Chapter V
"The Ties That Hurt, and the Bonds That Heal"
As the last echo of Sita's mother's calm voice settled into the marbled silence, a strange kind of warmth returned to the hall. The storm of confrontation had passed — for now — and in its place came something softer… something almost sacred.
Sita's mom stepped forward, her graceful presence exuding nothing but quiet acceptance. She looked at me with gentle eyes and held a small silver thali in her hands — a traditional welcome. My breath caught a little. I hadn't expected this. Not after everything.
She dipped her finger into the red vermilion paste, touched it to my forehead, and circled the aarti plate before me. Her eyes held no judgment. Just warmth. The kind of warmth only a mother could give.
"Welcome home," she whispered, so softly I almost didn't hear it.
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes.
I bowed low and gently touched her feet, seeking the blessing that came not just from respect — but from a desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, I could belong here one day. She placed her hand on my head, letting it linger for a moment longer than needed. And in that pause, something shifted in me — a thread pulled tight around my heart began to loosen.
Then, I turned toward Sita's father — Dushyant Raj Sinha — and hesitated.
Every instinct in me said don't do it. He didn't want this. He didn't want me.
But I wasn't raised to give respect only when it's returned. I was raised to honor the home I stepped into.
So I bent down anyway, lowering myself to touch his feet.
He instinctively stepped back, clearly not expecting it — or wanting it. But before he could fully pull away, his wife's calm hand reached out and touched his wrist, a quiet reminder. A plea.
And for once, he didn't resist.
He stood still, allowing the gesture to happen — even if his pride bristled under the surface.
I straightened up, not looking for approval. I wasn't here to win him over. I was here for Sita. For our promise. For our beginning.
Sita stepped beside me, hugging her mom tightly — the first time I saw her truly, completely relaxed since we entered this house.
"Mumma," she said softly, "can I take Ved with me to my room? I just… need to pack my things."
Her mom smiled, brushing her daughter's hair lovingly. "Sita, this house is yours. You don't need to ask me for permission. You're free to go wherever you wish, with whoever you wish."
Then she turned toward me with a playful yet curious glint in her eyes. "But tell me one thing… are you ever going to tell us your name properly? Or will you remain a beautiful mystery?"
Sita chuckled, and her gaze turned toward me. Her smile was proud, mischievous, and full of love.
"This," she said, her voice clear, "is Vedehi. But you can call her Ved. She's a poet."
"A poet?" her mom repeated, visibly delighted. "That's such a rare and beautiful calling. Words heal, you know. They carry strength."
I nodded slightly, humbled by her kindness. "Thank you… Mumma."
She looked visibly touched, her eyes crinkling with affection. "That's better. I'd be honored if you called me Mumma. You're part of our family now."
And just like that, I felt seen.
Not by the man who still stood with his back rigid and heart closed, but by the woman who understood the language of quiet rebellions and slow acceptance.
But the moment was broken.
Her father, who had been standing silently, finally turned — his voice cutting through the warmth like ice.
"You may call her Mumma if you wish," he said, not looking at me. "But you will address me as Sir."
His tone wasn't cruel — but it was distant. Final.
He looked at both of us with an expression carved from stone. "Gather Sita's belongings. And leave as soon as possible."
He didn't wait for a reply. He turned on his heel and walked out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, sharp and cold.
A silence followed — awkward, but not unexpected.
Sita's mother sighed and looked at her daughter with that familiar expression only a mother could carry — a mix of pain, understanding, and helpless love.
"You know how your father is, Sita," she said gently. "He's not angry that you married… a woman. He's angry because you ran away. Because he feels he wasn't part of the choice. His ego… it's louder than his heart, sometimes."
Sita looked down, her voice soft but firm. "He thinks he lost control over me. But all I ever wanted… was the freedom to choose love."
"I know," her mother said quietly, stepping forward and placing a hand on her cheek. "That's why I'm proud of you."
