur," one uncle declared, flipping through documents.
"Appa's old friend is still there. We should at least show respect."
Another voice added casually, "Rishi is free anyway. We're all tied up with meetings."
Heads nodded.
Eyes turned.
He looked up from his cup of untouched tea.
"Rishi, you can go to Sriperumbudur tomorrow, right?"
It wasn't really a question.
It was a conclusion disguised as one.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
In his chest, thoughts gathered like a storm—Why me? Why not ask first? Why does my silence always volunteer me?
But the words never made it out.
"Okay," he said softly.
And that was that.
The next morning, a new complication surfaced.
No flights available.
Weather disruptions. Fully booked routes. Endless waitlists.
"We can't delay the legal documentation," someone muttered.
"Train is fine. It's just one day," another concluded.
Within an hour, a ticket had been arranged.
Second-class sleeper on the Tamil Nadu Express with thirty-three hours travel.
No one asked if he preferred to wait for a flight. No one asked if he even wanted to go.
They assumed he would adjust. He always did.
Outside Hazrat Nizamuddin Railway Station, chaos reigned with perfect efficiency. Porters weaved through crowds. Vendors shouted over the hum of engines. Announcements cracked through old speakers.
• Rishi stood still in the middle of movement.
• A single backpack on his shoulder.
• A leather-bound notebook in his hand—his grandfather's last scribbles, passed to him without explanation.
• He had not volunteered for this journey.
Yet here he was barding a train to a town he barely remembered.
• To meet a man he had never known.
• To represent a family that rarely heard him.
Inside the coach, life was loud.
Children argued over window seats. A family unpacked steel tiffin carriers heavy with lemon rice and pickle. A vendor sang out, "Chai, chai…"
• Rishi climbed to his berth and sat by the window.
• He didn't plug in earphones.
• He didn't open a movie.
• He simply watched.
As the train began to move at 3:35 PM, Delhi slowly dissolved into fields, then factories, then open land stretching toward somewhere quieter.
For the first time since the funeral began, no one was speaking over him.
No one was assigning him a role. No one was mistaking his silence for agreement.
The rhythm of the train filled the space where conversations usually invaded.
Maybe this wasn't just a task. Maybe this was the first decision he hadn't actively chosen—but also hadn't resisted.
• Somewhere ahead lay Sriperumbudur.
• Somewhere ahead waited an old friend of his grandfather.
And somewhere between Delhi and Tamil Nadu, Rishi felt something unfamiliar.
Not confidence. Not rebellion. But awareness.
He had said "okay."
But this time, maybe he would finally ask himself what he truly wanted.
The journey had begun—not because he spoke.
But because he didn't.