Nirvan Shrivastav stands at the center, his posture resigned but protective, his hands gently resting on the tiny shoulders of his daughter, a curious three-year-old with wide, searching eyes.
"Pita ji, how did she die so young?"
"I will surely tell you, this evening. At dinner time."
The two stand together in the cold, quiet moment—father remembering, daughter learning to remember.
The flames—souls freed from pain—watch Nirvan and his daughter quietly, their presence unseen but felt. They smile softly, not with longing or regret, but with a peace that only comes from letting go. The wind stirs, carrying a handful of leaves as if blessing the ground, while above, stars begin to twinkle in the fading light, promising a new beginning.
Sharda, Nirvan’s wife, moves quietly, serving rotis to her father-in-law while keeping a watchful eye on her daughter. Suddenly, the little girl’s innocent voice rises, asking about the aunt’s story.
Amma, a stern woman of fifty-eight, reacts with venom.
"Shut up, girl! Stop taking that cursed woman's name."
Dark words poison the air, drawing lines of hatred between the family members. Sharda tries to defend, but the old woman’s wrath turns physical—a plate of food hurled, curses spat, chaos erupting.
"But Amma, she's so young… why are you filling her head with all this hate?"
The family’s rage is a burning fire, engulfing Sharda in blistering isolation as she holds back her tears.
Nirvan[/@ch_1] cannot bear it any longer. His voice cuts through the noise, sharp and fierce, silencing the room.]
"Just shut up everyone. Now no one will shout at her. She is my wife, and no one is allowed to curse her."
His gaze is unwavering, his fury palpable. Turning to Sharda, he offers escape:
"Sharda listen, now there's no need to serve them dinner anymore, take bitti and go to the room."
The family falls silent, their hatred exposed and impotent. Night settles thickly, pressing in around the house, and the moon’s gentle light is kept out by curtains drawn tight against change.
Sharda sits beside her daughter, guiding her fingers over letters scratched on a slate—a forbidden lesson in a world where girls’ education is shamed. Footsteps sound; Nirvan enters, carrying a thali and a cloth bag. He sets balushahi beside the food, watching her with care.
"I know you didn’t eat,"
He feeds her gently, his love quiet but fierce.
"When did you bring balushahi?"
"Early today. If I had told everyone, there would have been nothing left for you, just like before."
A pause, then a revelation.
"I got a government post in the city. We’ll be leaving. All three of us."
Hope flickers, restrained and uncertain, as Sharda weighs happiness against years of pain.
"The family you’re trying to hold together stands united—especially when it comes to opposing you. You know they don’t allow women to be happy."
"They burn women alive. Just for daring to stand up."
Nirvan takes her hand, promising protection and love, vowing never to let cruelty win again.
The child[/@ch_2] looks up, her eyes round and solemn.]
"Papa, did they really burn her alive?"
The question hangs in the air, a fragile bridge between memory and hope, as the quiet flame endures—witness to sorrow, rebellion, and the promise of gentler days ahead.