Tears welled up in Sita's eyes, but she blinked them away and whispered, "Thank you, Mumma. Thank you for understanding me… when no one else did."
Her mother pulled her into another hug — soft, strong, and long. The kind of hug that repairs broken things. The kind that says, you're not alone.
And I stood there, watching the two of them — knowing that while Dushyant Raj Sinha may never truly welcome me, I had found an ally in the woman who held this home together.
We would leave this place soon, with boxes and bags and memories — both good and bruised.
But what we carried in our hearts would matter more.
Sita had chosen love. I had chosen courage.
And even if her father could never say the words… her mother already had.
"You're family now," she had said.
And somehow, those words were enough to keep us going.
Sita held my hand tightly, her fingers interlaced with mine, and began leading me up the grand marble staircase toward her room. Her pace was calm, but I could feel the weight in her grip — a quiet mix of defiance and determination.
As we walked, I glanced around. Every corridor we passed was wide enough to feel like a hallway in a five-star hotel, and every room we caught glimpses of was tastefully designed — high ceilings, velvet curtains, golden chandeliers, and polished wooden floors. Everything shimmered with elegance.
But strangely, it all felt… empty.
Huge spaces. Impeccable designs. But barely any life.
What's the point of a house so big, I thought, when it holds only eight people?
Eight.
That was the number Sita had told me once — eight people in a palace built for a hundred hearts. The silence in the air wasn't peaceful; it was hollow. Like the walls had gotten too used to hearing footsteps fade away before a conversation ever began.
Still, I didn't say anything. I wasn't here to judge her home. I was here to walk with her, wherever she led me.
When we reached her room and she pushed open the door, I paused.
Because it wasn't what I expected at all.
Her room… was a world of its own.
It wasn't grand in a royal way — it was artistic. Oceanic. Magical.
One entire wall had a massive painting of glowing jellyfish, their translucent forms drifting through a deep blue sea. Another wall had shelves lined with books — some worn, some new, some clearly read over and over again. Near the window stood a small aquarium with a single, slow-moving fish inside. Its tiny fins fluttered gently as if dancing in slow motion.
There were ocean animal figurines on her desk, sea-shell wind chimes by the balcony, and a starfish night lamp beside the bed. It felt like I had walked into a calm, underwater dream — the kind of room someone creates when they crave stillness in a loud world.
Sita didn't speak much. She just smiled faintly and moved to the closet.
She didn't pack much — which surprised me.
Just a few casual clothes she wore regularly. A couple of her favorite books. A small pouch of makeup — barely anything. A compact, one brush, maybe some mascara.
And then she turned to me and asked, "Do you need space in the bag for your makeup stuff?"
I smiled, shaking my head. "I don't really use much. Just a lip gloss… and that too, only sometimes."
She raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"
I shrugged. "I've just never cared for it. I like being simple. Messy hair, clean skin, maybe a little shine on the lips when I feel fancy."
Sita chuckled, the sound light and soft. "Of course. That's so… you."
And I could tell she meant it — not in a way that made me feel less, but more. As if my simplicity added something honest to the chaos around her.
I glanced again at the glowing jellyfish on her wall, the quiet fish swimming in its little world, and I realized something.
Sita didn't just love the ocean.
She was the ocean.
Beautiful. Mysterious. Full of hidden stories and silent strength. Always moving beneath the surface, but never in a rush to explain herself.
And I… I was someone learning how to swim — not in water, but in her world.
She zipped up the suitcase slowly, her hands brushing over the handles with finality.
Then she looked at me and smiled — not with excitement, but with something quieter. Something more real.
Peace.
She was ready to leave behind her palace for an apartment full of poetry and plant pots. For a life that didn't shimmer like chandeliers but glowed like a small candle — steady, warm, and alive.
And I was ready to walk with her.
Even if we had nothing more than a single suitcase… and each other.
To be continued...