The rain had come down hard that evening, hammering the wide marble courtyard of the Rathore mansion in Lucknow. Thunder cracked like old bones, shaking the windows. Inside the grand hall, silence reigned, thick with disapproval.
Rudra stood still.
He was thirty at the time. His hair was wet from the downpour, his jaw clenched, his hand cradling a bundle barely bigger than a loaf of bread. A new born.
Abhimanyu.
Six days old.
Wrapped in his sister’s old shawl.
The baby had stopped crying. But Rudra hadn’t.
Not aloud, not visibly, not in a way his family would ever recognize. But something inside him had crumbled, piece by piece, from the moment he got the call. From the moment they told him his sister, his reckless, wild, fearless little sister Meera was gone.
Car accident. Her husband, too. Gone.
And only this tiny, vulnerable child remained. A child Meera had named Abhimanyu before she died. A name whispered into his ear as she bled out in the ICU, clutching Rudra’s hand.
“He’s mine,” she had gasped. “But I want him to be yours too, bhaiya. Please… don’t let them take him.”
Rudra had nodded then.
And now, he had brought the baby home.
He had hoped, maybe foolishly, that even if they couldn’t forgive Meera for marrying a man of her choice, they could find some sliver of compassion for the baby. An innocent boy, untouched by the choices that came before him.
He was wrong.
His grandfather was the first to speak.
“A child born out of disgrace has no place in this house.”
The words were calm. Icy. Final.
Rudra’s father said nothing. Neither did his uncle. His mother’s eyes were red-rimmed, but she looked away. His aunt fidgeted but stayed silent. His three cousins stood behind their father, unmoved.
Only Dadi, his grandmother, stepped forward but even she stopped halfway.
“You’re still young, Rudra. You’ll have your own children one day,” she said. “Don’t destroy your future for someone else’s past.”
Rudra didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t argue. That had never been his way. But something inside him cracked open.
“This is Meera’s child,” he said softly, “and she was your granddaughter.”
“She stopped being that the moment she defied us,” Dadaji snapped.
“Then I stop being yours too.”
Those were the last words Rudra spoke in that house.
He didn’t wait for permission. He turned and walked out into the rain, the baby tucked safely in his arms. The thunder masked the sound of the heavy doors closing behind him. A chapter ended. A lifetime left behind.
---
Ten months later, standing in the quiet of his bookshop, Rudra still remembered that night with perfect clarity.
Sometimes, he would wonder what might have happened if someone or anyone had called out to him. Told him to stop. Asked him to stay.
But no one did.
And that made the choice easier.
Abhimanyu stirred in his arms, pulling him from the memory. The baby was almost looking like his sister . Chubby, mischievous, always reaching for things he shouldn’t. He had just started crawling , hands gripping the edge of furniture, squealing with pride.
Rudra kissed the top of his head, inhaling the faint scent of baby lotion.
“You’re safe, Manyu,” he whispered. “I promise you that.”
The bell above the shop door jingled, and Rudra looked up. It was Mrs. Anand, the retired schoolteacher from down the street.
“Rudra beta, still no help?” she said, glancing at Abhimanyu with a fond smile. “That baby’s going to start helping you run the shop at this rate.”
Rudra chuckled. “He already tries to eat the books.”
Mrs. Anand clucked her tongue fondly. “Well, better books than shoes. I came to return the Tagore collection. And don’t forget, next week is the local reading session for children. You promised to bring him.”
“I’ll be there,” Rudra said.
She glanced around the shop, her expression softening. “You’ve made a good life here.”
Rudra nodded, but didn’t answer. Sometimes silence spoke truer.
After she left, he sat behind the counter, typing on his laptop as Abhimanyu sat in his bouncer beside him, chewing his soft toy and humming to himself. Rudra’s latest manuscript was a slow work in progress. A reflective novel about second chances and unexpected families. Art imitating life, he supposed.
Outside, the hills of Dehradun stretched under a pale sky, green and still wet from the morning drizzle.
He was content.
But change was coming.
He had no idea how soon..
---
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