When the last guest left and the lights in the hall dimmed, the house finally settled. The fragrance of incense still lingered faintly in the night air. Siddharth wheeled Gatha back to their room, the soft sound of the chair echoing in the quiet corridors.

Tomorrow was a college day, and books for his upcoming exam already waited on his desk. But first he turned his full attention to her.

Gatha was drowsy from the long evening, her eyelids heavy. She tried to insist she could change on her own, but sleep tugged her words into soft fragments. Siddharth only smiled and worked gently.

He helped her out of the blue lehenga, replacing it with her favourite soft cotton nightwear. He wiped away the last traces of makeup, carefully cleansing her face until the skin was fresh and cool. A touch of moisturizer, a dab of lip balm—simple steps done with quiet patience. He combed her long hair into a loose bun so it would not tangle in sleep.

“There,” he whispered. “All comfortable now.”

She murmured something half-asleep that sounded like thank you, and in moments her breathing deepened into the steady rhythm of rest.

Siddharth drew the blanket lightly over her and adjusted the pillow under her head. Then, after one last look at her peaceful face, he moved to his desk. Medical notes lay open under the study lamp, a neat contrast to the softness of the room. The house was silent except for the occasional night breeze through the window.

He opened his books and began to revise, the scratch of his pen a quiet counterpoint to Gatha’s gentle breathing. Between lines of anatomy and pharmacology his eyes sometimes returned to her, asleep and safe. The party’s noise was a memory now; what remained was this quiet—a small world of care, love, and quiet determination.

Life had settled into a rhythm. Nearly five months into their marriage, Siddharth and Gatha shared a steady routine—early mornings, shared study hours, quiet nights. Yet for Siddharth every day still began and ended with the same truth: without Gatha near, the day felt unfinished.

The night before, they had worked late. He had quizzed her with mock tests, teased her gently when she tried to hide the right answers, and stayed up long past his own revision time. When they finally slept, exhaustion wrapped around them like another blanket.

Sunlight crept across the curtains, but Siddharth didn’t stir. It was nine o’clock when he finally blinked awake. The first class was already gone.

He sat up with a start. “Oh no—college!” he blurted, swinging his feet to the floor. In his rush he fumbled with his clothes, dropping a pen stand and scattering a pile of notes. The sharp clatter broke the quiet.

Gatha opened her eyes, wincing as she shifted. A dull ache pulsed along her back—too many hours in one position, too much sitting the previous day.
“Siddharth?” her voice was still heavy with sleep. “Why are you running?”

He turned, guilt and panic written on his face, and simply held up the clock. “I’m late. I missed the first class.” Then he dashed out of the room.

Downstairs, Reva was already waiting. She had heard the rush, but she only smiled when he appeared.
“I know you’re worried,” she said calmly. “But don’t. Take a day off. You were teaching all day yesterday and hardly slept. Let both of you rest.”

Siddharth slowed, the urgency in his steps fading. “But my lectures—”

Reva shook her head with quiet authority. “College will still be there tomorrow. Your health won’t wait. Stay home.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “Thank you, Ma.”

When he returned to their room, Gatha was propped on a cushion, the pain in her back easing little by little. He told her about his mother’s words, and she gave a soft, understanding smile.

They decided together to keep the day gentle: light reading, slow stretches, and plenty of rest. Outside, the world went on with its noise and schedules. Inside, the small room held only the warmth of a marriage learning how to work, how to pause, and how to care.

The house slept after the long night of guests. Even the rangoli lamps outside had cooled to faint shadows. Reva sat alone in her small sitting room, a cup of unsweetened tea cooling between her palms. From the hallway she could hear only the soft, even breathing of her son and daughter-in-law in their room upstairs.

She closed her eyes and let the stillness bring back a memory she rarely let herself touch.

There had been another wedding night long ago—her own. She had been barely out of college, already a gold-medal medical student, when her father placed her hand into Vikrant’s. No one had asked what she wanted. She had gone through the rituals like a well-trained performer: smile for the photographs, bend for the elders, swallow the rising panic. She had told herself that obedience was safety.

The marriage itself had lasted only a few days of peace. Soon came Vikrant’s late nights, the phone calls he would silence, the names she never heard but always felt. She had kept up the perfect-wife routine—pressed saris, careful greetings, a spotless record at the hospital—because that was what a good daughter and a good wife were supposed to do. Her own heartbeat had become a secret she never acknowledged.

Now, decades later, she watched her son through the lens of that buried ache. She had not liked Gatha at first; she had bristled at the suddenness of their match, at the thought of lifelong caretaking. Yet the way Siddharth protected the young woman, the way he spoke of love as responsibility and not as display—those things stirred something she had long locked away.

Reva sipped the tea, now cool, and whispered to the empty room, “At least he is happy. Truly happy.”

Upstairs, Siddharth shifted in his sleep. She imagined him carefully tucking the blanket around Gatha, just as he had done every night. A small pride moved in her chest—an unfamiliar, cautious warmth. She did not love her daughter-in-law yet, but she could no longer deny respect for the way Siddharth stood by her.

Vikrant’s shadow still lingered in this house. His betrayals—casual, repeated—had left marks no one could see. Reva felt them now as faint bruises inside her heart. Yet for the first time in years, she also felt a quiet defiance: her son had already broken the pattern.

She set down the empty cup and looked at the dark windowpane, her own reflection faint in the glass.

I once believed a good wife was someone who erased herself,
but my son has chosen a marriage where both lives are seen.

The thought stayed with her like a small lamp in the quiet. For the first time in many years, Reva allowed herself a full, unguarded breath.